Chapter 4: Hats off to me!

Ron never did answer the one question I wanted to know. Granted, we did not pry directly again after his obvious dodging. I'd like to think we have enough social awareness to recognize an uncomfortable subject when we see one.

Don't quote me on that. Let that not be used against me in the future. I'm sure we all make mistakes.

Nevertheless, I'm sure I could spend the next few minutes prattling on about getting off the train, being escorted from the quaint station through a thick patch of pine trees and down a well-worn dirt path to self-rowing wooden boats that then took us onto the Black Lake and consequently seeing Hogwarts for the first time in all its splendid glory… but I'm not doing that. If you really care to know the fine details of how the castle was barely visible in the dark beyond the plethora of windows lit up by torches to the backdrop of the literal black empty sky of the new moon… well I suggest you look at it yourself. I have other things to prattle on about.

Like, let's talk about the Sorting Hat and then the cast of professors I am to be stuck with for the foreseeable future. Surely nothing bad ever happens and causes all these friendly faces to be swapped out….

The old leathery piece of fashion sat on a rickety tri-legged wooden stool. It was faceless as one would know a hat for being except for a rip on the underside of the brim acting as a mouth that could not sing despite its attempts at doing so. Vocal talents aside, it felt like it was staring down at us from the raised seating area of the professors. How a faceless hat could give me such judging creases of the forehead… I don't know. I really don't, but it was impressive.

Standing beside the stool and hat, a tall and grey-haired woman stood in maroon robes with gold trimming. Minerva McGonagall looked out at the sea of us students before her like a lighthouse looking for wayward boats, and when our eyes met I made sure to give her a thumbs-up of encouragement. After all, public speaking was the worst. You'd have to be insane to enjoy that, and Micky-G didn't strike me as the crazy type unless it came to quidditch. Total fanatic.

"When I call your name, you will proceed up to the stool and sit," she announced in her Scottish accent. Though, it doesn't come across that strong unless she's really invested in the conversation. Good thing too or else few people would understand her. "I will then place the Sorting Hat upon your head. Once it announces your house, you will join your respective table for the feast."

Right, the hat. Its name isn't very inspired and says enough about what it does. Its whole purpose is to judge you, sort you into a defining trait of your personality or your journey, or some magical reason for segregation. Perhaps the intent of magic behind the artifact bled over into its very stitching and crafting a reflective aura to it that creased its non-existent brows.

Though of course, that is speculative conjecture based on my part. I never really cared about enchanting. All my dueling robes are standard-rated and regulated along with my quidditch gear. I don't have to craft or spend every penny in the bucket to buy my own like they do in the street leagues, so I've never cared to learn.

Beyond the point, though, if you'd love to hear my breakdown and opinions about the different types of robes that will be held later in lecture hall three at a quarter past never.

"Abbot, Hannah."

Flower-child, herself, skipped forward, to the short steps that took her to the stool. With a quick twirl of her robes, she sat on the stool, grinning. Her eyes lingered upon the group of us, Susan's shoulder bumping with my left and Ron stepping in place to my right, while Neville loomed behind me like a shadow.

Whispers broke out amongst the students. The names of the houses were tossed around as the many made bets against the one. One in four odds, and if you had the slightest skill at judging someone by their appearance, there were only two choices worth betting on.

McGonagall lowered the hat slowly.

The crowd of teenagers and young adults held their breath at the first sorting of the night.

As the hat touched the very tip of Hannah's head, it was already yelling, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

A cheer went up behind me, and I turned to the noise. The table on the far right of the hall thundered as they smashed their fists on the long sprawling wooden table. The Hufflepuffs in their yellow-trimmed robes whooped and walloped as Hannah sprinted over to them, waving at each and every single person there.

I was never in doubt where she'd go. And as she took her seat with her new housemates, the hall went quiet again. Minus a few people asking for others to pay up.

"Bones, Susan."

I give her a pat on the back as she strides forward, chin tilted up and her mahogany-red hair bouncy on her back as she ascends the steps with a fierce haste. I had seen Aunt Amelia powerwalk that fast many times. It was the walk of a woman on a mission. Usually, that mission ended with someone behind bars or Sirius sporting a black eye.

The hat was lowered again. The hall went quiet, holding its breath as Susan's eyes closed.

The brim shrouded her face in darkness as she tilted her head slightly to her left. I knew that quirk of hers. She was debating something in her thoughts, going back and forth between desire and consequence. It was like putting a cookie jar in front of her and telling her not to touch it. Her sweet tooth was a dangerous criminal that not even her Aunt could control.

"I see…" the hat muttered, debating its own inner monologue. "Then it better be… GRYFFINDOR!"

"We got Bones!" a chant went up, immediately. It spread across the table like an uncontrollable fire devouring every morsel of fuel it could. "We got Bones!"

I, of course, along with all the other first years turned to the loudest table in the hall. Their maroon-trimmed robes were a dead giveaway to just which house they belonged to. Shouting loudest amongst the table, standing with their hands cupping their mouths so their voice can be heard down in Hogsmeade, were the twin Weasely brothers. Well, rather, I assumed it was them. Red hair, twins in Gryffindor, and rambunctious… it fit the description Sirius gave of them a year back.

"Bones! Bones! Bones!"

Blushing darker than her hair, Susan quickly found a seat at her house table. She gave a small nod to me, before sliding over a bit, opening a space for me to claim whenever my turn came about.

Then, the hall went quiet again. The fanfare of house pride turned to embers, waiting for the next great spark. Collectively, the hall turned back to McGonagall as she stood waiting with a smile on her face, a list in one hand, and the sorting hat in the other. Was… was she enjoying public speaking?

Two others were called to center stage before the next person who caught my eye ascended to the Sorting Hat.

"Brown, Lavender."

A dirty blonde emerged from the collective wall of unsorted students. She wasn't tall nor was she short. However, she did have perfectly curled little ringlets that went down to about where her shoulder blades were. They bounced with each step she took, hypnotic even. It was totally the reason we were all staring. Especially once she sat on the stool, facing us did I get a real look at her personality….

"Those have to hurt her back," Ron mumbled from beside me.

I snorted. He wasn't wrong.

"Hufflepuff!"

"I might just ask to be sorted to Hufflepuff," another guy muttered from the right of Ron. He was dark-skinned, tall but not as tall as Ron. His robes though did come up short on his wrists, so he probably had a growth spurt between getting his robes and arriving today. Muggle raised then, or else they'd have altered the size with a charm by now.

"Men…." a girl hissed behind me.

Like under a silent brothership, neither Ron nor I opted to turn and meet that girl's eye. Though we did share matching grins, watching Lavender Brown bounce down the few steps to the main floor of the Great Hall.

That was how it continued for the next dozen or so of students. Hufflepuff here, a Ravenclaw there, and a Slytherin thereafter perhaps. With Potter being closer to the end I mostly zoned out, knowing that Longbottom, who stood behind me still, would have to shuffle past me before it was close to my turn.

Though, Ron suddenly going stiff beside me as I picked aimlessly at my nails did make me raise my head.

The girl at center stage was definitely a muggleborn. The most obvious reason? She had clearly never heard of Sleak-Eazy. A Potter invention mind you, but if you had heard of it, you'd know it would be able to handle even the craziest of hair and make it look normal. Instead, Ms. Buckteeth had frizzies going every which way and a bad case of wide-eyed amazement as her eyes roamed over every inch and cranny of the room while up on center stage.

Sure, the enchanted ceiling that reflected the actual night sky was super cool and a marvel of magic, but like that wasn't uncommon these days. You had your Sol room with all the windows for the light to come in, and then at night, you had the Lua room that painted the heavens above you while remaining in the comfort of your home. So, really, it was borderline everyday magic at play here.

Yet, as we, the collective of sorted and unsorted students, stood waiting for her house to be called out, the more it became apparent it wasn't going to be a quick one.

Slowly, as seconds turned to a half-minute and then to minutes, conversations grew around the hall.

"She's going to Ravenclaw," Ron whispered, an uncanny knowing in his voice as if he had seen this play out before. It clashed with the idea of the boy from the train, the one who sat at the corner of the conversation adding in stories of what his brothers had shown him with magic or done themselves.

I shrugged. I didn't know her, but I did know that it wasn't an uncommon bet for muggleborns to go to Ravenclaw. My Father had told me how throughout his years they always came in with a thirst to learn every bit of magic. They lacked the ambition to know what to do with said magic, mind you. Unless you counted ambition as lofty impractical dreams of feats of legends.

I did not.

Though, some would consider my ambitions lofty impractical dreams.

Perhaps I'm a hypocrite. Perhaps I'm just more determined.

I reached into my robes, sneaking a glance at my grandfather's pocket watch. I don't know what time Ms. Buckteeth went up, but I do know close to two and a half minutes had passed, possibly three.

"If that is what you believe, then," the hat finally spoke, and the hall fell into an immediate silence. All eyes turned to the girl, and she refused to meet our eyes. "Ravenclaw!"

Predictable. Yet, not.

It shouldn't have taken that long to arrive at that outcome. What had the hat seen that made it hesitate? What about her made it stall?

As she steps down, our eyes meet before she quickly looks to my side. Her eyes go wide. Naturally, I follow her gaze, and Ron is averting his gaze to the floor. I simply raise my brow at the two as she goes her separate way to her table of blue-trimmed robes.

Those two know one another. Ron Weasley, the sixth son of the most broke Pureblood family, knows a muggleborn that he cannot meet eye to eye…. Curious. Very Curious.

I cannot help but glance between the two once more. She's taking a seat, offering a timid smile to the students who welcome her with like smiles. He's doing everything in his power to act casual, and like he did not recognize her, that there was no spark in his eye.

"Greengrass, Daphne," McGonagall calls out, but I'm not paying attention to her.

Ron finally meets my eye. He freezes

"I saw her one time. My dad took me to the muggle side." he shrugs. "Didn't think she'd be a witch, mate. Honest."

I glance back at the girl one more time just in time to watch her quickly look away.

One time, my ass.

I nod to Ron. I'll let it slide for now. Not like they are going anywhere for the next school year.

"Slytherin!"

The masses are a lot less vocal for the very pretty girl with glossy black hair. Polite claps are given from across the hall including those amongst the professors.

The next student is called from our dwindling wall of unsorted. They walk forward, timid. I write them off and opt to distract myself with more interesting things.

Severus Snape sits on the furthest left spot of the professor's table. His all-black apparel and black-as-night hair help him blend into the shadow of the corner of the hall. Yet, the paleness of his face is like the full moon. He's staring at me, judging me already. The bad blood between him and James is not a shallow affair despite how the two men act around one another.

Next to him, a seat closer to the Headmaster's throne is a man in a purple turban. He's engaged in small whispers with Snape. I know of him third hand from Sirius who knows the man through Arthur Weasely. Professor Quirrel teaches Muggle Studies, and while he had taken the year off last year, he was back this year with what was advertised as new learnings from the cultures of Asia. I imagine it will be an interesting class to attend, even if it's not a popular first-year class.

"Hopkins, Wayne."

A seat over once more was the half-goblin Charms professor, Filius Flitwick. More importantly, he is a former World Champion duelist. When he retired from the circuits to join the war effort against Voldemort he had only ten defeats to his two hundred wins. Most of his career losses came from his tournament runs where he would fall short in the World's Quarterfinals or Semifinals. I had studied many of those losses and found that his opponents were simply more agile with their longer legs or they were of varying mixed-blood backgrounds like he was. Take that one blood purists.

Another teacher over is a woman I'm not familiar with. She's younger-looking, but that's hard to say with magic. She could be a hundred and eighty but good at illusions for all anyone knows. She's wearing all blue and a very passive and pale shade of it. Something more akin to a bright and cloudy sky than anything. This does include her witch's hat and its tall pointy top down to the brim where two peacock feathers jutting backward as if blown back by a storm gust. Hiding beneath her fashion statement is a calm and polite face and black hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She looked very disarming and approachable. Something I imagine older NEWT-leveled students would see the appeal in.

After all, once you were nineteen and done with your OWLs, Hogwarts was more of a University for those final two years instead of the secondary school it serves as us pursuing our OWLs.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

I focus back in on the sorting as does everyone.

The Great Hall is deathly silent.

I feel the boy shift behind me. He lingers in my shadow, mutters something under his breath too softly to hear, and then a proud and strong teenager steps around me. His back is straight, too straight in the fact it is forced. If it wasn't for studying my opponent's body language for dueling, I'd never think twice about his posture.

Neville sits on the stool, eyes closed, and the hat gently lands atop his head.

Even though they are not present, all those who remain after the Madman's Conflict are holding their breath, their ears turned and waiting for the Hat's voice. Neville Longbottom's sorting will be the headline of the morning paper. It will be the gossip of Diagon Alley. It will be whispers of drunkards predicting the future.

So, the world waits in silence for half a minute. Then a full minute.

Nobody speaks in this time. No student makes a bet, no teacher whispers to another, and no person takes their eyes off the boy on center stage.

"If that is what you want…" the hat mutters. It sounds almost disapproving. "Then it better be GRYFFINDOR!"

The hall explodes with noise. Yelling. Clapping. Stomping. It's all there as the table of maroon celebrates collecting the sacred child.

I, along with seventy-five percent of the students, continue to politely clap until it feels acceptable to stop. Yet, the Weasley Twins chanting continues on for much longer than it ever needed to.

Even though I knew the boy wanted to go to the house, I still could not help but feel a little disappointed. It would seem I owe my father a few galleons. I don't like losing, not even simple bets.

It takes longer than needed for the celebrations behind me to dwindle, but in that time I've allowed myself to be distracted by someone that seemed rather familiar. The only problem is that I've never seen her before in my life.

She's older, arguably more so than even Dumbledore. An amethyst hood drapes over most of her hair, hiding all but twin silver lengths that run down the side of her leathery aged face. Yes, the hood matches the robes. She's completely in that beautiful shade of purple. The fabric even seems to warp and distort itself as if she's pulled the gemstone from the stone and turned it into a liquidized cloth.

As if sensing that I'm staring, her pale yellow eyes meet mine, and I feel trapped. I cannot look away as a shiver runs down my spine. Is this what it's like to be a prey animal? She grins, her worn and wrinkly cheeks pulling back into a wide toothy smile that reveals teeth that have seen better days. I politely smile back, not sure what else to do as we hold one another's gaze for longer than needed.

"Potter, Harry."

Thank the Mother. The old woman's spell breaks or whatever her gaze was, and I feel myself capable of turning away. I do, rather quickly, in fact, as I now stare up at my savior.

MickyG is smiling at me from atop the raised portion of the Great Hall with the Sorting Hat in her hand. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore sits directly behind the stool, and his smile is a lot more welcoming than the old lady next to him. Even if his outfit is a lot more garish. Like really? Who puts such bright yellow stars on any shade of brown?

I toss the thoughts from my mind. One foot in front of the other, I ascend the steps taking a deep breath, filtering out the world. It is not just the oldies that slip from my mind, but so does the space beside Susan or even the one that is there just in case next to Hannah. I even toss the remnants of the Brown girl's "personality", and that's saying a lot as a hormonal fourteen-year-old in the early stages of magical puberty.

It is just me, the stool, and the Hat.

The stool is an easy target to best. I sit up straight, tilt my chin up, and close my eyes, blocking out the viewing crowd. It is just like a match of quidditch or dueling. It is only me and my targets.

I feel it touch my head.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

What? That's it? I don't even get a full second with the artifact of segregation?

I sit there watching my new house table cheer, but I don't hear a thing. Was that really my sorting? Sure, it went the way I wanted it to and expected, but everyone else had communed with the Hat for seconds sometimes a minute or more. All I got was a touch.

I find myself sitting down.

When did I get up and move?

Susan is saying something from beside me, shaking my arm, even, but I don't spare her a glance. I'm running on autopilot as my thoughts consume me.

I look back to the front of the room. The Hat stares back at me, mocking me with silence. I feel robbed, by a hat of all things. It's complete bullshit. Was there nothing of value to me but bravery and chivalry? Because I can tell you now, that does not aptly describe me. What of my determination? My loyalty to my friends and kin? What about my dreams and capabilities? Nobody but some of the professors can control a flame like I do!

Well, hats off to me, I guess, because that Hat didn't care about any of that. Not even for a second.

I turn back to Susan, the noise of the hall filtering back into my ears as kids further down the table shouting at me, welcoming me into the house. I do not respond to them but take Susan's hand under the table and clench her grasp once.

At least I got my best friend and all but my sister with me right beside me for the next seven years. I hope she enjoys being the mother hen making sure I get to class on time every day. Who am I kidding? Susan knew exactly what she was signing up for when she left me that space right next to her on the house bench.