The oak doors groaned open, and the first-years stepped into Hogwarts.
From the entrance hall, they could already hear the muffled roar of hundreds of older students seated in the Great Hall. The smell of roasted meat, buttered potatoes, and pumpkin pasties drifted faintly through the air.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front, emerald robes crisp, expression sharp. She lifted her chin and addressed the crowd of nervous children.
"I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, Transfiguration Professor, and Head of Gryffindor House."
Her voice was clipped, carrying easily across the marble floor. She listed her titles deliberately, a reminder that this stern witch was not someone to trifle with.
"Before the feast begins, the Sorting Ceremony will be held. Each of you will be placed in one of four Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin. This will be your family for the next seven years—your classmates, your companions. Together you will share lessons, dormitories, triumphs, and losses."
Her eyes sharpened, gleaming like steel behind her square spectacles.
"Your actions will bring honor—or disgrace—to your House. Break the rules, and points will be deducted. Excel, and you will be rewarded. As Head of Gryffindor, let me make this clear: I will never cover up for one of my lions. If I catch you misbehaving, I will punish you twice as hard!"
The effect was immediate. The corridor fell silent. A few children who had eagerly hoped for Gryffindor shuffled their feet uncertainly.
So fierce! their faces said.
And hovering above them all was another fear—the Sorting itself.
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Dread of the Unknown
The Sorting Ceremony was legendary, and older wizarding siblings delighted in describing it as terrifying. Muggle-born students, completely clueless, were left to imagine the worst.
What if you failed? What if no House accepted you? Some first-years looked on the verge of tears.
Tom glanced sideways. Daphne was whispering under her breath, so faint he couldn't make out the words. A prayer? A spell? Or simply nerves?
McGonagall, despite her stern façade, allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch upward. Her eyes softened.
She cleared her throat. "Do not be afraid. From the moment you received your letter, you became a Hogwarts student. The Sorting is not a test—it merely places you where you belong. Think of this school as your home. And a home never abandons its children."
Relief swept through the crowd. Shoulders relaxed. A few sniffles faded.
But one blond boy's hand shot up. His eyes gleamed with sudden inspiration.
"Professor," he asked, "did you say Hogwarts is our home?"
"Of course," McGonagall replied briskly.
The boy puffed up. "Then if this is home, what are we waiting for? I'm starving! Can't we eat first and sort later?"
The corridor froze.
McGonagall's lips thinned. "And do you also believe home means you may change the rules whenever you like?"
The boy faltered.
McGonagall's eyes flashed. "After you are Sorted, I will deduct five points from your House. For cheek."
The boy's jaw dropped. "Professor, you tricked me!"
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. Double standards in action. Gryffindor children got pep talks. Others? Point deductions before they'd even entered the Great Hall.
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The Sorting Begins
At last, they were herded into the Great Hall. Candles floated above the tables, their light reflecting off polished goblets and golden plates. Four long tables stretched the length of the hall, each crowded with older students who craned their necks to see the newcomers.
At the front sat the teachers, and on a stool lay the battered Sorting Hat.
McGonagall unrolled a scroll. "When your name is called, sit here and place the Hat on your head."
"Hannah Abbott!"
A rosy-cheeked girl with blonde braids shuffled forward. The Hat barely touched her head before it cried, "Hufflepuff!"
Applause erupted from the table on the far right. Students clapped and waved her over, while the Fat Friar ghost removed his hat with a bow.
Tom nodded approvingly. The Iron Hat King herself. Hannah Abbott. With her firmly in Hufflepuff, the world's events would follow familiar lines. His prophetic advantage remained intact.
"Good girl," Tom murmured under his breath.
Daphne's ears pricked up. "???"
Her eyes darted to Hannah, then back to Tom. That country-looking girl? Really? Is that his type?
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Tom's Quiet Calculations
One by one, names were called. Nervous children stumbled forward, sat on the stool, and were sorted amid cheers or silence.
Tom's mind, however, was elsewhere.
Slytherin was out of the question. As a Muggle-born—or so he appeared—it would be a disaster.
That left three.
He prayed not to be Gryffindor. To land there would be to walk directly under Dumbledore's nose, not to mention sharing space with Harry Potter. Trouble followed Gryffindor like fleas on a stray dog.
That left Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. Ravenclaw, the sanctuary of studious minds, was his ideal. But Hufflepuff had its charms too. A kitchen open twenty-four hours a day? Heaven.
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Daphne's Turn
"Daphne Greengrass!"
The little witch straightened her robes, cheeks pink, and hurried forward. She sat down, pulling the Sorting Hat low over her curls.
A long pause. A minute ticked by before the Hat cried, "Slytherin!"
Thunderous applause burst from the Slytherin table. Pure-blood prestige had its privileges—every older snake clapped as if welcoming royalty.
Daphne's shoulders relaxed. She beamed and joined her Housemates, her confidence restored.
---
The Boy Who Lived
Several more students followed. Then came the name everyone waited for.
"Harry Potter!"
The hall froze. The Boy Who Lived walked stiffly to the stool, the famous scar catching candlelight.
The Sorting Hat deliberated, then shouted: "Gryffindor!"
The Gryffindor table erupted. Two redheaded twins nearly leapt onto the table itself, cheering wildly.
At the Slytherin table, silence fell. Some students stared daggers, others whispered furiously, lips curling.
Tom folded his arms. As expected.
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Thunderstruck
McGonagall's scroll fluttered as she read the next name. Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked to the staff table, where several teachers shifted uncomfortably.
"Tom Riddle."
For most students, the name was unremarkable. Ordinary.
But for the staff seated at the high table, it struck like lightning. Forks clattered. Glasses rattled. A few hands tightened on wands.
The ghosts leaned closer. Even the Sorting Hat seemed to stir.
Tom Riddle walked forward calmly, back straight, expression unreadable.
Inside, however, he smiled.
Now the real game begins.
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