The Hogwarts Express sped across the Highland plains even as I tried to calm Vincent and Gregory. Before I knew it, the sun was slipping low in the western sky. I cut the conversation short, hurried into my uniform, and almost at once the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station.
Leaving our luggage to be taken to the castle by other means, the three of us stepped down onto the platform, where the last of the summer light lingered. I hunched against the chill of evening and glanced around the small station, wondering where we were meant to go next.
A booming voice calling for first-years rang out beyond the crowd. I didn't need to search for its source. A man easily over three meters tall, with a body made larger still by a mass of frizzy hair and beard—that had to be Hagrid, the gamekeeper everyone talked about. The story goes he was expelled in his third year and, despite one magical-creature mishap after another, has remained at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years thanks to Dumbledore's patronage. If true, the wizarding world is finished.
I don't know how much of that is fact, but I can see why such rumors would fly—the man's appearance is exactly the sort that stokes prejudice. And yet the way he smiled at Harry was almost friendly. As he gathered the first-years, he called Harry's name and greeted him with a beaming grin.
Perhaps calling out to the "Boy Who Lived" in front of a group of first-years wasn't just tactless—it was very tactless.
At the famous name, whispers rippled through the children around us. We started up the path from the station toward Hogwarts. The track wound through dense woodland; when it opened up and the castle appeared on the far side of the lake, a cheer went up. I'll admit it: the stone fortress glittering in the dark was magnificent. So this was Britain's premier school of magic, with a thousand years of history. The layered styles from many eras, the interlocking buildings large and small—just looking at it stirred me.
Sunset comes late in Scotland at this time of year, but past eight the night was fully black. I drew my wand from my pocket and lit the way for Vincent, Gregory, and another first-year nearby as we climbed into the boats that would carry us across the lake.
We landed at Hogwarts and were met by a stern-looking professor named McGonagall. If I remember right, she once worked at the Ministry. After a short wait, we filed into the Great Hall. With the school that would keep us for the next seven years now before us, everyone's nerves were drawn tight as harp strings.
Mine too—no less than anyone else's. The Sorting about to take place would shape our futures. In truth, I don't know the contours of this "story," so I can only guess where people belong. Worry or not, it's out of my hands. That didn't stop the bad possibilities from racing through my head.
At the far end of the Great Hall, glowing with the light of floating candles, stood a tall stool and an ancient, battered hat. The Sorting Hat, obviously. While it sang the qualities of each House, my thoughts flicked to the two childhood friends beside me. A glance showed Vincent and Gregory frozen stiff. For all that I'm far older inside than they are, I'd been so wrapped up in myself I'd neglected them. The realization felt shameful.
I squeezed their shoulders and whispered, "We've already got a true friend in each other, and we've worked hard. We've learned to be cunning when we need to. We'll be fine."
They didn't exactly relax, but they managed small smiles.
And then the sorting began.
The order was alphabetical, so of the three of us, Vincent would be first, Gregory second, and I last. Harry Potter would come after me.
Despite our frayed nerves, the process moved faster than I'd imagined. With over a hundred students in a year, I suppose it has to—otherwise it would go well past a decent bedtime. Still, I wasn't ready. It would be nice if the faculty took more time to talk with each child before deciding on a House. I thought it before, when fretting about the wizarding approach to education; I thought it more seriously now.
"Crabbe, Vincent," Professor McGonagall called from my right. The Hat sat on his head, paused for a heartbeat, then shouted:
"Slytherin!"
Gregory and I clapped. It made us stand out among first-years too focused on their own fate to applaud others, but I had no energy to care.
A little later: "Goyle, Gregory!"
"Slytherin!"
Left alone, stomach twisting, I still clapped as hard as I could.
After a few more Sortings, Professor McGonagall called clearly:
"Malfoy, Draco!"
It felt like being handed a terminal diagnosis. I schooled my face and posture, forced my legs not to shake, stepped forward, and set the Hat on my head.
The instant the brim touched my crown, the low voice that had been singing about the Houses spread warmly through my mind.
"Ho—hmm. I see, I see. Your family goes to Slytherin as a rule… but you think a bit differently from the others. No—perhaps it is your awareness…"
Ice shot through me. Right. The Hat judges a child's nature—in other words, it reads minds. Which means the ridiculous trivia in my head about that "Ear-Splitting Potter" meme—
Ignoring the cold sweat bursting over me, the Hat's thoughts poured on.
"Never fear. I don't go chattering about what I learn. My task is only to Sort.
"You… have curiosity, though not for knowledge itself, strictly speaking. You have some courage, though you tend to avoid the moments where courage is required. As for your patience—"
So you're saying I'm middling at everything? I didn't know where this was heading, but I was desperate. I begged it, silently, with all I had:
—Please put me in Slytherin. Please! My parents will disown me! The future might go off the rails!
Whether it heard me or not, the Hat kept murmuring like a lullaby.
"Hmm… yes. Your patience appears when you have a purpose.
"If you can lie low for a distant goal and use every means to reach it, then you are—SLYTHERIN!"
Hearing it shout the House I'd wanted, the strength drained out of me. The stares told me to vacate the stool; I forced down the shaking and stood. It had felt like forever with the Hat on my head, but it must have been only a moment.
Doing my best to preserve appearances, I removed the Hat, straightened my back, and walked to the Slytherin table. Gregory and Vincent were there, clapping me in.
—Yes. Slytherin. The safest outcome.
For a second, I nearly sobbed with relief.
I slid onto the bench beside Vincent and exhaled deeply. The sight of the still-unsorted children tugged me back to reality. Harry Potter's turn hadn't come yet. If he didn't go to Gryffindor as expected, everything would be ruined.
But the thing I'd feared didn't happen. It took a bit, but in the end Harry Potter went to Gryffindor. Perfect. Before I could stop myself, I applauded—even though he wasn't in my House. I earned a few frosty looks for it, but honestly, let them stare. I had been fighting for my life.
Since I was clapping anyway, I kept applauding the rest of the first-years, and at long last the Sorting ended. A long campaign, finished.
Blaise Zabini was the final student Sorted to Slytherin; I had him take the seat beside me. Up front, Professor McGonagall flicked her wand and cleared away the Sorting things. Dumbledore moved into the open space. So that was the famous wizard said to be the greatest of the age. I hadn't had a chance to study him earlier: the long white beard, the long robes—a picture-book wizard.
He looked over the faces of the children and smiled.
"Congratulations! Congratulations, new students of Hogwarts! Before we begin the feast, I'd like to say a few words.
"Here we go, then. Bum-ba-da-bum! Heave-ho! Up we go! That's all!"
…eccentric, clearly.
Then again, by Muggle standards, eccentrics are ten-a-Knut in our world. And if this is the wizard whom Lord Voldemort feared—the greatest of the century—then first impressions are not the way to judge wizards.
As I helped heap food onto Vincent's and Gregory's plates, I scanned the staff table. Some faces I knew; most I didn't. They'll be major figures—they'll be bound up with the protagonist for seven years. I wanted to learn what I could before dealing with them directly. I asked a nearby upper-year for a quick introduction to everyone.
A few stood out. Defense Against the Dark Arts—rumored to last only a year per teacher—was now taught by Professor Quirinus Quirrell, who used to handle Muggle Studies. Is there some reason for that one-year jinx? In any case, in a school where the curriculum is left to each teacher, a constantly changing instructor seems ruinous for education. Wizards can be pointlessly easygoing about such things.
Potions was Professor Severus Snape. He's apparently friendly with Father—well, suspected to be friendly in the Death Eater sense. If he's been tied to my father from school days to now, that's what it means. He seems averse to society, but on rare occasions he's attended parties at our house at Mother's invitation. He never struck me as fond of children, so we hardly spoke—but as Head of Slytherin, he's someone I'd rather get along with.
The feast wound down at last; the plates cleared with a pop. Dumbledore stepped forward again to address a room full of drowsy, full-bellied children, his voice the very image of a kindly grandfather.
"Ahem—since everyone has eaten and drunk well, just a few more words for the new term. A reminder to first-years: the forest on the grounds is forbidden. That applies to some of our older students as well."
He glanced at the Gryffindor table, just briefly, and went on.
"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, wishes me to remind you that magic is not to be used in the corridors between classes.
"Quidditch tryouts will be in the second week of term. Those who wish to play for their House should speak to Madam Hooch.
"And lastly—if you don't want to die a very painful death, do not enter the corridor on the right-hand side of the fourth floor this year."
I'd half-tuned out the usual schoolwide notices, but that last one had bite.
Don't install a corridor where students can die a very painful death—in a school full of minors. On that alone, Hogwarts looks like it's abdicating responsibility. Or is it me? Wizards tend to accept curses on places as simply the way things are. With a building this old, maybe managing the spells layered into the walls is a nightmare. Even so, this is a school for children; contingencies should be in place. Well—if it's that dangerous, surely students can't just wander in.
As the Houses sang the usual bizarre school song, each to its own tempo and tune, my thoughts drifted. Dumbledore, weeping at the music, was—frankly—rather unnerving.
When the feast ended, each House began to make for its dormitories. Chatting about Dumbledore and the other teachers, we followed our prefect, Gemma Farley, down the stone stairs toward the underground quarters I'd so desperately hoped to call home.
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At the top of the tower in a Gryffindor bed, Harry lay awake, replaying the day. In the end, he'd begged the Sorting Hat not to put him in the same House as Voldemort—and to put him where his parents had been. That's how he'd asked for Gryffindor. But the boy he'd met in Diagon Alley, Draco Malfoy, had gone to Slytherin.
Seeing how different Draco had been on the train, Harry wondered if Ron was right, if Draco really was nasty. Yet from a distance, Draco still looked kind—and when Harry was Sorted into Gryffindor, Draco had clapped for him. …Then again, Draco clapped for everyone, no matter the House.
Ron didn't look pleased when Harry spoke about his impression of Draco. Not wanting to lose his very first friend in his new House, Harry decided he wouldn't mention Draco again. Even so, he couldn't shake the feeling that he might have let slip the chance at the "true friend" the Hat had sung about. A little lonely, he slid under the blanket to hide it.
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