Chapter Seven: The Toad, the Ghosts, and the Sorting Hat
The sky outside the train window had deepened into twilight as Draco and Hermione spoke.
"Do you know which house you'll be in?" she asked, words tumbling quickly, as though to cover her nerves. "I've asked everywhere. I hope for Gryffindor—everyone says it's the best. Dumbledore himself was a Gryffindor. But Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad either…"
Her chatter betrayed unease. Draco glanced at her, surprised. Was this fear of the unknown? He had never imagined the famously confident Hermione Granger could be anxious.
"Don't worry," he said unexpectedly. "I think you'll be in Gryffindor."
She smiled faintly, following his gaze to the darkening hills. "Thank you."
When she hurried off to return Neville's toad, Draco mused. Gryffindor, she claimed, was best because of reputation and legacy. That sounded less like Gryffindor courage and more like Slytherin ambition. He smirked.
Back in his compartment, Crabbe and Goyle lay stuffed and burping, having devoured every sweet. Draco teased them mercilessly, amused by their despair at learning Hogwarts would serve a feast.
The train stopped. First‑years poured onto the small, dark platform, following Hagrid down a muddy path. Students stumbled, slipping in the gloom. Hermione, clumsy as ever, nearly fell when Neville's toad leapt away. She would have tumbled face‑first into the mud had Draco not caught her collar.
"Thanks," she whispered, embarrassed.
"Careless girl," he muttered. "Hold my sleeve."
She hesitated, pride warring with practicality. Only when he warned she might appear at the Sorting covered in mud did she relent, gripping his robe. Draco felt a flicker of smug amusement—Hermione Granger, following him like a timid kitten.
At last, the path opened. The castle rose above them, towers glittering with starlight. Hermione gasped softly, awed. Draco, too, felt the grandeur, though his heart was heavy with memories of darker days.
Boats carried them across the lake. Draco watched carefully—Potter sat with Weasley, Hermione, and Neville, just as before. Fate seemed stubborn, snapping back to its old course even when nudged. Yet Neville's toad reappeared earlier than last time, proving destiny could bend, if only slightly.
Inside the castle, torches blazed. Professor McGonagall explained the houses and the Sorting. Students whispered nervously, frightened by Weasley's tales of painful tests. Hermione muttered spells under her breath, trying to steady herself.
"It's only a hat," Draco said dryly.
She frowned. "A hat?"
"A talking one. The Sorting Hat."
Soon she saw it herself: patched, ancient, placed upon a stool, bursting into song before bowing to the cheering tables.
Names were called. Students trembled, sat, and were sorted. Hermione's turn came. Draco urged quietly, "Think of the house you want. It will listen."
She ran forward, placed the hat on her head, and moments later it shouted, "Gryffindor!" She joined the cheering table, radiant.
Draco's name followed. The hat barely touched his head before declaring, "Slytherin!" He smiled faintly, satisfied. His Occlumency might not shield him from the hat's probing, but it mattered little. He belonged in Slytherin.
Potter was sorted to Gryffindor amid uproar. He smiled shyly at Draco across the hall, a small gesture of civility. Draco noted it—Potter had not yet been poisoned by Weasley's prejudice.
The feast began. Gryffindors laughed and bonded quickly. Slytherins were colder, measuring each other by names, handshakes, and hidden ambition. Draco played the game smoothly, greeting old faces anew.
But his true focus lay elsewhere. Beside him sat the Bloody Baron, Slytherin's ghost. Pale, hollow‑eyed, robes stained with silver blood. Most students feared him. Draco saw opportunity.
"Good evening, Baron," he said carefully.
The ghost ignored him. Marcus Flint chuckled, warning Draco not to bother. Yet when Draco asked about Slytherin's victories, the Baron rasped, "Six in a row."
Flint raised his brows, impressed. A first‑year earning a response from the Baron was rare. Respect was currency in Slytherin, and Draco had just gained some.
He did not press further. Patience was key. The Baron's silence hid secrets—secrets tied to Helena Ravenclaw, the Grey Lady, and the lost diadem. Draco remembered overhearing the Baron whisper her name in anguish atop the Astronomy Tower.
Love, hate, or both? His bloodstains—his own, or hers?
Draco knew ghosts lingered only when bound by regret. Their pain was endless, their stories untold. To uncover the truth of the diadem, he would need to win their trust.
Later, in the Slytherin dormitory, waves lapped against the windows. Draco lay awake beneath silver lanterns, mind racing. The Baron, Helena, the diadem—all threads in a web of fate. If he could unravel them, perhaps he could change destiny itself.
Sleep claimed him at last, carrying him into dreams filled with crowns, ghosts, and shadows.