Alan stepped up to the front of the Great Hall, took a seat on the simple wooden stool, and allowed Professor McGonagall to lower the Sorting Hat onto his head. At that very moment, however, Alan's analytical mind was entirely consumed by intense, clinical curiosity regarding the magical artifact itself.
*"Hmm, serious and rigorous. You possess a strong sense of honor and an almost infinite thirst for knowledge,"* a small, raspy voice murmured directly into Alan's mind. *"You are incredibly strong-willed, determined, and highly disciplined, yet you hold a clear disdain for unreasonable authority. Why are your thoughts so remarkably mature? You certainly do not possess the mind of an ordinary eleven-year-old child. This is exceptionally difficult. It seems your unique strengths could be cultivated in any of the four houses. Perhaps Ravenclaw? Or Gryffindor? Or..."*
*So, it can actually perform localized telepathy and read a target's mind?* Alan thought, his tactical curiosity instantly overriding any baseline nervousness. *I wonder what specific materials this hat is woven from and how its core enchantment actually functions. I have never encountered such a highly advanced, personified alchemical artifact before. I would absolutely love to dissect it and analyze its internal structural matrix.* His mind flooded with a barrage of cold, academic questions regarding the hat's construction.
*"Hey! Listen here, kid, put away those disturbing thoughts this instant,"* the Sorting Hat warned sharply, interrupting Alan's internal dissection plans.
Unfortunately, human psychology dictates that when you actively command someone not to think of a white elephant, they will immediately picture one. Consequently, the Sorting Hat's defensive warning only caused Alan's scientific imagination to run even wilder.
*Fascinating. It actively reacts to my internal monologue in real-time?* Alan's intellectual excitement surged upon realizing he could hold a two-way telepathic conversation with the artifact. *Are you a sentient soul magically bound to this fabric? Or is it genuinely possible for a wizard to artificially synthesize such a highly personalized consciousness?* Unable to contain his scientific curiosity, Alan actually reached up and lightly pinched the frayed brim of the hat, physically testing the structural integrity of its worn material.
*"Oh, for heaven's sake! Put your hands down and stop thinking about tearing me apart!"* The Sorting Hat genuinely felt that Alan's cold, analytical thoughts were incredibly dangerous. Still, it dutifully tried to push past the panic and finalize the boy's placement.
But which house could properly contain him? This terrifyingly iron-clad willpower vividly reminded the ancient hat of a legendary wizard who had left a profoundly deep impression centuries ago. A presence akin to... Merlin himself!
"SLYTHERIN!" the Sorting Hat bellowed out to the Great Hall. It clearly had zero desire to spend another second inside Alan's dangerous mind. The artifact was genuinely terrified that if it hesitated any longer, it might regret it. Given this boy's terrifying potential, the hat sincerely prayed it would never accidentally fall into his dissecting hands in the future.
Professor McGonagall, standing beside the stool, was visibly stunned for a fraction of a second. Down in the crowd of remaining first-years, both Charles and Vivian gasped in sheer surprise upon hearing Alan's designated house.
Although they had only known him for a single train ride, based on their tactical understanding of his disciplined, straightforward character, neither of them had ever entertained the possibility that he would be thrown into the serpent's den.
But the magical decree was absolute. The moment the Sorting Hat announced his house, Alan's plain black work robes seamlessly began to alter themselves. Crisp emerald-green and silver trimmings materialized along the edges of the heavy fabric, and the intricate, silver serpent crest of Slytherin House wove itself directly over his left breast.
Alan was also momentarily caught off guard by the final decision, but his stoic expression rapidly smoothed back into an unreadable mask. *Hmph. Did that battered old hat just sort me into the snake pit out of spite? How incredibly petty. Fascinating.* Alan shot a dark, calculating glance back at the artifact as he calmly descended the wooden steps. To his mild amusement, the folds of the tattered hat seemed to twist into a personified, furious scowl, practically glaring right back at him.
From a purely academic standpoint, Alan truly didn't care which house he was assigned to. Subconsciously, however, Slytherin had been at the absolute bottom of his tactical preference list. Thanks to his extensive intelligence briefings with Sirius Black, he was well aware that the vast majority of active Death Eaters hailed directly from Slytherin. The toxic, fanatical ideology of pure-blood supremacy was deeply entrenched within its walls, making it a highly volatile environment for a Muggle-born.
*Is it possible that my subconscious aversion to the house was also intercepted by its telepathy, and the artifact deliberately retaliated by throwing me into the exact environment I wished to avoid? That implies a shocking level of artificial vindictiveness,* Alan analyzed as he confidently strode toward the Slytherin table. Several older students were already standing up, offering polite, measured applause to welcome their newest recruit. He couldn't help but cynically wonder exactly how these proud aristocrats would react once they inevitably discovered they had just welcomed a Muggle-born orphan into their elite ranks.
"Welcome to Slytherin, Alan Wilson. I am your House Prefect, Vanessa Greengrass." The greeting came from a poised, aristocratic sixth-year girl. She possessed long, dark brown hair and sharp, intelligent brown eyes, radiating an aura of impeccable, high-society manners and composed authority.
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Prefect Greengrass. Please, just call me Alan," he replied with a flawless, polite smile. He firmly shook the older girl's hand before claiming an empty seat right next to where Vivian had just settled.
"Merlin's beard, I honestly cannot believe you actually got sorted into Slytherin!" Vivian hissed excitedly the absolute second he sat down, completely unable to contain her shock. "I would have bet solid Galleons you were heading straight for Ravenclaw."
"As I said on the train, the specific banner I study under matters very little to me," Alan replied indifferently, pouring himself a goblet of ice water. "Though I certainly didn't expect to be actively despised by a battered piece of headwear on my very first day."
"Despised? What battered hat? What on earth do you mean? Are you talking about the Sorting Hat?" Vivian asked, her brow furrowing in deep confusion.
"It's nothing of tactical importance. Don't worry about it. Let's just watch the remainder of the ceremony," Alan stated flatly, instantly shutting down the line of questioning.
However, while Alan and Vivian conversed quietly, a hostile presence was already making itself known. Seated just a short distance away down the long oak table, Sampel Travers shot a venomous, mocking sneer directly at Alan before leaning over to whisper aggressively to a tight cluster of older boys sitting beside him.
What Travers entirely failed to realize was that Alan's peripheral vision was exceptionally trained. Alan caught the hostile movement instantly. He narrowed his dark eyes at the arrogant boy for a fraction of a second before smoothly shifting his focus to systematically profile the rest of his new housemates. For a seasoned soldier, the absolute first step upon entering a potentially hostile, unknown environment was to establish a comprehensive intelligence baseline. He needed to understand far more than just their family names; he needed to accurately map out their political alignments and combat stances, an absolute necessity given the brutal war actively raging outside the castle walls.
Turning his attention back to his immediate perimeter, Alan addressed the older girl seated directly across from him. "Prefect Greengrass, do you happen to know if there are any current students operating within our house bearing the surname Avery or Snape?"
"There is absolutely no one currently enrolled under either of those names," Vanessa replied, tilting her head thoughtfully. "However, I do possess a vague impression of the two individuals you mentioned. They were notable Slytherin graduates from several years ago. Why do you ask, Alan?"
"It's nothing significant. I simply overheard their names in passing while gathering school supplies and was merely curious," Alan lied smoothly. Internally, a massive, heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. It appeared that the two masked Death Eaters he had violently engaged in Knockturn Alley did not have any direct relatives currently roaming the halls of Hogwarts. He allowed himself to breathe a quiet sigh of tactical relief.
Just then, the lengthy Sorting Ceremony finally drew to a close. After the wooden stool and the battered hat were swiftly cleared away by an older student, an ancient man possessing a spectacularly long, flowing white beard rose from the opulent teachers' table at the very front of the Great Hall.
"Look! Over there! That's Albus Dumbledore," Vivian whispered excitedly, elbowing Alan in the ribs. "He is universally recognized as the absolute greatest, most powerful wizard alive today."
Alan finally seized the opportunity to conduct a serious, tactical observation of the legendary figure. This was the brilliant, formidable commander who single-handedly spearheaded the British magical resistance against Voldemort's insurgent forces.
Yet, as Alan meticulously studied the man's posture and demeanor, he couldn't detect any overwhelming aura of lethal power or intimidation. To Alan's trained eye, he simply appeared to be an eccentric, pleasantly ordinary grandfatherly figure. Furthermore, Dumbledore's opening address to the student body was remarkably bizarre and incredibly brief, consisting of merely a few nonsensical, jovial words. After his cheerful greeting, he simply smiled and sat back down.
"Let the feast begin!" Dumbledore announced cheerfully.
The moment he took his seat, the gleaming golden platters and goblets lining the massive oak tables instantly overflowed with an absolute mountain of steaming, sumptuous food, appearing seemingly out of thin air.
The exhausted, ravenous first-years erupted into joyful cheers. Completely disregarding any semblance of aristocratic etiquette, they aggressively reached for the nearest platters and began devouring the feast heartily.
While the newly sorted Slytherins were thoroughly mesmerized by the sudden, localized teleportation of the feast and immediately began piling their plates high, Alan's situational awareness picked up on a distinct cultural divide. He keenly observed that the older, established Slytherin students surrounding them were vastly more reserved and highly disciplined. They utilized proper silverware, maintained impeccable, upright posture, and slowly, methodically savored their meals with a chilling, aristocratic grace.