The Great Hall widened before him, and every gaze swung his way.
Sean saw students at each long table craning their necks. Up at the staff dais, amid the gleam of golden platters and goblets, Dumbledore watched with mild interest.
He did his best to look like he hadn't a clue what was going on and, at Professor McGonagall's gentle prompt, set the Sorting Hat on his head.
"I will teach many and treat them all the same."
He silently quoted Lady Helga Hufflepuff, hoping the Hat would catch his drift about where he wanted to go.
"A heartening little wizard," a faint voice said in his ear. "Not many remember the songs this old hat sings. You want Hufflepuff? Of course you do… No."
Sean: "…"
Should've kept quiet.
"Why not?" he asked, barely moving his lips.
"Let the old hat sing it again—'Fair Ravenclaw, from the tranquil riverbank…'"
The Hat suddenly broke into song, wriggling about on his head.
"Mr. Sorting Hat?"
Sean clutched the brim, confused.
"Those wise and learned folk belong in clever Ravenclaw…"
The Hat kept squirming and singing.
"I want Hufflepuff," Sean said, beginning to get the picture.
"Ravenclaw says: the students we teach must have minds above the common rank…"
Still singing.
"I want Hufflepuff!"
One last try.
"Stubborn little wizard. Why must it be Hufflepuff?"
"Mr. Hat, why must it be Ravenclaw?"
"Mmm. Thirteen hours a day on charms until you can't even move; barely literate in English, yet in two months you memorized every book you bought… Since Rowena herself, it's been a long time since I've seen such hunger for knowledge. Slytherin could serve your ambition, Gryffindor would cheer your courage, Hufflepuff would welcome your kindness," the Hat said, almost fondly. "But only Ravenclaw can give a mind like yours the path to truth."
"I want Hufflepuff," Sean muttered, his resolve drooping.
"All right."
To his surprise, the Hat relented. Sean's green eyes lit up.
"Got you," the Hat boomed. "RAVENCLAW!"
Deflated, Sean gave the brim a pinch.
"Ow ow ow—"
Hearing the Hat yelp made him feel better. He didn't catch the rest:
"…Heh, I tricked Ravenclaw… it runs in the line, Rowena. You used to pinch me just like that. Twelve centuries—and at last I've kept my promise to Gryffindor: I've found Ravenclaw an heir. Watch—there's greatness tucked inside that scrawny frame. The Hat is never wrong."
Ravenclaw it is, Sean told himself. At least it isn't Slytherin.
He hadn't even handed the Hat back when applause burst from the Ravenclaw table—so loud even Gryffindor and Hufflepuff joined in. The most enthusiastic, standing and clapping like mad, was Justin, rallying a whole pack of Hufflepuffs to follow suit.
Which somehow made Sean feel worse.
What a lovely Hufflepuff lot. Curse that Sorting Hat.
In the center of the hall, Professor McGonagall looked at him warmly. The pilled, ill-fitting robe was gone, replaced by Hogwarts' plain school robes; the too-small shoes by neat English leather boots. Cautious green eyes now held a bright, hopeful light. She lifted the Hat from his head.
"Ready, Mr. Green? Go meet your new life."
He blinked, and she gave him the gentlest push toward the Ravenclaw table.
"Welcome!"
A slightly chubby boy waved him over. "I can't believe it—you're a Hatstall!"
Curiosity shone behind his big copper-rimmed glasses. He jolted, stuck out a hand—then his glasses started to slide, so the hand veered up to save them instead. He fumbled and apologized to Sean in a flurry.
"Hatstall?" Sean echoed, puzzled.
"Oh! Merlin—you don't know!" the boy gaped.
"Not everyone studies that tatty old hat, Terry," said a voice behind him. A black-haired boy, a bit exasperated, cut Terry off. "Don't mind him—he loves odd facts. When I sat down, he was asking how many windows Hogwarts has. Merlin's beard—who cares? Unless they all fell out, in which case they'd flatten Terry Boot while he counted."
"N-no, windows matter!" Terry flushed.
"Right," the black-haired boy humored him, then turned back to Sean, genuinely interested. "Hatstall means a Sorting tough case—anyone who takes more than five minutes under the Hat. Very rare—maybe one every fifty years. I'm Michael Corner. Welcome to Ravenclaw."
He offered his hand.
Sean was even more confused. More than five minutes? He could've sworn it was only a moment—as if something had stolen the time.
"Sean Green," he said, and they shook.
When the last first-year joined Slytherin, Dumbledore rose, beaming at the gathered students, arms spread, nothing seeming to please him more than a hall full of young faces.
"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin the feast, I have just a few words. They are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
Terry scribbled furiously; Michael wore a "called it" look. Sean didn't pay them any mind, because the bare table before him had filled—like magic—with food.
Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, steaks, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire puddings, pea shoots, carrots, gravy, ketchup, apple tarts, treacle tarts, chocolate trifle, jam doughnuts, spotted dick, strawberries, jelly, rice pudding…
He checked the spread against the menu he'd memorized—perfect match.
All right, time to dig in, he told himself—and flipped into clean-sweep mode.
"How is he eating that fast and still so elegant?" Michael asked the boy on his left, slack-jawed.