Chapter 4: The Sorting and the Scheme
Professor McGonagall took a precise step forward, the rustle of her emerald robes the only sound in the tense silence. She unrolled the lengthy parchment, her gaze sweeping over the assembled first-years.
"When I call your name," she announced, her voice crisp and carrying to every corner of the hall, "you will come forth, place the Sorting Hat upon your head, and take a seat on the stool. Hannah Abbott!"
A girl with rosy cheeks and two blonde pigtails stumbled out of the line. The hat was far too large for her, sinking down past her eyebrows. She sat, and after a moment's deliberation, the rip near the brim opened wide. "HUFFLEPUFF!" it bellowed.
The table on the right erupted in warm applause as Hannah scurried towards them, looking immensely relieved.
"See the look on her face?" Solim murmured, leaning back towards Hermione. "That's not just nerves. That's the face of someone trying not to breathe through their nose. I'm giving it a thorough Scouring Charm before it touches my hair. You might want to get behind me in line."
"Will you please be quiet?" Hermione hissed, her own nerves making her voice sharper than intended.
"Susan Bones!"
A girl with a kind, round face walked past them, shooting a miserable glance at the ragged hat.
"HUFFLEPUFF!" The shout came almost instantly. Susan practically ripped the hat from her head and fled to the Hufflepuff table without a backward glance.
"She looked like she was about to be sick," Solim observed.
"Shut up!" Hermione and a nearby boy whispered in unison.
"Terry Boot!"
The boy approached the stool as if it were a gallows. As he placed the hat on his head, Solim saw the muscles in his jaw clench tightly.
"RAVENCLAW!"
Terry removed the hat, and in a move that captivated every watching first-year, he subtly brought the edge of it near his nose, sniffed, and then recoiled with a peculiar, disgusted grimace. A unified shudder ran through the line.
"Justin Finch-Fletchley!"
No one moved.
"Justin Finch-Fletchley!" Professor McGonagall called again, more firmly, her eyes scanning the crowd.
A boy finally stepped forward, walking with the grim determination of a condemned man. He leaned in and whispered something urgently to Professor McGonagall, who listened, hesitated for a brief second, and then gave a firm, dismissive shake of her head. Justin sighed, a picture of utter resignation, and sat down.
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
"I'll bet you a Galleon he asked if he could skip the hat," Solim said, his voice carrying just enough. "Or at least have it dusted. Professor McGonagall is a strict traditionalist. She'd never allow it." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "Though if you asked nicely, Hermione, being a prefect's niece and all, she might make an exception. You wouldn't want to lose your appetite for the feast, would you?"
"Mandy Brocklehurst!"
A petite witch walked past Solim, trembling visibly.
"Good luck, Miss Brocklehurst," Solim said with a sympathetic smile.
All the unsorted students watched with bated breath as Mandy approached Professor McGonagall and, in a small, squeaking voice, made her request. The Professor's eyebrows shot up towards her hairline. She frowned, glanced at the hat, and then pointed sternly to the stool. Defeated, Mandy put the hat on with a shudder.
"RAVENCLAW!"
"It's no use! They won't clean it!" a boy in front of Solim groaned.
"Don't lose hope," Solim encouraged, the picture of false optimism. "Collective action is the key. If enough of us protest, they'll have to listen. Do you really want a thousand years of other people's scalp sweat in your dinner?"
"Lavender Brown!"
"Go on, Miss Brown! Maybe you'll be the one!" another student whispered, their hope renewed.
One request could be ignored. Two was a coincidence. By the time the third student was visibly hesitating, Professor McGonagall's patience had clearly worn thin. Her lips were pressed into a thin, white line. Washing the Sorting Hat mid-ceremony was unthinkable, a breach of centuries of tradition. And Miss Brown was taking too long. With a swift, decisive motion, Professor McGonagall simply took the hat and placed it on Lavender's head herself.
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat yelled, almost as startled as the girl.
Lavender pulled the hat off as if it were on fire and flounced to the Gryffindor table, shooting a look of pure betrayal at the Professor.
"Draco Malfoy!"
Draco sauntered forward, his usual smirk in place. He stopped before Professor McGonagall, pointed a disdainful finger at the hat, and said something in a low, confident voice.
"Heh, it's done," Solim said softly to Hermione.
"How can you be sure? Three others have already tried."
"That 'young master's' father is a school governor. His opinion carries a different weight. Just watch."
True to his word, Professor McGonagall, after a moment's tense silence, turned and walked briskly to the head table, leaning down to speak with Professor Dumbledore. A murmur rippled through the Great Hall. Students at all four tables were whispering and pointing; never in living memory had the Sorting Ceremony been interrupted.
After a brief consultation, Professor McGonagall returned to the stool, her face an unreadable mask. She drew her wand, pointed it at the grimy Sorting Hat, and uttered a sharp, "Tergeo!"
A visible wave of dust, grime, and what looked like several dead mites flew off the hat, which now looked noticeably less grey and more of a faded brown. A cheer erupted from the line of first-years.
"We're saved!"
"It's clean!"
The older students looked on in astonishment, quickly being filled in by the newly Sorted, who eagerly recounted Solim's running commentary. A wave of horrified realization passed over the hall as hundreds of students contemplated the filth that had once sat upon their own heads.
"Hermione Granger!"
"Good luck, Hermione," Solim said, his work now complete.
Hermione sat, and after a longer pause than she would have liked, the hat shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!" She beamed, running off to join her table without a second glance.
"Solim Selwyn."
Solim walked forward with a calm demeanor and sat gracefully on the stool. Professor McGonagall placed the now-cleaner hat upon his head, and it slipped down over his eyes.
"Aha! So you're the one!" a small, whispered voice spoke directly into his mind.
"Oh? You've heard of me?" Solim thought back.
"I've been privy to the thoughts of every child who put me on tonight. I know all about your little 'public service campaign.'"
"And?"
"And I should thank you. It's been centuries since I've felt this light. No more itching. Now, let's see... a sharp mind, not overly burdened by morality, a great desire for self-preservation and personal gain... and a certain ruthless practicality. Yes, there's really only one place for you."
"Slytherin," Solim thought, projecting his will.
"Naturally. Better be... SLYTHERIN!"
Solim removed the hat, gave a polite, slight bow to a still-bemused Professor McGonagall, and made his way to the Slytherin table. He was met with respectful, if curious, applause. The male prefect stood to shake his hand and gestured for him to sit beside Draco, who was already in place. On Draco's other side sat a ghost Solim recognized instantly: The Bloody Baron, his gaunt face and silver chains a chilling presence.
"Enjoying the spotlight, Draco?" Solim asked as he sat.
"If it weren't for that filthy rag, I wouldn't have been your mouthpiece," Draco muttered, though he didn't seem truly angry.
Solim simply smiled. "I have a proposition for you, later. Something to our mutual advantage."
Draco's eyes flickered with interest. "Trouble?"
Solim's gaze drifted to Neville, who was finally being Sorted, his face beet-red. "No," Solim said, his smile widening. "Not trouble at all. It's an opportunity. For you to come out on top."
The rest of the Sorting passed in a blur until the final, momentous name.
"Harry Potter!"
A silence heavier than any before fell upon the hall.
"Where do you think the famous Potter will end up?" Draco sneered, his earlier interest replaced by spite.
"Is there any doubt?" Solim replied, his voice low.
The hat had barely touched Potter's head when it screamed, "GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor table exploded in a cacophony of cheers, the Weasley twins chanting "We got Potter! We got Potter!" The noise was deafening.
"Told you," Solim said mildly. "I should have placed a wager."
Draco's pale face flushed with anger. "That blood-traitor Weasley..."
"Listen to me, Draco," Solim said, his tone dropping and becoming serious. He tapped the table to emphasize his point. "Do not start a feud with Potter. He's Dumbledore's golden boy. Picking a fight with him is a pointless, thankless task. It will only bring you trouble, and more importantly, it could bring trouble to your father. Think strategically."
Before Draco could retort, the boy from the train, Blaise Zabini, sat down across from them. "Zabini," he introduced himself curtly.
"Solim Selwyn," Solim replied, shaking his hand. The political dance of Slytherin had already begun.
The sudden appearance of food on the golden plates distracted everyone. As the feast commenced, the Great Hall filled with the clatter of cutlery and the buzz of a hundred conversations.
After satisfying his initial hunger, Solim turned back to Draco, who was meticulously dissecting a treacle tart. "You're aware of the Slytherin tradition? The one the other houses have abandoned."
"The first-year prefect system," Draco said, not looking up from his dessert. "You want the position? You'll have to earn it."
"I don't want the position," Solim clarified. "I want the perk. The private room. You can have the title, the badge, the responsibility of herding our yearmates. All I want is the single room that comes with it."
Draco finally looked at him, his eyes narrowed in calculation. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. I'll support your bid for prefect. I'll even help you win it. In return, you get the prestige, and I get the privacy. You can tell everyone you prefer the camaraderie of the dormitory. It's a simple arrangement." Solim took a deliberate bite of a roast potato. "And, as a show of good faith, I can help you devise a... suitably humiliating retaliation against Weasley that doesn't directly implicate you."
A slow, nasty smile spread across Draco's face. The mention of Weasley was the key. "Deal."
The clinking of a spoon against a glass silenced the hall. Professor Dumbledore had risen again. "And now, as you are all digesting this magnificent feast, a few start-of-term notices..."
Solim listened with half an ear, his mind already working on the upcoming prefect selection and the intricate web of Slytherin politics he was about to step into. He had secured his privacy and a powerful, if petulant, ally. For a first night at Hogwarts, it was a promising start.