In the spacious Great Hall, every eye turned toward Shawn. He could see wizards at different tables craning their necks to get a better look, students whispering behind their hands. Beside the gleaming golden plates and goblets at the staff table, Dumbledore regarded him with mild, twinkling interest.
Shawn tried his best to appear calm and unknowing. Following Professor McGonagall's gentle instruction, he lifted the ancient Sorting Hat and placed it carefully on his head. The worn fabric settled over his eyes, blocking out the candlelight.
"I shall teach everyone and treat them all the same," Shawn recited silently, remembering Lady Helga Hufflepuff's motto. He hoped this mental declaration would communicate his preference clearly to the Hat.
"A gratifying young wizard," a small, dry voice spoke directly into his mind. "Few people remember the songs this old hat has sung. You want to go to Hufflepuff? Of course... not."
Shawn's mental voice faltered. "..."
Better not to have gotten his hopes up at all.
"Why not?" Shawn asked quietly in his thoughts.
"Let the old hat sing again—fair Ravenclaw, from glen..." The Sorting Hat suddenly began singing while twisting constantly on Shawn's head, the brim rotating left and right.
"Mr Sorting Hat?" Shawn pressed his hands against the hat to steady it, confusion flooding his mind.
"For those of wit and learning, will always find their kind in wise Ravenclaw..." The Hat continued its performance, twisting and singing with what seemed like deliberate obstinacy.
"I want to go to Hufflepuff," Shawn repeated firmly.
"Said Ravenclaw: We'll teach those whose intelligence is surest..." The Hat sang on, completely ignoring his protests.
"I want to go to Hufflepuff!" Shawn made one final, desperate attempt.
"Stubborn young wizard, why must you insist on Hufflepuff?" The Hat's voice turned serious, almost disappointed.
"Mr Sorting Hat, why must I go to Ravenclaw?"
"Hmm, practising spells thirteen hours every single day, practising until your body couldn't move another inch. You couldn't even recognise all the English words when you started, yet you memorised every book you purchased within two months... Except for Rowena herself, this old hat hasn't encountered a wizard so desperately thirsty for knowledge in a very long time."
The Sorting Hat's voice carried genuine emotion, almost reverence. "Slytherin could help you achieve great ambition. Gryffindor would appreciate your quiet courage. Hufflepuff would certainly accept your kind heart and loyalty."
A pause, then: "But only Ravenclaw can give a wise wizard the tools to approach fundamental truth!"
"I still want to go to Hufflepuff," Shawn tried once more, though his momentum had dropped considerably.
"All right, then."
Unexpectedly, the Sorting Hat actually agreed. Shawn's emerald eyes brightened with hope beneath the brim.
"Just kidding."
The Hat's voice became suddenly loud, projecting outward to the entire hall.
"RAVENCLAW!!"
Crestfallen, Shawn gave the Sorting Hat a firm, retaliatory pinch before removing it.
"Ow ow ow ow..." The Hat's pained voice echoed in his mind.
Hearing the complaint, Shawn felt marginally better. However, he didn't hear the Hat's quieter second thoughts as Professor McGonagall retrieved it.
"...Hehe, I tricked a Ravenclaw... What true inheritance—Rowena, you used to pinch this old hat without mercy too... Twelve centuries have passed... At last, the old hat has fulfilled its promise to Gryffindor, finding a true heir for Ravenclaw. Just watch. Hidden within this frail child's body is extraordinary power. The old hat is never wrong..."
Ravenclaw will work just fine, Shawn told himself firmly. At least it wasn't Slytherin.
Before Shawn could hand the Sorting Hat to Professor McGonagall, enthusiastic applause erupted from the Ravenclaw table. Students stood and clapped, their blue-trimmed robes creating a sea of welcoming motion. Even students at the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables joined the applause.
Shawn looked over and spotted Justin standing prominently among the Hufflepuffs, leading an especially vigorous round of applause with several of his new housemates.
Looking at the warm reception from the wrong table, Shawn felt even worse.
What wonderful Hufflepuffs! What a horrible, treacherous Sorting Hat!
In the centre of the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall looked at Shawn with undisguised warmth. His formerly worn, pilled robes had been replaced with Hogwarts' dignified black robes. His ill-fitting, donated shoes had become proper British-style leather boots. Longing gleamed in his cautious emerald eyes—longing for knowledge, for belonging, for a future he could control.
She removed the hat gently from his hands. "Are you ready, Mr Green? Go meet your new life."
Shawn stood stunned for a moment, then was given a gentle, encouraging push by Professor McGonagall toward the Ravenclaw table.
"Welcome! Welcome!" A slightly plump young wizard at the end of the table waved enthusiastically. "I simply can't believe you're a Hatstall!"
Curious eyes peered out from behind large copper-framed glasses. After his initial greeting, the boy extended his hand formally to Shawn. Unfortunately, his copper-framed glasses chose that exact moment to slide down his nose, so his extended hand diverted to adjust them instead. Finally, flustered and pink-cheeked, he apologised repeatedly.
"Hatstall?" Shawn didn't mind the awkwardness at all. His eyes were full of genuine confusion at the unfamiliar term.
"Oh! Goodness! You don't know!" The plump wizard's mouth fell open in astonishment.
"Terry, not everyone researches that old raggedy hat obsessively," a voice interrupted from behind him. It belonged to a wizard with long black hair, who rolled his eyes with fond exasperation. "Don't mind him too much. Terry always likes researching obscure questions. When I first sat down, he immediately asked me how many windows Hogwarts has. Merlin's beard, who would possibly care about that? Unless they all fell down simultaneously, they'd definitely crush poor Terry Boot counting away below."
"No—windows are important!" The young wizard named Terry's face flushed bright red, clearly distressed by the dismissal of his interests.
"All right, all right," the long-haired wizard responded as if soothing a ruffled cat, then turned to Shawn with considerably more interest. "Hatstall. It means a difficult Sorting case—when the Hat deliberates for over five minutes before deciding. They're extraordinarily rare; supposedly only one case appears every fifty years or so. Quite the distinction, really. By the way, I'm Michael Corner. Welcome to Ravenclaw."
He extended his hand properly this time.
Shawn grew even more confused. Over five minutes? But he clearly remembered only a brief conversation—perhaps thirty seconds at most? As if something had stolen the time or distorted his perception of it.
Strange magic, Shawn thought with resignation.
"Shawn Green." Their hands met in a brief, firm shake.
As the last new student was sorted into Slytherin, Dumbledore rose from his seat at the center of the staff table. He beamed at the assembled students, spreading his arms wide, as if nothing could possibly please him more than seeing everyone gathered together.
"Welcome!" His voice carried effortlessly through the hall. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
He sat back down with evident satisfaction.
As Dumbledore spoke his nonsensical words, Terry frantically scribbled notes in a small journal, while Michael beside him wore an "I knew it would be exactly like this" expression of amused tolerance.
Shawn didn't pay attention to either of them because the table before him had suddenly, magically filled with food. Mountains of food. Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon, steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and for dessert: apple pies, treacle tart, chocolate éclairs, jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, jelly, and rice pudding...
Shawn mentally cross-referenced the menu with his memories from the books. It matched perfectly—every single dish he'd read about was here, steaming and fragrant and real.
'Time to feast,' Shawn told himself firmly.
Then he activated what could only be described as efficient consumption mode.
His hands moved with practised economy—taking moderate portions, eating steadily but never rushing, savouring flavours he'd only dreamed of in the orphanage. Roast beef that melted on the tongue. Potatoes with actual butter. Vegetables that weren't boiled to grey mush.
"How does he manage to eat so quickly while still looking so elegant?" Michael asked the boy to his left, genuinely dumbfounded. "It's like watching a particularly refined vacuum cleaner."
Shawn barely registered the comment, too focused on the miracle of unlimited, quality food to care about anything else. After eleven years of deprivation, this feast represented something far more significant than simple nourishment—it represented possibility, abundance, and the tangible proof that his new life had truly begun.