Chapter 2: The Sorting Ceremony
POV: Harry Potter
The Great Hall took Harry's breath away, even though Sirius had described it in loving detail and Remus had carefully explained the mechanics of the enchanted ceiling. Seeing it in person was entirely different from hearing about it—the four long House tables stretching down the length of the enormous room, hundreds of floating candles casting dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls, and above it all, a ceiling that perfectly mirrored the star-studded night sky outside.
First years clustered together near the entrance, a small island of nervous energy in the vast hall. Harry found himself standing between Neville and Hermione, with Ron just behind them, all four of them craning their necks to take in every detail.
"It's magnificent," Hermione breathed, her eyes reflecting the candlelight. "The enchantment alone must be incredibly complex—weather charms layered with illusion work and sympathetic magic connecting it to the actual sky outside."
"Show-off," Ron muttered, but he was grinning.
"The ceiling's not even the most impressive part," Neville added quietly. "Wait until you see the Sorting Hat."
Harry had heard about the Hat, of course. Sirius had regaled him with stories of his own Sorting, how the Hat had barely touched his head before shouting "GRYFFINDOR!" with what sounded like relief. But watching Professor McGonagall carry the ancient, patched wizard's hat toward the stool at the front of the hall, Harry felt a flutter of something that might have been nerves.
"What if it doesn't put me in Gryffindor?" The thought came unbidden. "What if it sees something in me that Sirius and Remus missed? What if I belong somewhere else entirely?"
The Hat burst into song—a different tune than the one Harry had heard described, welcoming the new students and describing each House's qualities. As it sang about courage and cleverness, loyalty and ambition, Harry found himself really listening, weighing each description against what he knew of himself.
When the song ended, Professor McGonagall unfurled a long roll of parchment.
"When I call your name, you will come forward, sit on the stool, and place the Hat on your head," she announced in her crisp Scottish accent. "Abbott, Hannah!"
A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled forward, placed the Hat on her head, and after a moment that felt like hours, the Hat called out "HUFFLEPUFF!" The yellow-and-black table erupted in cheers as Hannah hurried over to join them.
The alphabet worked its way steadily toward Potter. Harry watched Hermione march confidently to the stool—"GRYFFINDOR!" after less than thirty seconds—and felt a warm glow of satisfaction that she'd be in his House. Assuming, of course, that he ended up in Gryffindor himself.
Neville's name came before his, and Harry watched his friend walk to the stool with far more composure than the nervous wreck he'd expected from Sirius's stories of the original timeline. The Hat deliberated for nearly three minutes before declaring "GRYFFINDOR!" and Harry cheered along with the red-and-gold table as Neville beamed with obvious relief.
Draco Malfoy was called next, and Harry watched with interest as the pale boy stalked to the stool. The Hat had barely settled on his head before it shouted "SLYTHERIN!" Draco's satisfied smirk as he joined the green-and-silver table seemed forced, and Harry caught the way his gray eyes lingered on the Gryffindor table—specifically on Harry himself.
"Potter, Harry!"
The Great Hall fell silent. Harry could feel hundreds of eyes on him as he walked to the stool, his footsteps echoing off the ancient stones. Professor McGonagall gave him an encouraging smile as she held out the Hat.
"Well," Harry thought as he settled onto the stool, "here goes nothing."
The moment the Hat settled on his head, everything changed. The Great Hall, with its watching faces and expectant silence, faded away. Instead, Harry found himself in what felt like a vast library, shelves stretching impossibly high, filled with books that seemed to whisper as he passed.
"Well, well," said a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Harry Potter. You're not quite what I expected."
A figure materialized in front of him—an elderly wizard in robes that seemed to be cut from the same patched fabric as the Hat itself.
"You're the Sorting Hat," Harry said, though it wasn't really a question.
"I am indeed. And you, young Potter, are a puzzle." The Hat-wizard walked around him slowly, studying Harry with ancient eyes. "I was prepared to Sort a desperate child, traumatized by loss and abuse, driven by a need to prove himself worthy of love. Instead, I find..."
"What do you find?"
"A boy who knows he is loved. Who has been trained not just in magic, but in wisdom. Who carries courage not born of desperation, but of choice." The Hat paused in front of him. "Tell me, Harry Potter, what do you see as your greatest strength?"
Harry considered the question seriously. "I don't know if it's my greatest strength, but... I think I'm good at seeing people. Really seeing them, not just what they want me to see."
"Interesting. And your greatest weakness?"
"I want to save everyone," Harry admitted. "Sirius says it's because I have my mother's heart, but sometimes I think it might be more selfish than that. Sometimes I think I just can't bear the idea of losing anyone else."
The Hat nodded slowly. "You could excel in any House, you know. Your courage is genuine—not the reckless bravado I often see, but the quiet strength that stands firm when others falter. You have Ravenclaw's thirst for understanding, Hufflepuff's loyalty to those you love, and yes, even Slytherin's cunning—though yours is tempered by empathy."
"So where do I belong?"
"Ah, but that's not the right question, is it?" The Hat smiled. "The right question is: where are you needed most?"
Harry blinked. "I... what?"
"You could thrive in any House, Harry Potter. But the magic of the Sorting lies not in giving you what you want, but in placing you where you can do the most good. So I ask again—where do you think you are needed most?"
Harry thought about it seriously, considering not just his own desires but what he'd observed in the few minutes he'd been in the Great Hall. He thought about Hermione's brilliant mind and Neville's hidden potential, about Ron's strategic thinking and loyal heart. He thought about the way Draco had looked at the Gryffindor table with something that might have been longing.
"I think," Harry said slowly, "that maybe it's not about which House needs me. Maybe it's about being where I can build bridges. Where I can help people see past their preconceptions and find common ground."
The Hat's smile widened. "And where do you think that is?"
"Gryffindor," Harry said without hesitation. "Not because it's my parents' House, though I'd be lying if I said that didn't matter to me. But because... because I think Gryffindor students are the ones most likely to charge headfirst into trouble trying to help people, and they're going to need someone who thinks before he acts."
"Even if that thinking sometimes leads you to unpopular conclusions?"
Harry thought about his conversation with Draco on the train, about the way his friends had looked at him when he'd suggested that scared kids could be saved rather than simply defeated.
"Especially then," Harry said firmly.
The Hat threw back its head and laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.
"Choice, not destiny," the Hat said approvingly. "Very well, Harry Potter. I know where you belong."
The library faded, and suddenly Harry was back in the Great Hall, the weight of the Hat solid and real on his head. He could feel the anticipation radiating from every table, the way everyone leaned forward slightly, waiting for the decision that would define his next seven years.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The Great Hall exploded. The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers so loud that the floating candles flickered, and Harry saw Fred and George Weasley standing on their seats, pumping their fists in the air. Ron was grinning so widely his face might split in half, while Hermione clapped so enthusiastically she nearly knocked over her water goblet. Even Neville, usually so reserved, was cheering at the top of his lungs.
But as Harry stood and handed the Hat back to Professor McGonagall, he caught sight of the staff table. Professor McGonagall was beaming at him with obvious maternal pride, her eyes bright with unshed tears. Dumbledore was watching him with those twinkling blue eyes, though Harry thought he caught a flicker of something that might have been surprise—or perhaps calculation.
And at the far end of the table, Professor Snape sat frozen, his dark eyes fixed on Harry with an expression of such complex emotion that Harry couldn't begin to parse it. The man's knuckles were white where they gripped his goblet, and for just a moment, Harry could have sworn he saw something that looked like grief flicker across those harsh features.
"He's thinking about my mother," Harry realized with sudden clarity. "About what might have been."
Harry walked to the Gryffindor table on unsteady legs, overwhelmed by the reception. Students he'd never met were shaking his hand, clapping him on the back, welcoming him to their House with genuine enthusiasm. He found a seat between Ron and Hermione, with Neville directly across from him, and for a moment, just sat in the warmth of their acceptance.
"Brilliant!" Ron was saying, his face flushed with excitement. "Absolutely brilliant! We've got Harry Potter in our House!"
"You've got me in your House," Harry corrected gently. "The rest is just a name."
"Just a name?" Fred Weasley appeared behind him, hands on Harry's shoulders. "Mate, you're the Boy Who Lived!"
"And more importantly," George added, sliding onto the bench beside Ron, "you're Padfoot's boy! We've been waiting years to meet you properly!"
"Years?" Harry asked, amused despite himself.
"Dad tells the best stories about the Marauders," Fred explained. "Your guardian and his friends were legends at pranking."
"Still are," George added meaningfully. "We may have heard rumors about a certain incident involving Madam Bones's garden gnomes and a crate of Dungbombs..."
Harry grinned. "Allegedly involving Dungbombs. Sirius was very clear that it was all allegedly."
The twins exchanged delighted glances.
"We're going to get along brilliantly," Fred declared.
Further down the table, Percy Weasley was holding court with the other prefects, pontificating about proper study habits and the importance of following school rules. When he caught Harry's eye, he straightened importantly.
"As a Prefect," Percy announced, "I should warn you about maintaining proper decorum. Fame doesn't excuse rule-breaking."
Ron promptly threw a dinner roll at his older brother. Percy ducked, the roll sailed over his head, and it was intercepted by Nearly Headless Nick, who caught it with a theatrical flourish.
"Excellent reflexes, young Weasley," the ghost said approvingly. "Reminds me of your father in his school days. Though I believe James Potter once managed to hit Professor Binns with a Yorkshire pudding during a particularly boring History of Magic lesson."
"That's a terrible story to tell his son, Nick," Hermione said reproachfully, though she was fighting back a smile.
"On the contrary, Miss Granger," Nearly Headless Nick replied with wounded dignity, "it's an excellent reminder that even the most illustrious careers can begin with moments of questionable judgment. James Potter went on to become Head Boy, after all."
"After how many detentions?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.
"Oh, I stopped counting after his fourth year," Nick admitted. "Though I believe Professor McGonagall still has the complete records somewhere, filed under 'Reasons Why James Potter Nearly Gave Me Premature Gray Hair.'"
The conversation flowed around him as the feast appeared on the golden plates—roast beef and chicken, pork chops and lamb, Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes, vegetables of every description. Harry loaded his plate and ate with genuine appetite, listening to the easy banter of his new Housemates.
Across the Hall, he occasionally caught glimpses of Draco Malfoy at the Slytherin table. The other boy seemed to be holding court with his fellow first years, his pale head bent close as he whispered what were undoubtedly cutting observations about the other Houses. But every so often, Harry caught Draco's gray eyes fixed on the Gryffindor table with an expression he couldn't quite read.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Hermione asked quietly, following his gaze.
"Just thinking about Houses," Harry replied. "About how arbitrary it all is, really. We're eleven years old, and we're already being sorted into groups based on our perceived personalities."
"The Sorting Hat doesn't make mistakes," Neville said, though there was a question in his voice.
"Maybe not," Harry agreed. "But I wonder what would happen if we spent more time getting to know people from other Houses instead of just assuming they're different from us because they wear different colors."
Ron looked skeptical. "You want to be friends with Slytherins?"
"I want to understand them," Harry clarified. "Sirius always says that you can't defeat an enemy you don't understand. But maybe the real lesson is that you don't have to have enemies at all, if you're willing to do the work of understanding."
"That's a very mature attitude," Hermione said approvingly.
"That's a very dangerous attitude," said a new voice, and they turned to see a seventh-year student with a captain's badge on his robes. "Oliver Wood," he introduced himself, settling onto the bench beside Harry. "Gryffindor Quidditch Captain."
"Nice to meet you," Harry said politely.
"I heard about your flying lesson mishap," Oliver continued, his Scottish accent thick with excitement. "Saved young Longbottom from a forty-foot fall, caught him cleanly, controlled both brooms in a perfect descent. That's not beginner's luck—that's natural talent."
Harry felt heat rise in his cheeks. "I've been flying since I was six."
"Even better," Oliver grinned. "Tell me, Potter—any interest in joining the Quidditch team?"
The conversation around them died. Ron's fork stopped halfway to his mouth, while Hermione looked up from her notes with sudden interest. Even the older students nearby had gone quiet, listening.
"First years aren't usually allowed on House teams," Harry said carefully.
"First years don't usually have the skills to contribute," Oliver corrected. "But rules can be bent for exceptional circumstances. What do you say?"
Harry thought about it seriously. Quidditch had been one of his greatest joys growing up—the freedom of flight, the strategy of the game, the teamwork required to succeed. But joining the team would also mean more attention, more expectations, more ways to potentially disappoint people.
"What would Sirius want me to do?" Harry wondered, then immediately knew the answer. "He'd want me to do what makes me happy. And he'd remind me that taking risks is how you discover what you're truly capable of."
"I'd need to think about it," Harry said finally. "Maybe talk it over with my guardian first."
Oliver's grin widened. "Fair enough. Responsible attitude—I like that in a potential teammate. Come find me when you've decided."
As Oliver moved back to his seat, Ron stared at Harry in amazement.
"You might play Quidditch," he said, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "For Gryffindor. As a first year."
"Maybe," Harry said. "If I decide I want to."
"Want to?" Ron's voice cracked slightly. "Mate, it's Quidditch! It's only the most brilliant sport ever invented!"
"I know," Harry said, grinning at his friend's enthusiasm. "I've been playing pickup games with Sirius since I could hold a broom. But playing for fun and playing for a House team are different things."
"How so?" Hermione asked, genuinely curious.
"Pressure," Harry said simply. "Expectations. Everyone wanting you to be something specific instead of just letting you be yourself."
Neville nodded slowly. "Like being the Boy Who Lived?"
"Exactly like that," Harry agreed, grateful that Neville understood.
The feast wound down, and Dumbledore stood to address the school. Harry found himself studying the headmaster as he spoke—the long silver beard, the half-moon spectacles, the robes that seemed to shimmer with their own inner light. This was the man Sirius both respected and worried about, the greatest wizard of the age who also happened to have a talent for manipulation that even his allies sometimes questioned.
"Before we retire," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying easily through the Great Hall, "I have a few start-of-term notices. First years should note that the Forbidden Forest is, as its name suggests, forbidden to all students. Some of our older students might do well to remember this as well."
His eyes twinkled as they swept over the Gryffindor table, and Harry got the distinct impression that particular comment was aimed at Fred and George.
"I would also like to remind everyone that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes, and that our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has added several new items to his list of banned objects. The complete list is available in his office for those brave enough to request it."
A few students laughed, though Harry noticed the laughter had a nervous edge.
"And finally," Dumbledore continued, his expression growing more serious, "I must warn everyone that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to all students who do not wish to die a most painful death."
The Great Hall went completely silent. Harry felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the castle's ancient drafts.
"Die a most painful death?" Harry thought. "What could be on the third floor that's dangerous enough to kill students? And why put it in a school in the first place?"
Beside him, Ron had gone pale, while Hermione was already pulling out a quill to make notes. Even Neville looked worried, and he was usually the most trusting of authority figures.
"Now," Dumbledore said, his cheerful demeanor returning as if he hadn't just threatened them all with horrible death, "let us sing the school song!"
What followed was the most cacophonous rendition of any song Harry had ever heard. Every student chose their own tune and tempo, resulting in a musical experience that was less harmony and more organized chaos. Harry found himself laughing despite his concerns about the third floor, caught up in the absurdity of the moment.
When the last student finished—one of the Weasley twins, naturally, who had chosen a particularly slow and mournful tune—Dumbledore wiped his eyes and declared it the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.
"Right then," Percy said, standing and straightening his prefect badge, "first years, follow me. Stay close and don't wander off—the castle can be confusing until you learn your way around."
They followed Percy through corridors lined with moving portraits, up staircases that decided to relocate themselves mid-climb, and past suits of armor that creaked ominously as they passed. Harry tried to memorize the route, but gave up after the fourth moving staircase. This was definitely not the kind of navigation Sirius had prepared him for.
"Password?" demanded a portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress when they reached what Percy announced was their dormitory entrance.
"Caput Draconis," Percy replied, and the portrait swung open to reveal the Gryffindor common room.
Harry stepped through the portrait hole and immediately understood why his father had loved this place. The common room was exactly as Sirius had described it—all warm red and gold, comfortable armchairs arranged around a crackling fireplace, bookshelves stuffed with everything from textbooks to adventure novels. It felt like home, or at least like what home might feel like if you were away from the people you loved most.
"Boys' dormitories are up the stairs and to your left," Percy announced. "Girls' dormitories up and to your right. Your belongings have already been brought up. Common room closes at midnight on weeknights, one o'clock on weekends. Any questions?"
"What's on the third floor?" Hermione asked immediately.
Percy's expression grew serious. "Something that's none of our business," he said firmly. "And if you're as smart as you seem, Miss Granger, you'll leave it that way."
They climbed the winding stone steps to the first-year boys' dormitory—a circular room with five four-poster beds hung with deep red curtains. Harry's trunk sat at the foot of the bed closest to the window, and when he opened it, he found a note from Sirius tucked between his robes.
Proud of you, pup. Sleep well in your first night at Hogwarts. Remember—courage isn't the absence of fear, it's doing what's right in spite of fear. Love, Padfoot
P.S. - That thing I gave you on the platform? Best used after midnight when professors are tucked safely in their beds. Trust me.
Harry pulled out the folded parchment Sirius had given him and examined it carefully. It looked old, well-worn, completely blank. But if Sirius had given it to him with that particular gleam in his eye, it was definitely not as innocent as it appeared.
"What's that?" Ron asked, looking over from his own trunk.
"I'm not sure yet," Harry admitted. "Something Sirius gave me. Probably going to get me in trouble."
"The best things usually do," said Dean Thomas from the bed next to Ron's. "I'm Dean, by the way. Dean Thomas."
"Seamus Finnigan," added the boy with the Irish accent who was struggling to untangle his pajamas from what appeared to be a small explosive device. "Sorry about the smell—I was trying to turn this into a wireless, but it seems to have backfired. Literally."
Harry found himself grinning as he changed into his own pajamas. This was it—his first night at Hogwarts, surrounded by new friends, with seven years of adventure ahead of him. Tomorrow would bring classes and challenges, mysteries and magic. But tonight, he was exactly where he belonged.
He pulled out his two-way mirror and whispered Sirius's name.
His godfather's face appeared almost immediately, eager and slightly anxious.
"How did it go?" Sirius asked without preamble.
"Gryffindor," Harry said simply, and watched Sirius's face transform with pride and relief.
"Of course you are," Sirius said, his voice slightly rough. "Your parents would be so proud, Harry. I'm so proud."
"I made friends," Harry continued. "Good ones. And the Sorting Hat... it was different than I expected."
"How so?"
Harry glanced around the dormitory. Ron was already snoring softly, while Dean and Seamus were quietly discussing the merits of various Quidditch teams. Neville was reading by wandlight, probably reviewing tomorrow's schedule for the fifteenth time.
"It asked me where I thought I was needed most," Harry said quietly. "Not where I wanted to be, but where I could do the most good."
Sirius went very still. "And what did you tell it?"
"That I wanted to be where I could build bridges. Where I could help people see past their prejudices and find common ground."
For a long moment, Sirius didn't speak. When he finally did, his voice was thick with emotion.
"Your mother would have said exactly the same thing," he whispered. "Sleep well, Harry. Tomorrow you start becoming the wizard you're meant to be."
Harry tucked the mirror away and settled into his bed, pulling the hangings closed around him. Through the window, he could see the grounds of Hogwarts stretching away into the darkness, full of secrets and possibilities.
"Where I'm needed most," he thought drowsily. "I just hope I'm smart enough to figure out where that is."
As sleep claimed him, Harry Potter dreamed of flying through star-filled skies toward a future bright with promise and shadowed by the knowledge that some prices were worth paying, and some battles were worth fighting, and some love was strong enough to change the world.
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