The Sorting Ceremony
The Great Hall buzzed with excitement as the first years shuffled nervously to the front. Harry stood off to the side, his eyes scanning the tables, but his thoughts elsewhere. The Sorting Ceremony was always an important moment for first-years, but Harry felt strangely detached, as though he were watching someone else's story unfold.
When his name was called, he stepped forward and sat on the stool. The Sorting Hat was placed gently on his head. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, and then a voice echoed inside his mind.
"Ah, Harry Potter..." The Hat's voice was warm, almost cheerful. "Yes, yes... I can see much. A resilient mind, a heart that has known struggle. You have faced much adversity, haven't you? The Dursleys, the neglect... So much potential, so much courage... a perfect fit for Gryffindor, perhaps... or... perhaps Ravenclaw, for your thirst for knowledge."
Harry didn’t respond. The Hat continued its assessment, though there was a trace of pity in its tone as it considered the pain of his childhood. It sounded almost... fond of him. "But there's something else. Something... darker. Yes... I see it now. Something hidden, perhaps even from yourself." The Hat's tone darkened, as if it had just realized something unsettling.
Harry’s mind flashed back, involuntarily, to a memory from when he was seven—a moment in the long, dim hallway of the church. The nun had stood there, her cold, sharp eyes fixed on him. He felt the icy chill of her presence even now. He didn’t know how she always found him, or why she lingered in the dark corners of his mind, but her gaze had always made his skin crawl.
As the memory stirred, the Sorting Hat faltered. Its voice trembled. "What... what is this?" it whispered, its tone shifting from curiosity to pure dread. "This... presence... it's not just a memory. There’s... something else. Something that shouldn’t be here."
The Hat went still, a profound silence filling Harry’s mind. The Hat was frozen.
The coldness of the rosary beads in Harry’s pocket seemed to pulse, and the Hat could feel it, its mind recoiling at the touch of the dark magic radiating from the beads. It had never felt anything like it before. There was a wrongness to it. A deep, ancient malevolence that was far beyond anything it had encountered in the years it had sorted students. It was a darkness that did not belong to this world, and it terrified the Hat in a way that words could not describe.
"What... is this?!" The Hat’s voice was strained now, speaking in sharp, jagged bursts. "This power... it’s suffocating. Dark magic... no, not just dark magic. Something older, something... primal. It is like a shadow that does not cast itself in this world. It... it comes from somewhere else... somewhere wrong.”
The Hat’s mind swirled as it tried to comprehend what it was sensing. Harry felt the weight of it all—his heartbeat quickening as the Hat reeled from the dark energy it had encountered. It was too much, too foreign for even the ancient Hat to understand.
For a long moment, the Hat said nothing. Harry was on edge, waiting. But all he heard was a strained breath from the Hat as it struggled to make sense of the sensation.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the Sorting Hat gave a low, troubled sigh. "Ravenclaw," it said softly, almost reluctantly, as if still shaken by the presence it had felt. "Your mind is sharp, your intellect undeniable. You seek answers, you have the will to grow... Yes, Ravenclaw is where you belong."
The Hat paused once more, its voice barely a whisper. "But be wary, Harry Potter. Be wary of what follows you, of what lingers in the shadows. Something is terribly wrong, and it is tied to you."
And with that, the Hat shouted, "Ravenclaw!" The hall erupted into applause, but Harry barely heard it. His mind was still reeling from the Hat’s reaction. Whathad it seen? What had it felt?
As he moved to the Ravenclaw table, Harry’s fingers brushed the rosary beads in his pocket, the coldness of them somehow more pronounced now. It was a strange feeling, like a reminder that the nun, or whatever dark force she represented, was still with him. And, it seemed, the Sorting Hat had felt it too.