The Hat
Cepheus sat on the train, gazing out the window while absentmindedly toying with the knife his mother had gifted him. The door suddenly swung open, introducing two first-year girls, evident from the lack of color in their robes. One girl, tall with a fuller figure, had long, curly brown hair that looked almost blonde due to its frizz. The other girl was shorter, sporting dark brown hair and round glasses. Her wavy locks were held back by a black headband. Cepheus didn’t recognize either of them meaning they weren't pure blood. A scowl creases his brow as he catches the taller girl’s unimpressed gaze, mirroring his irritation.
“Excuse us, but everywhere else is full. Mind if we take this seat?” The girl with the headband speaks up.
“Sure, feel free,” he replies with a wave, directing them to the far side of the compartment. She nods, pulling her friend along with her.
“I’m Tracy Davis, and this is my friend, Millicent Bulstrode.” The name Bulstrode?
“Pleasure to meet you, heiress Bulstrode,” he responds, deliberately sliding his focus away from Tracy. Millicent merely grunts a look of disdain flitting across her features. His gaze drifts back to Tracy, who seems oddly captivated by the gleam of his knife. “Don’t worry, I won’t use it on you,” he says with a smirk.
“Yeah, of course,” she replies, shifting nervously in her seat. “So, are you a mudblood then?” He asks, his tone suddenly sharp, as the atmosphere thickens with tension.
“Half-blood, actually,” she says matter-of-factly, her tone slicing through the chatter like a knife.
“How progressive,” he replies, a condescending smile curling on his lips. Davis's expression hardens, but she bites back his retort. Bulstrode, on the other hand, lets out a low growl and rolls her eyes dramatically.
Just then, a sharp knock on the door interrupts the tension, revealing two small first-years. One is a girl with long, frizzy brown hair that looks like she just survived a brutal encounter with a hairbrush. Beside her stands a pudgy boy with tousled blonde curls—it's Neville Longbottom. Cepheus's lips twist into a cruel grin.
“Have any of you seen a toad? Our friend Neville here has lost his.” She asks. The girls shake their heads, confusion painting their faces. The girl looks uncertainly at him.
“Heir Longbottom. You’re looking…” He trails off, letting his gaze travel from head to toe. “Swell.”
“H-h-heir Lestrange…” Neville’s face drains of color, panic flashing in his eyes as he grabs the girl and slams the compartment door shut. Cepheus can hear their hurried footsteps, echoing their flight. He lets out a giggle, savoring the moment.
“What was that about?” Davis asks while eyeing him.
“Hmm, nothing,” he says dismissively.
“It was obviously something!”
“Mind your own business, Davis!” He snaps, his scowl deepening before he turns away, clearly irritated. Salazar, she’s insufferable! He shifts his attention back to the window, idly playing with his knife, the compartment sinking into a hush punctuated only by the girls’ whispers and the rhythmic chug of the train.
As the train prepares to arrive, he quickly changes into his robes and gathers his belongings, eagerness coursing through him to escape the annoyance of the girls. He’s relieved Draco didn’t catch him mingling with them. That would have sent his mother into a fit of fury because Draco would surely blab.
Finally, the train comes to a stop, and he hops off, merging with the throng of students. A giant man with a wild mane of hair is gathering the first-years, leading them towards the Black Lake. The view is breathtaking as Mother said, but for Cepheus, it’s just another sight in a world filled with wonders.
Once they disembark from the rickety boats, standing in line before the grand entrance of the Great Hall, he takes a moment to size up his year mates , curiosity alight in his eyes. Disappointment washed over him like a cold wave. He watched in dismay as a kid nearby picked his nose. “Ew…” He cringed, glancing around, his horror evident on his face.
After a few moments of observing his fellow year mates—some chattering excitedly while others stood anxiously—an older woman with sharp features glided through the massive doors. Clearing her throat with authority, she beckoned them closer. “Welcome to Hogwarts. I am Professor McGonagall, your transfiguration professor. In a moment, you will join the Welcome Back Banquet, but first, you must be sorted into your houses. The four houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and…” she lowered her voice, almost conspiratorially, “Slytherin.” Cepheus had a feeling she wasn't the biggest fan of the Slytherin house. “Now, wait here. I will return to collect you when it’s time.”
With that, she turned and strode back into the Great Hall. Cepheus felt a thrill of excitement as the ghosts floated in, floating effortlessly among the students. His gaze landed on Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, who boasted his peculiar condition with pride. A grin tugged at Cepheus’s lips as the ghost lifted his head, eliciting squeals of surprise from some nearby kids.
“Come along!” Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through his reverie, and he turned, startled. He had been so captivated by the spectral display that he hadn’t even heard her return. “Line up and follow me.” She paused, watching as they scrambled to get in line, then led them through the grand doors. The thought of all those eyes on him as he was sorted was nerve-wracking; he forced himself to stand still, determined not to fidget—after all, appearing composed was crucial.
What truly took his breath away was the enchanted ceiling. It was bewitched to mirror the night sky, stars twinkling above them like diamonds scattered across velvet. He marveled at the beauty, silently identifying the constellations he recognized. The girl from the train started whispering about the hall’s wonders, which she apparently read in Hogwarts, A History.
With a roll of his eyes at his fellow student, he shifted his focus to Professor McGonagall, who was setting a small stool in front of the crowd. Perched atop it was a dusty, old hat—the Sorting Hat, he realized. With a sudden burst of animated song, it began to sing, its voice echoing throughout the hall, as the excitement around him reached a fever pitch.
“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty.
But don’t judge on what you see
I’ll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I’m the Hogwarts sorting hat
And I can cap them all.
There’s nothing hidden in your head
The sorting hat can’t see
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you’ve a ready mind,
Where those it wit and learning
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You’ll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on!
Don’t be afraid!
And don’t get in a flap!
You’re in safe hands (though I have none)
For I’m the thinking cap!”
The hall erupted in applause at the lively tune, the Sorting Hat bowing theatrically to each of the four tables.
As Professor McGonagall unrolled the scroll and began calling out names, Cepheus tuned out the noise around him. He caught a glimpse of the Davis girl being sorted into Slytherin, which raised an eyebrow of surprise.
“Lestrange, Cepheus!” At last, his name resonated through the hall. Mustering every ounce of confidence, he strode forward and took a seat on the stool as the Sorting Hat was placed atop his head.
“Hmm,” it mused, voice echoing in his mind.
“What does that mean?” he thought, perplexed.
“Stubborn, determined… and not a hint of ambition. A classic Gryffindor!” the hat declared.
“No, not Gryffindor… not Gryffindor,” he whispered urgently.
“Not Gryffindor, you say? Are you quite certain, Cepheus?” The hat cackled while saying his name.
“Why did you say my name like that?” he pressed, curiosity piqued.
“No particular reason! Now then, let’s see… Better be… SLYTHERIN!”
“No, no, why’d you say my name that way?”
He felt a pang of frustration as the hat was lifted off his head. Bewildered, he stumbled toward the Slytherin table, trying to grasp the whirlwind of thoughts spiraling in his mind. Finding a spot at the end of the table, he sat in silence, the festivities around him growing dim.
As he chewed absently on a piece of toast, the speeches and cheers from the head table faded into background noise. Led to the Slytherin dormitory in a daze, he barely registered the presence of his peers. Finally, as the door to the dormitory swung shut, reality crashed back in, jolting him out of his reverie.