sorting
i. sorting
You're an interesting one," the Sorting Hat murmurs. "Ambition...oh, boundless ambition, though you prefer to keep that to yourself. And more than a little cunning. You'd thrive in Slytherin."
Gwaine's stomach twists, and he peers over at the table in red. Charlie's already talking to another student, but Bill gives him a reassuring look, smiling as if to say "Don't worry, I know you'll end up with us." Percy's nose is in a book, but Gwaine can see his red mop from here.
He imagines their faces if the hat sends him to Slytherin. What’s wrong with you, Gwaine? Not brave enough? Not good enough? What makes you unworthy-
Merlin, he doesn't even want to think about how Mum would take it. He'd get a Howler for sure.
“Gryffindor,” he says sharply. He can be brave. He can be-
The hat chuckles, a low, knowing sound. “Oh, you think this is about bravery? About nobility? No, no. You’re not choosing Gryffindor because of what it stands for. You’re choosing it because it’s safe. Because you don’t want anyone to see what’s really inside, hmm?
Gwaine flinches, fingers tightening on the edge of the stool, knuckles white. He swallowed hard.
“Slytherin would understand you, you know,” the hat continues, its tone almost persuasive. "It’s not about being evil. It’s about accomplishing your goals.”
"The only goal I have," he says, gritting his teeth as he begins to panic, " is to be with my family."
“Gryffindor,”he repeats, louder now, firmer. Listen to me, he begs. Do not place me away from my family. I do not want to be anything but another Weasley.
The hat is silent for a moment, as though weighing its options. Gwaine feels the seconds stretch unbearably long, cold sweat pricking the back of his neck. What if it doesn’t listen?
Finally, the hat sighs, almost reluctant. “Very well. Gryffindor it is.”
The weight lifts, and the cheers from the Gryffindor table are deafening. Bill and Charlie are the loudest, of course, shouting something he can’t quite make out. He slides off the stool, plastering a grin across his face like armor, letting the applause wash over him. His legs are shaky, but no one notices, not with the way he’s laughing, the way he struts toward the Gryffindor table like he belongs.
Percy scoots over to make room, his eyes gleaming under the candlelight. “Well done,” he says, patting Gwaine’s shoulder. His tone is perfunctory but not unkind. The way he links his pinkie around Gwaine's tells him all he needs to know.
Someone slaps him on the back—Charlie, maybe, or a seventh-year whose name he doesn’t know yet. He laughs, loud and bright, and it feels almost real. Almost.
He’s safe. He’s safe. He's free to blend into the background and do as he pleases.
But as he settles between Percy and another first-year, pretending to listen to the chatter around him, the hat’s words linger in the back of his mind, quiet and pointed.
“You chose Gryffindor to blend in. But what will happen when you can’t?"
The question makes his stomach twist. He doesn’t have an answer.
But. He doesn’t need one, not yet. For now, he’s just another Weasley in red and gold, another bright, cheerful addition to the family legacy.