The Sorting Hat’s Perspective

Neville Longbottom.

The boy who trembled beneath its brim. 

The Sorting Hat had rested on his head, feeling the nervous energy that radiated from him. Neville’s thoughts were filled with doubt—doubt about himself, doubt about where he belonged, doubt about whether he belonged at all.

“Plenty of courage, but it’s buried deep,” the Hat had murmured as it sifted through his thoughts. “You have a kind heart, a loyal one. Hufflepuff would suit you well…”

For a moment, it had leaned toward that decision. Hufflepuff would have nurtured Neville’s quiet strength, would have given him the space to grow without fear of judgment. But as the Hat lingered, it felt something stir—a flicker of bravery, faint but steadfast. It was buried beneath layers of insecurity and self-doubt, but it was there, waiting for the right moment to shine.

“Gryffindor,” the Hat had declared.

Years later, when Neville stood tall with the Sword of Gryffindor in his hands, facing down Voldemort’s forces with unshakable resolve, the Hat had felt pride swell through its seams. 

That quiet, stubborn bravery had bloomed into something extraordinary. The Hat had always believed in him, even when Neville hadn’t believed in himself.