Rebel, rebel!

“Everything’s ready, then?”

Albus Dumbledore chuckles in the airy, careless way he does everything. “Yes, Minerva. Everything’s ready.”

He’s right; it’s all ready. There are banners above each table, shaking in an imaginary wind, marking where the houses are to sit. There’s an extra Ravenclaw banner, a remnant of last year’s house cup,that hangs above the hourglasses of house points decorating the center of the wall behind the professors’ table. In front of that table is a stool, holding the tattered old sorting hat (who’s practicing singing some rather catchy verses it’s thought up) and a scroll of names that McGonnagal will read from soon. Food and drinks line every inch of every tabletop in the room, ready for the feast that will start the year. They’re prepared. That doesn’t mean that it’s any less stressful. Nothing’s ever less than stressful, when you teach at Hogwarts.

“Good. Then I should get going. The train should be here by now, and the kids get antsy when you keep them waiting.” The professor smooths her hands down her dark emerald robe, straightens her hat, and sets off, her shoes click-clacking on the stone floors below her. 

She can practically feel the school’s headmaster smiling and waving behind her. “Good luck!”

She doesn’t answer, because she’s already flung open the school entrance. She’s looking over hundreds of faces, familiar and new, that are all looking back in a very diverse spectrum of excited to scared to bored. They're all chattering lightly, not loud enough to risk annoying a professor on the first day, but enough of them are doing it that the sound is obvious.

Professor McGonagall claps her hands together, firm and loud, and every mouth snaps shut. She clears her throat. “Hello, students,” she starts, in the strict and unwavering voice she knows will make her heard. “I’m Professor Minerva McGonagall. Welcome, to Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry.”

*

Much to its pride, the hat’s song of the year is a rousing success. As always. It does think that this year’s lyrics and tune were particularly great, so it gives itself a metaphorical pat on its imaginary back. Booyah. 

But the sorting hat is more excited than it’s been all year. In fact, the only time it’s really excited at all is on days that match this one. The start of term.

The sorting is staring.

Every single year, the hat picks favourites. Minds that are the most interesting. It logs them in the magical memory bank that lies somewhere within its fabric and  keeps them there. Thinks about them a lot. Talks to itself in its boredom about what the children might be doing. This year is particularly special. There are so many favourites. The first of these special names comes a little ways down the list.

“Black, Sirius!”

Oh.

Oh he’s different.

This boy has a lot in his mind. Members of the noble house of Black are almost always very quiet in their heads. It’s practically, literally, beat into them. This one, though… His thoughts all follow one particular theme. the need to escape. Ambition. Very, very ambitious boy, yes. He feels this overwhelming need to protect himself, and his little brother too, and he runs for that. Interesting. But, above that… everything he does… It's about his fear of looking like a coward. Ah, yes. Sirius Black hates cowardice. He stands up against his mum and his dad and his aunts and uncles and cousins and everyone, because he can’t let himself do anything else. When he runs for things, it’s because he can’t imagine ever running away from them. He looks up to bravery, and thinks it’s just about the coolest trait one can have. And he thinks anything that doesn’t emulate that is pure scum. Yes, yes, ambitious as he is, it’s clear. No mind like this could go anywhere but

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Whispers, at that. So, so many whispers. Even the professors are whispering. The boy himself is tense too. That’s nothing unusual. Whispers and fear show up everytime. It’s part of how things go. But these whispers continue even as Sirius sits down at his new table with its red and gold stripes shimmering above. That’s very, very unusual, the hat thinks. But no matter. Even as the whispers continue, the hat waits for the next name that pops.

“Evans, Lily!”

The red haired girl practically skips up to the stool. 

She’s just about as close to fearless as a kid can be. She acts before she thinks, if there’s something on the line. Not once has she let a bully walk away without an earful or a bruise if she’s heard them run their mouths. That’s very rare. Very very rare. It’s something we see much more often in muggle-borns, but rarely so… intensely. Yes, Lily Evans is practically the archetype and poster-child for

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Applause, applause, whispers. Applause, applause, whispers. Questions about whether her family is wizard and whatnot.

The next name that sticks out is especially special. It’s one it’s been told to look for.

“Lupin, Remus!”

He’s quite scared. It doesn’t take the mind-reading to notice that, I can feel him shaking. Makes sense. He’s worked hard to be here. A strong brain, he’s got. Lots of ideas and knowledge crammed in it. He tries very hard to be smart. But, more than that… he’s just trying to be. To exist as himself. And he doesn’t waver or question who he is, just how he needs to navigate existing to accommodate it. It’s an overlooked form of bravery to acknowledge oneself and one's needs. For that, he must be

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Applause, especially from the redhead girl, and a couple wary looks towards the boy as he slinks forwards to his new table. But whispers from everywhere. Whispers about scars and how no one would ever mess with Remus Lupin. The hat can see why it was told to take note of him; If it hasn’t been, it would have anyway. It’s now glaringly obvious that the mind of a werewolf is the kind of place that the hat wants to see all year. It’s like an open cut that no one’s bandaged for him. The hat will no doubt be bringing him up in its self indulgent musings until the next sorting.

The next name that sticks out is unexpected- because it’s a fairly common first name with a fairly common surname and its owner is what looks to be a fairly common girl. But looks can be deceiving.

“Macdonald, Mary!”

She’s even more nervous than Lupin was. She’s not shaking, but there’s fear thrumming through her like blood through veins. It’s nearly alarming. She’s not very shocked about it, though. It seems like that’s just her constant state. And yet, she’s doing- she's done- so many things. She’s conquered very much, at the age of eleven. She’s fighting her fears better than most adults. Even now- she’s fighting her fear of wizardry. That feels like textbook

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Applause. Mary’s demeanor doesn’t even waver. Whispers. Whispers. Mudblood.

The next name is one the hat is almost sure it knows the outcome of. It’s right, of course. But that doesn’t make the spunky blonde any less notable.

“McKinnon, Marlene!”

Just as passionate and excited as her parents, I see. And her grandparents. And great grandparents. The McKinnon line is really just a bunch of people with very similar temperaments of barely restrained energy. This child is… very set on Quidditch. It honestly takes up an unusual amount of her thoughts. Interesting. She loves it for the thrill. She flies because she lives to feel that fear and adrenaline coursing through her, all so she can have the prideful comedown of winning. Easily, she must be

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Applause, almost no whispering. Refreshing.

The hat also expects to know the next name. Only now, it’s wrong.

“Meadowes, Dorcas!”

All around the rest of her thoughts, like a membrane, is a sheet of pleas. Let me be in Gryffindor. Let me be in Gryffindor. Let me be in Gryffindor. Let me. 

But behind that, in my opinion, is not Gryffindor. 

She tries with everything she has. She sets her mind on something, and she goes in full force. Goodness, she is brave, she’s just as brave as everyone else in her family. But it’s like she’s so used to that that she doesn’t care about it. The need for chivalry pooled around her like water felt so drowning that she hasn’t really given it a second thought. She doesn’t value it. But, her effort to be that, when she didn’t even want to…  She tried so hard with her parents. She’s worked and worked and worked. And the only thing she’s ever tried at more than being what her family wanted to be is flying. Because, to this dramatic eleven year old, that’s all she wants to be. She’s ambitious.

And for the first time that year, the only student who stuck out as special that wasn’t in Gryffindor was the only one who was begging to be.

She’s much more likely to succeed in

“SLYTHERIN!”

Clapping comes from one quarter of the hall exclusively. It’s mostly just silence from the other parts. One, though, has whispers. And it’s red and gold and sits as far from Meadowes’ new house as it possibly can. 

Dorcas walks away from the stool stiff as a board. Stiff, but resigned.

She knew.

The next person the sorting hat notices is one of the most striking it has ever seen.

“Pettigrew, Peter!”

This boy’s sense of self is… so repressed. Like he doesn’t want to think about it. About himself. It’s not a trait, particularly, that he admires. It’s a person. He puts all of his aspirations on the shoulders of his best friend. He just wants to do what he does. That’s almost worrying, how you get such a sense of who his best friend is, just by Peter’s impressions alone. And I can tell by these that this loud boy with a big heart and bigger pride will find himself in Gryffindor. It doesn’t take much to guess that. So, by extension, that probably puts Pettigrew as

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat can feel Peter let out a breath of relief before he jogs over to a spot on the Gryffindor bench. There aren’t many whispers, there isn’t much to whisper about. He’s a very normal boy with a very normal family in a very normal house. He’s nothing special, to the whole world. To anyone who doesn’t know his mind. 

The hat figures it’s the only one that does.

Naturally, next noticed, is the boy Peter idolizes himself. And he’s equally interesting, because he’s conflicting.

“Potter, James!”

He’s really every bit as brave as Pettigrew thinks he is. But there’s more. He’s practically a bleeding heart, he’s unwaveringly loyal, and he values his loved ones over anything. Hufflepuff traits. He’s ambitious, indeed… he wants so much and he’s always chasing things. Slytherin. But, really… he’s a lot like Sirius Black was. He hates cowardice. He doesn’t understand people who don’t stand up for what they think. He can’t stand the thought of keeping his mouth shut when he’s upset, no matter how loud his heart is pounding. This is obvious. He can’t be anything else. I was right with the guess I had when Peter was thinking about him. James Potter belongs in

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Never, in all the years it’s done this job, has the hat seen someone run so fast. He’s practically flying to his new table. That was very much the best choice for him, the hat thinks. It reckons that even if there were whispers, James would only hear the applause.

There is one final person who sticks out. 

“Snape, Severus!”

He wants. He wants to be, he wants to have, and he wants to achieve. And he can and will work for that. Easily. He has worked for things, and he will continue to. It’s all he thinks about. There isn’t much to it. Which is very, very rare. Normally there is something that spices it up, makes it more interesting, but Severus Snape is made from ambition, from determination, from clever and cunning. Made for

“SLYTHERIN!”

Mostly claps. The redheaded gryffindor girl looks punched. He looks ready to throw up. But he walks to the green-decked table silently, and the rest of the sorting goes the same relaxed way as it always does, before Dumbledore is announcing something at his podium, and the hat is sent back to its shelf.

“Let the feast begin!”

*

It’s hours before Dumbledore returns to his office; his half-moon glasses glinting and his smile small and unquestioning as always.

But Albus Dumbledore is questioning. As always.

“So, my friend,” the old man starts, stopping at the desk and bringing his hands together with a pensive tilt of his head. “Who should we be keeping our eyes on?”