Alan stepped forward, sat on the stool, and felt the weight of the Sorting Hat as Professor McGonagall placed it over his eyes. Immediately, a small, gravelly voice echoed in his mind.
"Hmm... serious and rigorous, a spirit fueled by honor, and an almost infinite thirst for knowledge. Strong-willed, remarkably determined, yet disciplined—though clearly disdainful of unreasonable rules. My, why are your thoughts so mature? You don't sound like a child at all. This is difficult. Your strengths could flourish in any house. Is it Ravenclaw? Or Gryffindor? Or perhaps..." the Sorting Hat murmured against his brow.
*It can actually read my mind?* Alan's thoughts shifted instantly toward the mechanical nature of the artifact. *I wonder what this hat is made of and how the enchantment actually functions. I've never seen such a personified alchemical tool. I'd love to take it apart just to see the stitching of the consciousness.*
"Hey, kid, keep those dark thoughts to yourself!" the Sorting Hat snapped, its voice sounding genuinely alarmed.
Unfortunately, telling someone not to think of a specific thing only makes them focus on it. The Hat's warning caused Alan's imagination to run even wilder.
*Oh, it reacts to my internal monologue in real-time? Are you a soul bound to the fabric? Or is it possible for a wizard to imbue an object with a personality this distinct?* Alan became even more intrigued. He couldn't help but reach up and brush his fingers against the brim, curious about the texture of the ancient leather.
"Get your hands off me! And stop those filthy thoughts!" The Sorting Hat seemed to find Alan's analytical curiosity dangerous, but it dutifully returned to the task of placement.
It searched deeper, finding a core of terrifyingly resilient will that reminded the Hat of a wizard who had left a deep impression years ago. That was... like Merlin himself.
"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat bellowed, seemingly eager to end the conversation. It shouted the name with such force it felt like a dismissal. It feared that if it hesitated, it would regret the choice, but it also knew that with this boy's potential, he belonged in the house of ambition. It just hoped it wouldn't fall into his hands for a "research project" in the future.
Professor McGonagall looked visibly stunned for a moment. Below the dais, Charles and Vivian were equally shocked. Although they had only known Alan for a few hours, nothing about his steady, studious nature suggested the house of the serpent.
But the magic was already at work. Alan's robes began to shift; emerald green and silver patterns bled into the edges of the fabric, and the coiled snake crest materialized over his heart.
Alan was momentarily surprised by the decision, but his face quickly settled into its usual mask of indifference. *Does this tattered thing hold grudges? Interesting.* He pouted slightly and shot a look back at the Hat as he stepped down. The Hat, with its stitched features, seemed to glare right back at him.
In truth, Slytherin was the one house Alan had hoped to avoid. Between Sirius's warnings about Death Eaters and the reputation for pure-blood elitism, it felt like a minefield for a Muggle-born.
*Could it be that my internal skepticism was captured, and the Hat retaliated by putting me exactly where I didn't want to be? Unlikely,* Alan thought as he approached the Slytherin table. He wondered how they would react when they realized he didn't have a Drop of "noble" blood in his veins.
"Welcome, Alan Wilson. I am the Slytherin Prefect, Vanessa Greengrass." A girl with long dark brown hair and steady eyes stood to greet him. She was a sixth-year, and her manner was impeccably polite.
"Hello, Prefect Greengrass. Please, just call me Alan." He offered a slight smile and shook her hand before sliding into a seat next to Vivian.
"I can't believe it! Slytherin?" Vivian whispered the moment he sat down. "I was certain you were headed for Ravenclaw."
"The Hat and I didn't exactly see eye-to-eye," Alan replied dryly.
"What does that mean? Did it say something to you?"
"Nothing important. Let's just watch the rest." Alan cut the conversation short.
As they spoke, Alan noticed Sampel Travers a few seats away. The boy was sneering, whispering something to the students flanking him while casting dark looks in Alan's direction. Alan narrowed his eyes, cataloging the hostility. Entering a new environment required an immediate understanding of the players—not just their names, but their allegiances, especially with a war looming outside the castle walls.
He turned back to Vanessa. "Prefect Greengrass, do you happen to know if there are any students currently in our house with the surname Avery or Snape?"
"None currently," Vanessa said, looking puzzled. "I recognize the names, though. I believe they graduated several years ago. Why do you ask?"
"I just heard the names mentioned recently. I was curious if I'd be seeing them around." Alan felt a wave of relief. At least the two Death Eaters he had fought wouldn't have siblings or cousins waiting for him in the common room.
The ceremony ended shortly after. As the Hat and stool were carried away, an old man with a magnificent silver beard stood up from the center of the High Table.
"That's Dumbledore," Vivian whispered excitedly. "The greatest wizard in the world."
Alan studied the man who led the resistance against Voldemort. He didn't look like a legendary warrior; he looked like a kindly grandfather. His speech was brief and eccentric, and within moments, he resumed his seat.
"Let the feast begin," Dumbledore announced, tapping his goblet with a spoon.
In an instant, the empty golden platters were piled high with mountains of food. The first-years cheered, abandoned their nerves, and began to pile their plates. While the younger students grabbed at the food with wild enthusiasm, Alan noticed that the older Slytherins remained poised, using their cutlery with a reserved, practiced grace. He followed their lead, eating quietly while he observed the room.