"If I were a wizard, I think I ought to send you straight to Azkaban. Believe me, child, that is where you are destined to end up."
There was no humor in the hat's voice.
"But I am only a hat. Godric Gryffindor told me that every student deserves to be cherished."
"I think you will achieve great things in Slytherin. Perhaps by the time people want to send you to Azkaban, they will no longer be capable of doing so."
Its voice rang out across the hall.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Cheers broke from the Slytherin table.
Altair lifted the hat from his head and set it down without hurry. At the very last moment, he had drawn on the One Ring, a subtle pressure, just enough to keep the hat from telling Dumbledore and the others the full truth of what it had seen.
He stood.
Professor McGonagall's face was composed, but not entirely. There was disappointment in it, and behind that, something closer to worry. Hermione, across the hall, had her lips pressed into a thin line. She did not look angry so much as simply unhappy, the kind of unhappy that comes from being separated from the one person in an unfamiliar place you had started to trust.
Altair walked to the Slytherin table and sat down. A few older students leaned in to greet him.
Then Draco Malfoy appeared at his elbow.
"My name is Draco Malfoy. You should have heard it before. At the very least, you should know the Malfoys." He studied Altair with the particular confidence of someone who had never been told he was tedious. "Shelby, is it? I don't recall any wizarding family by that name."
"I'm Muggle-born," Altair said, looking at him without warmth. "And as for this Malfoy you mentioned, sorry, never heard of it."
The boy was soaked through with pure-blood supremacy, prejudiced down to his bones against Muggles and half-bloods. That was not the kind of thing that shifted easily, and Altair saw no reason to pretend otherwise.
Draco's face went cold. He glanced around at the hall and thought better of whatever he'd been about to say, settling for a short, sharp snort instead.
Altair turned away.
If Draco wanted to bring that pure-blood-above-all nonsense to his door, Altair didn't mind showing him what the Shelby name actually meant. The family had clawed its way up from nothing using razors and bullets. Their road had been paid for in enemy blood. Their name had been carved out of enemy bone.
He kept his eyes on the Sorting Ceremony and let his attention drift inward.
"Ding! Host has successfully entered Slytherin and completed the current main quest. Reward: 100 Story Points."
"Main quest updated!"
Current Quest: Rising to Fame
Quest Objective: The Dark Lord's fame shall begin in Slytherin. This term, earn at least 150 points for Slytherin and secure victory in the House Cup!
Quest Reward: Gandalf's Spell Notes, 1500 Story Points.
Note: When the quest is settled, the Host will receive 10 Story Points for every 1 point earned for Slytherin. If 150 points are not reached, the quest fails and no reward is granted.
"So if I earn a thousand points, I walk away with ten thousand Story Points."
He turned it over and let it go. Impossible. Even killing Voldemort wouldn't be worth a thousand points in Dumbledore's accounting.
Besides, according to how things were supposed to go, Gryffindor won the House Cup this year. When the final count came in, Dumbledore would find some reason to hand them extra points at the last moment. He always did.
That meant Harry and Ron would need to lose a few more along the way.
Altair glanced toward the Gryffindor table with something that might have passed for sympathy, then looked at Hermione and felt a small, quiet pull of guilt.
Sorry, he thought. He only hoped she wouldn't cry when the points were tallied.
...
The Sorting finished quickly after that.
Lavender Brown, the girl from the boat, went to Gryffindor. One of the few girls sorted there, which meant she would almost certainly end up in Hermione's dormitory.
It was only then that Altair placed her properly. Ron's future ex-girlfriend. The one Hermione had gotten jealous over.
He looked across to the Gryffindor table.
Hermione was already looking straight at him, lips pressed together, an aggrieved set to her expression that she wasn't quite managing to hide.
Altair smiled faintly and blinked at her.
She puffed out her cheeks, dropped her head onto the table, and turned her face away.
He considered that for a moment. He didn't remember becoming close enough to her for this kind of reaction. But they had spent the train ride together, and Hogwarts was still strange and new to her, and most people, when dropped somewhere unfamiliar, reached instinctively for whatever felt known.
That was probably all it was.
...
Dumbledore's welcome stretched on for some time, a long string of reminders and cautions, until he finally clapped his hands together and the plates filled all at once, edge to edge with food.
"Let the feast begin!"
Altair shook out his napkin, cut a piece of steak, and ate at an unhurried pace.
Across the hall, Hermione was still looking put out, but she'd been hungry since afternoon. Eventually she reached for a cream pudding.
Beside her, Ron had a chicken leg in each hand, grease shining on his chin, chewing with real commitment and no apparent self-consciousness.
Hermione looked at him. Then she looked at Altair, cutting his steak with quiet precision.
She let out a slow, suffering sigh.
"I want to be in Slytherin!!"