"Susan Bones... Hufflepuff!"
"Justin Finch-Fletchley... Hufflepuff!"
In the magnificently decorated Great Hall, a patched, frayed, and wrinkled hat sat upon a stool. Its brim widened like a mouth as it sang and wriggled restlessly. Occasionally, a few fearless young wizards would pinch its edge, causing it to emit a strange, wheezing chuckle.
As the Sorting Hat announced each student's house, the audience of young wizards clapped—some enthusiastically, others merely perfunctorily. At this welcoming feast, even Gryffindor and Slytherin, notorious rivals, maintained a veneer of harmonious decorum.
The freshmen waiting to be sorted watched with a mix of nerves and anticipation. One by one, they donned the hat, listened to its playful commentary, and then hurried to their respective house tables amidst cheers.
However, among the crowd of first-years stood a gaunt boy who looked entirely out of place. He stared blankly at the ornate, retro architecture and the thousands of candles floating in mid-air. The flickering light illuminated the vast hall, catching the pearly forms of ghosts drifting through the rafters. Overwhelmed, the boy muttered under his breath:
"Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?"
This is strange, he thought. Wasn't I just dying in a hospital bed?
Just as he was trying to reconcile his memories with his surroundings, a sharp, authoritative female voice rang out.
"Ivan Hales!"
Professor Minerva McGonagall stood beside the four-legged stool, peering down at a long roll of parchment. When no one stepped forward, she frowned and called out again, louder this time:
"Ivan Hales!"
The silence stretched on. Even Albus Dumbledore cast a questioning glance toward the crowd. In the silence, the upperclassmen began to whisper.
"Who's Ivan? How dare he keep her waiting?"
"Maybe he got lost on the way to the Great Hall?"
"This is getting interesting..."
Under the collective gaze of the faculty and the student body, the other freshmen instinctively shuffled back. This left a single, blond-haired, black-eyed boy standing isolated in the center of the floor, looking utterly bewildered.
"Mr. Hales, please step forward!" Professor McGonagall repeated.
"Me?" Ivan pointed to himself. The scene felt surreal—simultaneously alien and hauntingly familiar.
"Yes, please come up at once. There are many others waiting to be sorted," McGonagall said. Despite her fourth time calling him, her voice remained patient; she clearly assumed the boy was simply paralyzed by stage fright.
Before Ivan could process it, he felt a light nudge from behind. The freshmen in the front row practically ushered him onto the stage.
"That's it, child. Come along..." Professor McGonagall guided him to the chair and placed the Sorting Hat over his eyes.
The hat wriggled on his head and spoke in a low, raspy mutter.
"Hey now, kid, don't be shy. You aren't the first to be nervous in a place like this... Trust me, just close your eyes and it'll be over in a flash. It won't hurt a bit!"
Ivan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He had spent enough time in the crowd to piece together his situation, though it still defied logic. Is this really Hogwarts? The actual school of witchcraft and wizardry? It can't be...
"Oh, but it is!" the Sorting Hat chirped in his ear. "You aren't dreaming, I'm quite certain of that!"
"I'd wager you come from a Muggle family, don't you? Every few years we get a few who don't believe magic is real. They claim it's all stage magic and try to pull a rabbit out of my brim... I tell them I'm empty, but they never listen."
The hat continued to ramble, its "mouth" twitching near Ivan's ear. Realizing the hat was reading his mind, Ivan felt a surge of panic and tried to clear his thoughts. However, the hat's presence seemed to trigger a slideshow of fragmented, incoherent memories—images that didn't belong to him.
He saw a witch, perhaps thirty years old, with beautiful long blonde hair. She was speaking urgently, though he couldn't hear the words. A wave of primal fear washed over him.
The Sorting Hat paused, seemingly surprised. It commented that it had rarely seen a mind so chaotic. It also noted its surprise that Ivan wasn't Muggle-born; after all, what wizarding child wouldn't recognize Hogwarts?
A bead of sweat rolled down Ivan's forehead. Even if these memories belonged to the "original" Ivan Hales, he didn't want this magical object digging any deeper. He forced himself to focus on mundane thoughts.
"Ahem."
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat, signaling the hat to get on with it.
"Right, right," the hat muttered, lowering its voice to a secretive whisper. "Let's see... Intelligent, yes. Prone to daydreaming... and oh? It seems you know a little bit of Dark Magic."
I know Dark Magic? Ivan thought, recalling the blonde witch in his vision.
"Yes... ancient and rare," the hat whispered. "A fascinating branch of the dark arts—the kind that makes people see things they'd rather forget. Someone once used it for quite the series of pranks... though Dumbledore certainly wouldn't approve of a repeat performance."
Then where do I go? Ivan wondered.
Slytherin?
He knew the stereotypes: Gryffindor for the brave (or reckless), Ravenclaw for the wise and curious, and Slytherin for the cunning and ambitious. Then there was Hufflepuff—kind, loyal, and apparently great with food-related charms. Given his "dark" aptitude, Slytherin seemed the logical choice. Or perhaps Ravenclaw, if he was as intelligent as the hat suggested?
"No, no, not quite," the Sorting Hat chuckled, sensing his inner narcissism. "While it might bruise your ego, Slytherin usually demands a certain... innate spark of gifted ambition that I'm not quite seeing here. So..."
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat bellowed to the hall.
"Gryffindor?" Ivan pulled the hat off, stunned. He didn't even have time to be offended by the hat's assessment of his talent.
"Yes, yes, that's the place for you!" the hat declared with finality. "I never make a mistake. You have the qualities—somewhere in there!"
To Be Continue....
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