Chapter Ten: A Hat's Warning
As the huge doors swung shut behind them, the Great Hall fell into a stunned silence. Hundreds of faces turned towards the new arrivals, the usual amused curiosity at the first-years quickly giving way to blatant confusion and shock. All eyes were drawn, like magnets, to the tall, older boy standing conspicuously in the middle of the line of eleven-year-olds.
The whispers started as a ripple, then swelled into a wave of disbelief.
"Who is that?"
"He's got to be a transfer student… but from where?"
"Merlin's beard, he looks older than my brother in fourth year!"
"Wasn't he on the train with Loony Lovegood?"
"Do you think he's really a first-year?"
Elian kept his gaze fixed on the back of Professor McGonagall's hat, trying to ignore the heat of hundreds of stares. He felt like a specimen under glass. Across the hall, he spotted Hermione, who gave him a small, encouraging nod, her expression a mix of sympathy and pride at having been right. Ron's mouth was slightly agape. Harry was watching him with that familiar, guarded look. And at the Ravenclaw table, Luna caught his eye and offered a serene, dreamy smile, as if they were sharing a private joke about the Wrackspurts causing all the fuss.
The professors at the High Table were no less attentive. Their experienced eyes noted his age, his composure, and the unique wand peeking from his robe pocket. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles, while Professor Snape's black gaze was as penetrating and suspicious as a drill.
The noise threatened to overwhelm the hall. With a subtle movement, Dumbledore raised his wand to his throat. His voice, magically amplified, boomed with a quiet but immense authority.
"Silence."
The word vibrated through the stone floor, and the chatter cut off instantly.
Dumbledore rose. "Before we begin our Sorting," he said, his tone now benign, "a few start-of-term notices. First-years should note that the Forbidden Forest is just that—forbidden to all students. Our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has also asked me to remind you that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death. Thank you."
The familiar warnings drew a few chuckles from the older students, but the first-years listened with wide, serious eyes. Elian felt a strange sense of déjà vu.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward, unrolling a long parchment. "When I call your name, you will come forward, sit on the stool, and place the Sorting Hat on your head. It will decide which house you belong to."
She placed a three-legged stool before them, and upon it, the patched, frayed, and ancient Sorting Hat. The entire hall held its breath.
Then, a rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the Hat began to sing. But the song was different this year. The tune was slower, more solemn, and the words carried a weight Elian hadn't remembered from the stories.
"Though I am old and full of years,
And Hogwarts' walls have seen your fears,
I speak of bonds now strained and worn,
A warning on this night reborn.
The founders four, with vision true,
Each built a house for students new:
For bravery bold in fiery red,
For clever minds and wisdom spread,
For loyalty true, both just and kind,
For ambition's sharp and cunning mind.
But divided paths can weaken walls,
When looming darkness threatens, calls.
So hear me now, and understand,
United you must make your stand.
For shadows gather, old and deep,
While all the school is lost in sleep.
Let not old rivalries hold sway,
Or together you will fall, I say."
The Hat finished its song and went still. The applause that followed was more thoughtful than cheerful. A murmur of unease ran through the older students; the Hat's songs were usually about unity in theory, not urgent warnings about "looming darkness." Many eyes flicked unconsciously toward Harry Potter, then to the staff table.
Professor McGonagall, looking stern, cleared her throat and looked down at her list. "Abbott, Hannah!"
A pink-faced girl stumbled forward. The Hat had barely touched her head when it shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!"
One by one, the line shrank. Elian's heart began to beat a steady, anxious rhythm against his ribs. He watched as "Boot, Terry" became a Ravenclaw, and "Brown, Lavender" joined Gryffindor with a beaming smile.
Then, a name that made the hall buzz again, but for a different reason. "Creevey, Dennis!" A tiny boy, looking even younger than the others, rushed forward. The Hat considered for a moment before declaring "GRYFFINDOR!" The Weasley twins led a thunderous cheer, clearly delighted.
The names marched on. "Finch-Fletchley, Justin!" ("HUFFLEPUFF!") "Granger, Hermione!" (A knowing smile from the staff table – "GRYFFINDOR!" all over again). "Malfoy, Draco!" The Hat barely touched his platinum hair before screaming "SLYTHERIN!"
And then, the moment arrived. Professor McGonagall's eyes found his. She paused for a fraction of a second, then called out, her voice clear and carrying to every corner of the silent hall.
"Throne, Elian."
A fresh wave of whispers erupted as he stepped forward. The walk to the stool felt impossibly long. He could feel every single stare—curious, skeptical, mocking, fascinated. He sat down on the small stool, which creaked under his weight, and Professor McGonagall lowered the ancient Sorting Hat onto his head. It slipped down over his eyes, plunging him into darkness and the faint smell of dust and old leather.
Well, well, a small, witty voice spoke directly into his mind. This is unusual. Very unusual indeed. Older than the rest, but starting at the beginning. A mind full of knowledge that doesn't quite fit… and a touch of something else. Something disciplined. Ancient. Not of this world's magic…
Elian stiffened. Could it see the system? The Eye?
Oh, I see many things, the Hat chuckled softly. But do not fear. I am a hat, not a gossip. The question is where to put you. Not Slytherin, I think… your ambitions are of a different sort. Not Hufflepuff, though your loyalty to those you choose will be fierce. That leaves two… A keen mind, a thirst for understanding how things work—that screams Ravenclaw. But there is also a courage here… not a brash, loud courage, but a quiet, stubborn one. The courage to be different, to walk a lonely path, to stand when others might flee. That is very Gryffindor.
The Hat was silent for what felt like an age, its voice a private hum in Elian's skull. He thought of Luna's serene acceptance, of Hermione's brisk help, of the long, strange path that had led him here.
Difficult. Very difficult. But I think… yes… the path you are on will require more than wisdom. It will require that peculiar, steadfast heart. Better be…
The Hat's voice filled the silent Great Hall.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The red-and-gold table exploded in cheers and stomps, led by the Weasley twins. Hermione was clapping wildly, Ron looked pleasantly surprised, and even Harry offered a small, genuine smile. At the Ravenclaw table, Luna gave a slow, graceful clap, her silvery eyes knowing.
As Professor McGonagall lifted the Hat from his head, the noise washing over him, Elian felt a surge of unexpected rightness. He walked toward the cheering Gryffindors, his new house, and took a seat. The Sorting was over for him. The real magic was about to begin.
(End of Chapter)
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