Chapter 19: The Sorting Ceremony
"Enough, Hagrid," Professor McGonagall said, shaking her head. "Take that boy to the infirmary — I'll handle the rest."
Hagrid nodded quickly and lumbered off, carrying the unconscious Phineas Fawley like a sack of potatoes.
A few minutes later, the group of first-years who'd been left behind finally stumbled to the castle gates. Their faces were flushed, and their breathing ragged. Russell, however, didn't seem the least bit winded.
He glanced around at the panting children, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, "Still need more training."
All those daily runs around the park were paying off — this short uphill climb wasn't even enough to count as a warm-up.
---
Once everyone had arrived, Professor McGonagall clapped her hands sharply.
The chatter died instantly.
The stern witch didn't need to raise her voice — her presence alone was enough to silence the crowd. Compared to her, Hagrid's booming tone felt almost gentle.
Satisfied, she gave a small nod. "Follow me."
She led the group into the castle's grand entrance hall — but instead of continuing into the Great Hall, she ushered them into a smaller adjoining chamber.
"You will wait here quietly until I come to fetch you," she said crisply, her Scottish accent cutting through the murmurs like a blade. "The Sorting Ceremony will begin shortly. I expect complete silence."
And with that, she swept out of the room, robes billowing behind her.
Naturally, the moment she left, the silence shattered.
A room full of eleven-year-olds? Quiet? Impossible.
The air filled with whispers and nervous speculation almost immediately.
---
"Sorting? What's that supposed to mean?" a round-faced boy cried out, his voice cracking with worry. "It didn't say anything about that in the acceptance letter! What if… what if we fail the test? Are they gonna send us home?"
A few boys nearby snickered. They were dressed in fine robes embroidered with family crests — pure-bloods, no doubt.
"Of course," one said mockingly. "If you can't pass, that means Hogwarts isn't the place for you. Better to leave early than embarrass yourself."
Russell glanced at them and sighed inwardly. Another pack of pure-blood brats. Just like Fawley.
The round-faced boy's expression crumpled. He looked on the verge of tears.
Before he could spiral further, Cho Chang stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"Don't listen to them," she said kindly. "No one's getting sent home. I heard from Fawley — even if you don't pass the tests for the other three Houses, Hufflepuff will always take you in."
Her tone was soft but steady, and her smile carried a quiet confidence that calmed him immediately.
The boy beamed, his hope restored. "Thank you," he said earnestly.
But the moment of peace was short-lived.
A drawling voice drifted over the crowd — smooth, smug, and utterly insincere.
"That's true," said a blond boy leaning against the wall, arms crossed. His pale hair gleamed under the torchlight, and his grin oozed arrogance. "But you'd better make sure you live long enough to be sorted into Hufflepuff."
The room fell silent.
"What… what do you mean?" someone asked nervously. "You're saying the Sorting can be dangerous?"
The blond boy smiled like a cat surrounded by pigeons. He enjoyed the sudden attention.
"Of course," he said, lowering his voice dramatically. "My father told me all about it. The Sorting isn't just some ceremony — it's a test of worth."
He paused for effect, eyes glittering.
"For Gryffindor, you must face a troll in single combat."
Gasps filled the room.
"For Ravenclaw, you must cast a powerful spell to prove your intellect."
Several students paled.
"And for Slytherin…" He leaned closer, his tone dropping to a whisper. "You must look a basilisk in the eye. Survive without being petrified — and you're in."
The reaction was immediate — a wave of horror and disbelief.
"As for Hufflepuff," he added mockingly, "it's just like the girl said. Anyone who fails the other three tests — and lives — gets accepted there."
Laughter rippled through the pure-bloods. The rest of the students looked ready to faint.
Russell pinched the bridge of his nose. Brilliant. First-years, and already the fear-mongering begins.
He caught Cho Chang's exasperated glance and gave a small smirk. They both knew better.
Still, the blond boy's little performance had clearly shaken the room.
One trembling voice whispered, "Then… then I'll pick Ravenclaw. Casting a spell sounds safest, right?"
Murmurs of nervous agreement followed.
Just as the panic reached its peak, the heavy door creaked open.
Professor McGonagall stood there once more, looking impeccably composed.
"All right, children," she said firmly. "The Sorting Ceremony is ready. Follow me — and do try to behave."
The room fell silent again. Shoes shuffled. Hearts pounded.
Russell straightened his robes, exhaled slowly, and stepped forward with the rest of the first-years.
Under McGonagall's sharp gaze, the first-years quickly lined up in a neat row. She turned on her heel, her emerald-green robes sweeping across the floor as she led them through the massive entrance hall and into the Great Hall.
---
Russell had seen photographs of Hogwarts before, but nothing compared to standing here in person.
The hall was magnificent. Thousands of candles floated in the air like stars, illuminating the vast space in a golden glow. The four long house tables stretched across the marble floor, and the upper years were already seated—hundreds of faces turning toward the line of nervous newcomers.
Russell felt a pang of stage fright twist in his stomach.
To steady himself, he looked up—and froze.
The ceiling was an exact reflection of the night sky outside: a tapestry of stars twinkling against deep midnight blue. Clouds drifted lazily past the floating candles.
An illusion? Or transparent enchantment? he wondered, curiosity briefly pushing away his nerves.
---
Professor McGonagall stopped at the front of the hall. With practiced grace, she set down an ancient, four-legged stool that looked as though it had seen centuries of use—the wood darkened, the corners polished smooth with age.
Then, with both hands, she placed upon it… a hat.
A battered, patched, and rather disgusting old wizard's hat.
Russell's lips twitched. If it weren't a key part of the ceremony, he would never let that thing near his head. It looked like it hadn't been washed since the Founders' era. He half-suspected that putting it on would leave him with a thousand years' worth of other people's dandruff.
But before anyone could comment, the hat moved.
A jagged tear along the brim opened like a mouth, and the Sorting Hat began to sing.
Its voice was rough and theatrical, echoing through the Great Hall in a rhythm that spoke of pride, wisdom, and mischief. The song told of Hogwarts' four founders—of bravery, intellect, ambition, and loyalty—and of how every student carried a spark of their spirit.
When the song ended, thunderous applause erupted. The hat dipped slightly, as if taking a bow.
Around him, the first-years let out collective sighs of relief. Even the round-faced boy who'd been trembling earlier started muttering something that sounded suspiciously like cursing the blond liar under his breath.
---
McGonagall, expression unreadable, stepped forward again—now holding a long roll of parchment.
"When I call your name," she said clearly, "you will come forward and place the hat on your head. The Sorting Hat will determine your House."
She looked down at the parchment. "Aaron Crease."
The round-faced boy went pale as parchment himself.
He shuffled forward one hesitant step at a time and lifted the hat as though it might bite. After a deep breath, he dropped it onto his head.
The hall waited.
A pause. Then—
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat bellowed.
The red-and-gold table exploded into cheers. The loudest of all were the Weasley twins, who leapt to their feet, whistling and clapping. The first new Gryffindor of the year—a good omen indeed.
Aaron grinned so wide his cheeks nearly split. Gryffindor—the House of courage! he thought proudly as he hurried to join his cheering housemates. That's me, all right.
---
"Cho Chang!"
Hearing her name, Cho gave Marietta a reassuring squeeze before jogging up to the stool.
The hat barely touched her head before shouting, "RAVENCLAW!"
The blue-and-bronze table clapped politely—less rowdy than the Gryffindors, but welcoming all the same. A few older students stood to make room for her, offering kind smiles as she sat down.
One by one, the names were called.
The line grew shorter.
Then came Harbien Avery.
The blond boy strutted forward, chin high, like he'd already won. When the hat announced "SLYTHERIN!," he turned and gave the rest of the first-years a self-satisfied smirk before sauntering off to the green-and-silver table.
But the smirk faded when he noticed his companion—a boy who'd stood beside him earlier—was sorted into Hufflepuff.
Avery's face darkened instantly. Hufflepuff. The disgrace.
To him, that was as good as betrayal. Their friendship ended the moment the hat spoke.
The other boy, however, looked far more troubled. He knew exactly what that meant. Being cast into Hufflepuff would likely earn him scorn—or even exile—from his pure-blood family.
Just like Sirius Black once had.
---
And then, at last—
"Russell Fythorne!"
The hall went quiet.
Russell took a deep breath, stepped forward, and placed the ragged hat upon his head.
It slipped down over his eyes, plunging the world into darkness.
And in the silence, a low, amused voice spoke inside his mind.
"Well now… this is interesting."