Chapter 20: Ravenclaw
"Russell Fythorne!" Professor McGonagall's voice rang clear through the Great Hall.
Russell took a deep breath and stepped forward. His heart thudded in his chest, but his expression stayed calm — until he actually picked up the Sorting Hat.
Up close, the thing was even filthier than he'd imagined. He held it gingerly by the very edge, as though afraid it might crawl off on its own, and reluctantly placed it on his head.
The world went dark.
And then, a voice — dry, faint, and just a touch offended — echoed in his mind.
"How very rude. You might at least pretend to respect me. I'll have you know, I am quite particular about cleanliness."
Russell raised an eyebrow internally.
"Really? Then tell me, Mr. Sorting Hat — when was the last time you took a bath?"
There was a long pause.
"Well, that would be… ah… wait a moment—blimey! Did a student just trick me into this conversation? Cunning little brat!"
It sighed dramatically.
"Enough of your chatter. You're clouding my thoughts, and that makes it rather difficult to sort you properly."
Russell smirked.
"Then tell me, esteemed Hat — which House do you think suits me best?"
He was genuinely curious. And, truth be told, if he didn't like the result, he was perfectly ready to pull a Harry Potter and insist on his choice.
"Hmm… an interesting mind indeed," the Hat mused. "Ancient blood, no shortage of courage, and sharp intelligence tempered by diligence. I could see you in Slytherin, Gryffindor, or Ravenclaw."
"Ancient blood?" Russell blinked. Was it… talking about me? He had no time to think further before another question slipped out.
"And what about Hufflepuff? I think that one fits me best. After all—my cooking skills are exceptional."
The Hat gave a soft, almost pitying chuckle.
"Hufflepuff values loyalty and kindness. As for you…"
It trailed off meaningfully and fell silent.
Russell frowned.
"What's that supposed to mean? Are you implying I lack those qualities?"
The Hat didn't answer. Time stretched.
The hall began to murmur. Whispers rippled through the crowd — it had been decades since a first-year had taken this long to be sorted.
Even the professors were exchanging curious glances.
The last "difficult case" had been Peter Pettigrew, many years ago. And everyone remembered how that turned out.
---
Over at the Gryffindor table, excitement was brewing.
"Place your bets, everyone!" George Weasley's voice rang out gleefully, cutting through the noise. "Which House do you think he'll end up in?"
A tall, dark-skinned boy with dreadlocks — Lee Jordan — leaned over with a grin. "I'm saying Gryffindor." He tossed a silver Sickle into the dish in front of George.
Fred draped an arm around his shoulder. "Why so confident, Lee?"
"Because," Lee said solemnly, "I am a Gryffindor."
That earned a roar of laughter and applause from their table.
"For courage and glory!" someone shouted.
The Gryffindors all began cheering and tossing in their own bets — all for their own House, of course. None of them noticed the mischievous glances exchanged between Fred, George, and Lee.
They had, naturally, arranged it so that one of them would win no matter what.
George picked Ravenclaw, Fred picked Slytherin, and Lee went for Gryffindor . Unless Russell somehow ended up in Hufflepuff, they'd be in the clear.
And judging by the boy's calm, calculating demeanor, none of them thought that was likely.
Hufflepuff's too honest for him, Fred thought with a grin. This one's got layers.
---
"And if I insist on Hufflepuff?" Russell asked in his mind. "I've heard you take a wizard's choice into account — and isn't Hufflepuff supposed to welcome everyone?"
The Hat chuckled softly.
"True… but only when the other three Houses decline. Hufflepuff's acceptance isn't unconditional — it's compassionate. And you, my boy, are many things… but not one to settle."
Russell sighed inwardly.
"Fine, fine, you win, old hat."
Honestly, his desire for Hufflepuff had little to do with ideals. He just wanted to live near the kitchens — easy access to food was a sacred thing.
That, and Morticia had written him a recommendation letter to Professor Sprout, asking her to "take care of him." The Hufflepuff dorms, he'd heard, were cozy, cheerful, and full of good company — something the gloomy Addams estate had rarely offered.
Still, as he thought about it… something about Ravenclaw called to him.
He liked puzzles. Knowledge. The quiet satisfaction of understanding the why behind things.
Maybe…
"You know," the Hat said, its tone shifting to a low, approving hum, "you do have the mind of a thinker. And a streak of curiosity that borders on dangerous. I see potential in you — perhaps too much for your own good."
Russell hesitated for only a moment before his thoughts began to shift.
Ravenclaw isn't such a bad choice, he mused. Professor Flitwick and I get along well, and their dorms are said to have the best view in the castle.
With that, his decision was made.
"I'd like to go to Ravenclaw," he said firmly.
The Sorting Hat gave a low, amused hum.
"Are you sure? Not Slytherin? I daresay you'd achieve extraordinary things there."
Russell rolled his eyes.
"No, thank you. I'd rather not spend my first term dodging curses and family grudges."
The hat sighed dramatically, as if disappointed.
"Very well then."
It paused, as though savoring the moment.
"Better be…"
The Great Hall fell silent.
Even Fred and George leaned forward, breath held.
"RAVENCLAW!"
---
The blue-and-bronze table erupted in applause.
Russell lifted the hat from his head with a small, crooked smile. He hadn't expected that — but somehow, it felt right.
He walked toward the Ravenclaw table, where Cho Chang stood up and waved, beaming.
As he sat down, the students around him greeted him with quiet nods and smiles — polite, reserved, but warm.
Fred groaned dramatically at the Gryffindor table, burying his face in his hands, while George and Lee slapped a victorious high-five.
Russell caught the gesture from across the hall and smirked.
He didn't need Legilimency to guess exactly what had just happened.
Still, he leaned back, looking up once more at the enchanted ceiling. The stars above shimmered faintly.
A whisper brushed through his mind — the Sorting Hat's voice, softer now, almost wistful.
"You'll do well here, Russell Fythorne. But remember… wisdom without heart can be just as dangerous as ignorance without thought."
Russell chuckled quietly.
"Duly noted," he murmured.
As the cheers died down, he glanced toward the staff table.
Professor Snape, unsurprisingly, looked as though someone had just handed him a particularly dull essay — his expression cold, unreadable. When their eyes met, he didn't so much as twitch.
Professor Flitwick, on the other hand, was practically glowing. The tiny Charms Master was beaming up at him, eyes crinkled with pride as he gave Russell an enthusiastic thumbs-up from his chair.
And in the very center of the staff table sat an old man with a long silver beard and half-moon spectacles: Albus Dumbledore.
He wasn't smiling, nor clapping. Instead, he was peering down at something in his hands, brows furrowed slightly, as if troubled by a private thought.
Russell watched him for a moment, then quietly turned away.
---
At the Ravenclaw table, a pretty witch with warm eyes stood up and offered her hand.
"Amelia Slughorn, fifth year, prefect of Ravenclaw. Welcome to the House of Wit."
"Thank you, Senior Slughorn," Russell replied, shaking her hand. The surname struck a faint chord of familiarity — Slughorn? Probably a relative of that old potion-master, Horace.
A familiar voice called from nearby.
"Russell! I didn't expect you'd end up in Ravenclaw too!"
It was Cho Chang, smiling brightly as she waved him over.
Russell nodded in greeting, smiling back. "Looks like we're classmates, then."
The upperclassman sitting beside Cho immediately stood and offered his seat to Russell.
That small, polite gesture — no boasting, no mockery — instantly raised Russell's opinion of his new House.
Ravenclaw, he thought as he sat down. Not bad at all.
---
Just as the Sorting Hat finished its last name, a loud BANG! echoed through the hall.
The great doors swung open, slamming against the stone walls.
A massive figure filled the doorway — Hagrid, clutching his ever-present pink umbrella. Beside him stood Phineas Fawley, dripping wet, pale, and visibly dazed.
"Professor Dumbledore," Hagrid rumbled nervously, his voice much quieter than usual, "I've brought young Fawley. Hope we haven't missed the Sorting Ceremony."
Dumbledore looked up at last. His eyes twinkled kindly again.
"Not at all, Hagrid. Perfect timing," he said gently before glancing toward McGonagall.
"Minerva, if you would do the honors? I suspect everyone's quite eager for supper."
McGonagall gave a curt nod and guided the drenched boy toward the stool.
Fawley's face was pale but determined. He sat down stiffly, and the hat was placed upon his head.
For a long moment, there was silence. Then the hat spoke — in its usual confident tone:
"RAVENCLAW!"
But before anyone could applaud, Phineas Fawley's eyes widened. He stood up so suddenly that the stool toppled backward, snatching the Sorting Hat off his head and hurling it to the floor.
Gasps rippled through the Great Hall.
Every table fell silent.
Russell's brow furrowed slightly. The calm, analytical part of him noted how the boy's hand trembled — not with rage, but disbelief.
What's this about? he wondered.
Even McGonagall was momentarily stunned. Her lips parted, as though to speak, but no words came out.
The Sorting Hat lay motionless on the floor, its folds twisted into something like a scowl.
The silence deepened, thick and heavy.
Then, from the staff table, came the soft scrape of a chair being pushed back.
Dumbledore rose to his feet. His gaze, calm but piercing, fixed on the trembling boy in the middle of the hall.
"Mr. Fawley," he said mildly, his voice quiet yet carrying effortlessly across the room, "is there something you'd like to tell us?"
All eyes turned to Fawley.
The boy's lips quivered — and for a moment, Russell thought he might faint again.
Whatever happened next, Russell knew one thing for certain:
the night at Hogwarts was far from over.