The Great Hall of Hogwarts shimmered like a cathedral of magic, alive with light and ancient power.
Candles floated in midair beneath an enchanted ceiling that reflected the night sky — starlight flickering in the soft mist of the castle's age-old charms.
The four long House tables stretched from end to end, crowded with returning students already whispering excitedly about who among the new arrivals would join their ranks.
And beneath that glittering splendor, something else stirred.
Hidden under the tables of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff, a quiet and deliberate pulse of magic throbbed like a shared heartbeat.
Fingers twitched beneath robes, wands angled discreetly toward the dais at the far end of the hall, where the battered old hat sat on its stool waiting to decide the fates of another generation.
It was not the usual quiet mischief of students — no fireworks, no hexes.
This was coordinated, purposeful.
And it was his doing.
Though he was still outside the Great Hall tonight, Cassius Snape's influence reached even here through those he had raised — the orphans he had gathered, awakened, trianed and protected since their escape from the neglect of both worlds.
They knew him as Arcana, their shadowed guardian, and in his absence, they acted in his name.
The eldest among them sat poised at the Gryffindor table, a Third-year named Elias Reed, wand barely visible between his crossed arms.
He had the calm eyes of someone who had seen too much too young, and the faintest trace of a smile when he felt the familiar rhythm of magic ripple through the hall.
Across from him, at the Ravenclaw table, Lyra Vale — sharp-faced, silver-eyed — mouthed silent words in sync with his movements.
Between them, the connection pulsed stronger, weaving their magic with the others scattered throughout the room.
A web of spellwork unfurled — subtle, synchronized, and ancient.
The language they used was not Latin. It was older.
"Cang," whispered Lyra under her breath.
Sindarin.
The Elvish tongue for confusion, one of the few non-human linguistic magics that had been handed down by Arcana to his 'acolytes'.
"Cang."
Each utterence carried intent — not to deceive, not to control, but to balance.
The Sorting Hat, ancient and powerful though it was, had been bound long ago to certain predispositions.
The founders' will lingered within it, shaping decisions that were not always fair, the hat could see into your very self, finding the qualities even you might not know about, but then to abandon all of that just based of the concious choice of the person... seriously? Why even have the hat in the first place then, just ask everyone to choose their own house if thats the case.
Plus why in the books did it only ever let Harry choose?
Hermione was clearly better suited for Ravenclaw but oh no she's in Griffindor, to one day develop the courage to stand up for knowledge itself against the rowdy Griffindors.
Same for Neville, hes the embodiment of a perfect hufflepuff and yet, just becuase he has the courage to being like his parents and act of loyalty mind you he lands in griffindor?
Cassius had taught them that free will was the essence of magic — and the Sorting, for all its grandeur, was little more than a ritual of psychological manipulation.
So tonight, they would even the scales.
Elias shifted slightly, as all around him he could hear the near silent casting by the other Arcana raised orphans likewise casting.
"Cang."
hundreds of quiet voices across the Hall echoed the same words, perfectly timed, perfectly layered.
A hum of confusion rippled through the air — faint, almost imperceptible.
The enchanted ceiling flickered once, a subtle shiver running down the floating candles as if a breeze had passed that only magic could feel.
The professors on the dais glanced up briefly, but nothing seemed amiss.
Except for one man.
At the center, behind the golden table, Albus Dumbledore sat with his hands folded, his half-moon spectacles reflecting the flicker of candlelight.
His eyes, ancient and far too knowing, drifted toward the students — not at random, but directly toward Elias Reed.
For a moment, Elias felt it.
The soft, probing weight of a mind brushing his own.
Not invasive, not forceful — merely curious.
He held steady.
His Occlumency shield — a gift from Arcana's teaching himself — rippled once, deflecting the touch like water off glass.
Dumbledore's expression didn't change.
But he knew something was happening.
Still, he said nothing.
After all, what harm was there in a few flickers of light and nervous energy from overexcited students?
Professor McGonagall reentered the Hall, leading the line of first-years.
The murmur of voices dimmed to whispers.
The littlest of them gawked upward at the ceiling, at the ghosts hovering lazily above, at the professors watching with polite interest.
And near the head of the line — Harry Potter.
The boy who lived, was once more alive after being re-discovered and reported actually alive all this time by the daily prophet last month, launching a whole wave of propoganda and popularity for the only wizard to ever survive an attack by Voldemort had returned to life and the wizarding world at the same time.
The boy who carried prophecy in his scar and expectation in his name.
Many of the students saw the young boy, and their interest was peaked each house wanted the famous harry potter to join their table, their house, their ranks!
But for all the attention Harry was drawing from the children and teachers, there was another boy who lingered towards the back of long line of new students was a confident young man with black hair, black eyes ringed in gold, and a swallow palor like he was a lifetime anemic.
He chose the back due to knowing how the ceremony would come about, the sorting happened alphabetically, and being a snape he would be among some of the last to get sorted.
But the three houses containing his students were practically vibrating at the prospect of Arcana's own personal chosen one joining their house.