The massive double doors creaked open with the solemn weight of centuries, and the first-years stepped into the Great Hall of Hogwarts.
It was vast — impossibly vast — its ceiling a perfect reflection of the starlit sky outside.
Thousands of candles floated in the air, their flames trembling with each breath of magic that lingered in the room.
Four long tables stretched down the length of the hall, each marked by the banners of its house — crimson and gold, yellow and black, blue and bronze, green and silver flowing like tablecloths.
At the head table, the professors sat in quiet anticipation.
Some smiled warmly at the sight of the new students; others merely observed, their gazes keen, measuring, curious.
Cassius's eyes flicked upward briefly — first to the ceiling, then across the tables.
Every line, every flicker of torchlight, every movement was stored away, catalogued.
He wasn't overwhelmed, though many of his peers clearly were.
He was studying the place.
He saw his father, Severus at his place on the far left of the table, while his mother Lily was on the right side.
The teachers had like previous years expanded from the traditional 13 posted professors to the far greater 22 that were present here today, and that was account for those who like always failed to attend these public events.
Professor McGonagall led them to the front where a small stool stood, upon which rested a tattered hat that looked barely capable of sitting upright, let alone speaking.
But it did.
The brim split open into a crooked smile, and a voice rang through the hall — not loud, but clear and resonant, as though it came from the stones themselves.
"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,But don't judge on what you see. I'll eat myself if you can find, A smarter hat than me…"
The hall chuckled softly at the familiar rhyme, though Cassius merely cringed at the out of tone singing, each year the hat came up with a new rendition and every year the students wish it hadnt.
When the song ended, the applause rose and fell, and McGonagall unrolled a scroll.
"When I call your name, you will come forward, place the Hat upon your head, and be sorted into your house."
Her voice was crisp, every syllable sharp as chalk.
"Hannah Abbott!"
A small girl with blonde braids stumbled forward, trembling.
She barely had time to sit before the Hat called out —
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
Cheers erupted from the rightmost table, and Hannah nearly tripped again in her excitement to join them.
"Next, Susan Bones!"
"Hufflepuff!"
...
...
"Tracey Davis!"
"Slytherin!"
...
...
"Daphne Greengrass!"
"Slytherin!"
Cassius watched as names were called, each child stepping forward, each name sparking murmurs and cheers.
His attention flicked toward the Slytherin table, where the older students' eyes gleamed like emeralds in dim light.
It was fascinating — this ritual of division, this moment of self-determination twisted into destiny by a sentient piece of cloth.
Then —
"Hermione Granger!"
Hermione froze.
For an instant, Cassius thought she might faint.
But then she squared her shoulders and marched up to the stool, lips pressed into a line of determination.
The Hat dropped over her curls, nearly swallowing her whole.
The pause that followed felt long.
The Hat murmured audibly, though none could hear its words.
Hermione's hands tightened around the stool's edge.
Then—
"RAVENCLAW!"
The hall gasped softly.
Even the professors seemed momentarily surprised.
Most sorting took only a moment but no longer than a minute, very rare cases took minutes, but Hermione's sorting had lasted for five whole minutes.
The hat clearly torn between which house to send her to.
Hermione herself looked stunned, but then — radiant.
She beamed as she hurried to the blue-and-bronze table, greeted with applause and polite smiles from her new housemates.
Cassius allowed himself a faint, approving nod.
...
...
...
Then came Neville Longbottom.
"Neville Longbottom!"
The boy shuffled forward, tripping once before reaching the stool.
The Hat sat on his head for only a moment before declaring —
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
A roar of approval came from the table of gold and black.
Neville almost looked relieved as he stumbled toward them, red-faced but grinning.
Child after child followed.
Malfoy was sorted swiftly — predictably — into Slytherin.
Then, silence.
McGonagall's voice carried softly but clearly.
"Harry Potter."
The air changed.
A thousand eyes turned toward him as he stepped forward.
Whispers rose like wind through leaves.
"That's him—"
"Harry Potter—"
"The Boy Who Lived—"
"The Boy Who Lives Again—"
Cassius tilted his head slightly.
He could feel it — the pressure of collective expectation.
It was palpable, a tide of invisible weight pressing in on the boy.
Harry sat down.
The Hat fell over his head, and the hall went completely still.
A voice — faint, ancient — echoed softly in Harry's ears, though none else could hear.
"Difficult… very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a thirst to prove yourself. But where to put you?"
Harry's fingers clenched on the stool. His lips moved.
"Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin."
"Not Slytherin, eh?" the Hat murmured, amused. "Are you sure? You could be great, you know. It's all here in your head — and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness. There's no doubt about that."
Harry shook his head violently beneath the brim.
"Not Slytherin!"
For a heartbeat, the Hat hesitated.
It almost — almost — seemed ready to agree with his heartfelt plee.
Then something changed.
Its voice deepened.
"But greatness, young Potter… greatness rarely blooms where the crowd approves. It grows in shadow, in conflict, in ambition."
The Hat's brim quivered once — and then, with ringing finality, it shouted:
"SLYTHERIN!"
The silence was absolute.
For a moment, it seemed even the floating candles had frozen mid-flicker.
Then the Slytherin table erupted in cheers, louder than any before — laughter, applause, the scrape of benches.
Draco Malfoy whooped triumphantly, clapping Harry on the back as he stumbled toward them, pale and stunned.
At the teachers' table, the colour drained from Lily Potter's face.
Her fork slipped from her fingers and clattered against her plate.
She stared, unblinking, at her son.
At the green and silver.
At the snake embroidered into his robes.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
Slowly, she turned — her gaze locking on Severus Snape, seated near the end of the table, his expression unreadable.
The silence between them was louder than any cheer.
Her eyes burned with fury, disbelief, and accusation.
How had this happened?
How had he done this?
Snape's face did not change, though a faint shadow crossed his gaze — something unreadable, heavy, and old.
He was already coming to terms with giving his all to protect this boy, this boy who he hated among all others, bearing the face of his enemy, but the eyes of his true love.
Lily was still alive yes, but she cared not for snape, Harry was his doorway possibly back into her heart.
Cassius watched all of it unfold.
The emotion, the silence, the shifting undercurrents of intrigue within the hall.
The sorting hat itself seemed to be exhausted, only Hermione's sorting had taken this long, but Potters it was longer still
McGonagall's voice trembled only slightly as she continued reading names, regretting the fact the hat had sent such an honorable student to Severus leaving her house with nothing but troublemakers once more.
But the air in the Great Hall had changed.
Whispers rose and swirled like smoke — half awe, half fear.
The Boy Who Lived.
In Slytherin.
Lily's hands were clenched white upon the tablecloth, her knuckles showing through pale skin.
Across from her, Dumbledore watched quietly, his eyes bright behind his glasses — not angry, slightly alarmed, but waiting patiently to see how thing unraveled.
Snape sat motionless, his dark gaze lowered.
If there was triumph in him, he did not show it.
If there was sorrow, it was buried too deep to see.