Professor McGonagall returned shortly, not making the first-years wait long. She lined them up in single file and led the group through the grand doors into the Great Hall.
The sight that greeted Albert was breathtaking.
Four long tables stretched across the vast hall, each filled with students in black robes. Hundreds of candles floated gracefully in midair, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. The shimmering ceiling reflected the night sky, endless and star-strewn.
The flames, Albert noticed, didn't drip wax. They must have been enchanted. Otherwise, he thought, the floor would look like a wax museum right now.
As that amusing thought crossed his mind, the line stopped. At the front of the hall stood a stool—and on it rested a ragged, ancient-looking hat.
The famous Sorting Hat.
Albert stared at it with mild distaste. "I really wish someone would clean that thing," he muttered under his breath. "It looks like it's been through a millennium of neglect."
Perhaps it had.
Before he could ponder further, the hat suddenly burst into song. The voice was strange—deep, raspy, yet oddly cheerful. By the time the hat finished, the students broke into applause.
Professor McGonagall unrolled a long parchment and began to call names.
Naturally, Albert's name was first. Being an "Anderson" had its downsides.
Under hundreds of curious eyes, Albert stepped forward, sat down, and felt the weight of the old hat settle on his head.
"Hmm," said a voice in his ear. "Not Slytherin, eh? You've got courage, kindness, brains, and talent. Difficult—very difficult. But tell me… where do you want to go?"
Albert blinked. So I get a choice, do I?
"Anywhere but Slytherin," he whispered, just to be safe.
"Oh, I think you've already made up your mind then," the hat chuckled softly. "Better be—GRYFFINDOR!"
Cheers erupted from the far-left table. The sea of red and gold came alive as students clapped and whooped.
Albert sighed in relief and smiled faintly. Figures.
If he hadn't met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan on the train, maybe he would've ended up elsewhere. But the hat must've sensed his choice. After all, seven years at Hogwarts would be far less lonely with friends—and the twins seemed like the perfect partners in crime.
He got up and made his way to the Gryffindor table, shaking hands with several older students who wore shiny Prefect badges. He nodded politely at each greeting.
Meanwhile, back in line, the twins and Lee Jordan stared after him, mouths agape.
"Wait—he's not in Ravenclaw?" Fred whispered.
"Did the hat malfunction?" George added, incredulous.
Albert pretended not to notice.
The ceremony continued. When Cedric Diggory was called, Albert couldn't help but study him with curiosity. The boy was undeniably handsome—no wonder he'd been called a "pretty boy" in the stories Albert remembered. He wondered idly if this Cedric's fate would change now that a certain butterfly had flapped its wings.
Soon after, the Weasley twins were sorted into Gryffindor as well, to the delight of a red-haired Prefect who waved at them enthusiastically. Albert recognized him immediately—Charly Weasley.
At last, the parchment was rolled up, the stool vanished, and Professor McGonagall carried the Sorting Hat away.
"Wow! You actually got Gryffindor!" Lee Jordan exclaimed the moment Albert sat down. "We were sure you'd end up in Ravenclaw!"
"Is that so strange?" Albert replied calmly, reaching for a goblet of pumpkin juice. "By the way, I discovered a little secret about the Sorting Hat."
"What secret?" Lee asked eagerly.
Albert smiled faintly. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret, would it? Let's just say that's why I'm in Gryffindor."
The three of them groaned in unison.
"Ugh, he's talking like a Ravenclaw already!"
Albert only chuckled.
The Sorting finished, and Dumbledore rose to his feet. The hall fell silent.
"Welcome!" he said warmly, spreading his arms. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our feast, I have a few words to say. They are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
He sat down amid thunderous applause.
Albert blinked. "Well," he murmured, "that really was just a few words."
That was Dumbledore for you—straight to the point. He knew students cared far more about food than speeches.
"Do you know what those words mean?" Albert turned to a Prefect beside him.
The boy froze. "Er—no idea."
Albert hummed thoughtfully. "I guess no one does. Maybe I should ask him directly."
The Prefect's expression froze completely.
Ask Dumbledore directly?
At that moment, he silently agreed with the twins—this guy definitely belonged in Ravenclaw.
"Even an eagle couldn't be more inquisitive," someone muttered.
Albert ignored the strange looks and drifted into thought. In his previous life, he'd read theories about those four words. Some claimed they were Latin, meaning 'May Merlin bless you.' Others said they represented the Houses' attitudes:
Ravenclaws think everyone else is a nitwit.
Gryffindors believe others lack courage.
Slytherins see others as oddments.
And Hufflepuffs hope everyone learns to tweak their behavior.
Of course, nobody knew the truth. Maybe he'd have a chance to ask Dumbledore someday.
Suddenly—Boom!
A flash of lightning cracked across the enchanted ceiling. The weather charm above the Great Hall failed, startling everyone.
But Dumbledore merely raised his wand. In an instant, thunder faded, the rain vanished, and a clear, starry sky shone overhead once more.
"Alright, let the feast begin!" he announced cheerfully, tapping his goblet with a spoon.
In an instant, golden platters filled themselves with roasted meats, steaming vegetables, and fresh bread. The aroma swept through the Great Hall, and all thoughts of thunder—or Sorting—were forgotten.