章 12: XII. Poetic Sorting

🙞 1 September 1991 | Hogwarts, Scotland 🙜

Hogwarts' castle stood regal in the navy blue night sky, its reflection gleaming in the Black Lake. Even more dazzling than its sight, however, was the sheer thrum of magic that it emanated. It vibrated in the air, warm to his skin, soothing to the marrow of his bones.

Harry almost sighed in relief. He felt, at last, at home. Aldrik's derelict cottage couldn't even begin to compare. There, the air felt tainted, while in Hogwarts, it was fresh like a brook of water in the woods.

"Do you think it is true?" Tracey asked in a whisper, fearfully eyeing the surrounding water, "That there's a Giant Squid in the Black Lake?"

"The Giant Squid helps students who fall on the water to get back on their boats," Hermione answered in another hushed tone, "I read about it in Hogwarts, A History."

She spoke as if trying to convince herself, and Harry had to hold in a chuckle. Both girls seemed a bit frightened by the thought of there being such an enormous creature lurking right underneath them.

It made him wonder if his sense of danger was skewed, as he felt nothing but excitement at the thought of diving into the water. At the very least, Daphne seemed to share his excitement. Though it was directed at the regal castle rather than the hiding secrets of the Black Lake.

Before long, they left their boats. Guiding them was a huge man, one so enormous, in fact, that he was fit to be a giant's son. Contrary to his figure, however, his gaze was gentle and warm, eyebrows set at ease.

"Come on, firs'-years." His accent was heavy as he called for them to follow.

Soon, they reached two enormous doors, a worthy entrance to the imponent castle. The man knocked on it with his gigantic fists, and it quickly opened, revealing a prim, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes.

Contrary to the enormous man, however, her gaze was anything but warm.

"The firs'-years, Professor McGonagall," he told the witch, and her stern eyes narrowed down at them. They scrutinised the crowd of young Wizards, noting down every detail.

But then, she suddenly hesitated. There was a lingering doubt in her features as if she wanted to ask something. The man, however, merely shook his head, his expression downcast.

"I see," She muttered under her breath, a flick of concern crossing her face before it disappeared, "Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

And with that, she whirled around, not needing to say a single word more for them to follow.

Inside, the castle was just as magnificent as it was outside, magic etched into its very walls. Everything was as elegant as it was sharp in contours - a fortification in nature but a schooling institution in purpose.

Harry would have spent hours observing the castle's opulency if it wasn't for the quickness with which the witch walked. It didn't even take long for them to reach their desired destination.

Before the crowd of students now stood impervious wooden doors, foreboding in their size. Beyond, Harry could hear hundreds of voices talking. Stone statues stood to the sides, carved along the walls.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said.

She didn't waste any second words, strict even in her speech. As concisely as possible, she explained to them the Four Houses they could become part of - Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.

It all had a tint of tradition and splendour in her speech. To Harry, however, the house pointing system seemed a bit useless.

Other than bragging rights, it had no more benefits. Regardless, Harry could still understand why it existed - to garner competition and motivate students to perform better.

As they formed a line, the doors suddenly opened, interrupting his thoughts. Instantly, hundreds of eyes focused on them, the muttering now silent.

He could hear a few hushed whispers of 'Harry Potter', people gossiping and creating rumours as usual. The invasive trickle of magic was also there, lurking in the corners of the room. Having grown accustomed to its sensation, however, he effortlessly noticed it.

The ceiling was bewitched, appearing as a moving painting of the duvet night sky. Candles wandered aloft, and an old hat was at the forefront of the Great Hall, sitting on top of a wooden stool.

And, apparently, the hat was magical, and it could talk. It soon started to sing a horrid song, and Harry felt grateful for the Occlumency training he previously had. He quickly tuned out his surroundings, dulling his suffering to its minimum.

It didn't last long, thankfully, and soon McGonagall started calling names to be sorted into the Houses. A prickling worry gnawed at him, as he didn't know whether his Occlumency could hold against such an ancient relic.

He did not even notice as Tracey and Daphne were sorted into Slytherin and Hermione in Gryffindor. The only reprieve he had for his worry was when it called for Harry Potter. Immediately, the hall was beset by silence, all waiting in anticipation.

No one stepped forwards, however, and the whispers turned louder, visible confusion permeating the crowd of students. At the professor's table, the reaction was even more pronounced.

On the far left, a man with a turban on his head looked constipated, as if suddenly sick. To his right, another man looked just as sickly. Though his features resembled a hissing bat, his hooked nose flat, and dark eyes widened in surprise.

The same man he'd seen in Diagon Alley sat at the centre of the table. His expression was unknown to Harry, the man staring down as if the weight of the world pressed on his old shoulders. But Harry did not need to see the man's face. He already knew what it was.

A thrum of magic came from the Headmaster, lashing like tidal waves in anger. It felt like old magic, one that spoke of hundreds of years of life, made stronger by time and experience.

'That must be Albus Dumbledore,' he thought, 'The man to defeat Grindelwald Gellert.'

Harry couldn't help but respect the man, though not for his achievements or fame in the Wizarding World. There was only one thing which was beyond just that, and it was magic. For Harry, magic was like a force of nature.

And, just as men respected typhoons and vulcanos in ancient times, so should Wizards respect magic. Harry abided by that law almost to a religious sanctity - and not without reason. Throughout his whole life, it was magic that gave him opportunities and the power to be able to choose.

Without it, he would still live with the Dursleys, a shell of his former self. Without it, he would have to suffer the consequences of being the Boy-Who-Lived. Without it, he was helpless.

It made him wonder why the other people in the Great Hall weren't alarmed by Albus Dumbledore. If Harry were anywhere near the man at the moment, like the rest of the faculty staff, he wouldn't be worrying about a lost boy like them.

He would be more worried about the ticking time bomb in his vicinity. 'Can't they notice it?' He couldn't help but wonder.

"Silence!" At last, they noticed the Headmaster as he rose to his full height. The hall went silent, all paralysed save for the candles bewitched on the ceiling. And, just like that, they resumed the sorting.

Thankfully, by then, Harry had become distracted by the many waves of magic that danced in the room. Briefly, he forgot about the sorting, and so did his worries about the powerful relic fizzle away. It was but a short reprieve, and soon, his fears came back, blaring at full force.

"Schwarz, Konrad." Professor McGonagall said.

Ignoring the tremble in his limbs, he walked to the front of the hall, sitting on the wooden stool seconds later.

"Curious," the hat said as it descended on Harry's head, "Yes! Very curious indeed!"

Then it laughed. It laughed, unrestrained and loudly as if it had never seen anything like it. Harry's fake memories came undone like tinfoil under the watchful eyes of the magical hat, and panic set in.

'I must award congratulations where they are due. Ingenious of you to trick the Quill of Acceptance like that.' It snickered, 'Do not fret, Harry Potter. I won't expose your secrets. My creator made me incapable of doing so.'

That was like a bath of fresh water to him, washing away all of his worries.

'Your creator? Were you made by just one of the founders?' He couldn't help but wonder.

'Yes, and you remind me of her a lot,' The hat told him, nostalgia tinging its tone.

'Her? Rowena?'

Then, the hat snickered again, 'Why don't I show you? Like you do with your raven?'

He didn't get to answer.

Dozens of images and sounds bombarded him, memories as old as centuries. The witch was named Rowena, her features fair and aristocratic. Her black hair was as dark as the night sky, her eyes perfect sapphires.

The hat's memories were even more sophisticated than his, however. He could also feel Rowena's magic. Though its memory was diluted by the annals of time, Harry still felt his throat clog at its sensation.

Like tar, it permeated the very air, making it difficult to breathe. It swirled in ornamental waves around Rowena - elegant yet deadly.

It was beautiful.

'I'm glad we can agree on that,' the hat commented, 'Now, I know just where to put you. All the Houses suit you, but this one is perfect. I would even say it is poetic.'

A tense second of silence set in, and Harry held his breath in anticipation.

"RAVENCLAW!"