The Son of Mischief and Moonlight

The boats drifted toward the shore, their wooden hulls slicing through the inky black water like ominous messengers of doom—or, as Catpool put it, "like Batman making a dramatic entrance, but with way more potential for seasickness." The lanterns flickered, casting eerie shadows on the massive Hogwarts castle, which loomed above them like a Gothic horror novel come to life.

"Alright, you lot, outta the boats! An' mind yer step—wouldn't want anyone takin' an unexpected swim," Hagrid bellowed, his giant frame shifting as he stepped onto the dock.

Harry and the others clambered onto solid ground, most managing it with some level of dignity—except for Neville, who promptly tripped over his own feet. Hermione caught him just in time, her face an expert mixture of concern and exasperation. "Honestly, Neville, it's just a dock."

"Th-thanks," Neville stammered, turning pink as he stuffed his wayward toad deeper into his pocket.

Meanwhile, Ron shook out his robes like he'd just stepped off a sinking ship. "Blimey, that was colder than my mum's glare when she finds out I forgot to send a letter home."

"Not bad," Jim (Riyu Jingu Bang) mused telepathically, his voice taking on a dramatic announcer tone in Harry's mind. "But you need to sell it more. More tragic backstory. More 'lone warrior against the elements' energy. Think Cast Away, but with magic."

"You want me to start talking to a floating pumpkin?" Ron muttered under his breath.

Catpool snickered, his feline tail flicking lazily as he stretched. "I mean, I could totally paint a face on your toad. Boom. Instant emotional support sidekick."

Ron scowled. "Pass."

As they trudged up the winding path toward the castle, the grandeur of Hogwarts became even more imposing. Turrets towered over them, windows glowing like the eyes of some ancient beast watching its prey approach. The first-years huddled together, half in awe, half wondering if they were about to be eaten.

Jim, naturally, took the opportunity to narrate. "And so, our brave heroes ventured forth, unaware that doom lurked behind every shadow—"

"Jim," Harry interrupted. "We're walking to a school."

Jim sighed. "You say 'school.' I say 'wacky boarding house filled with danger and a surprising lack of adult supervision.'"

Before anyone could debate that, they reached the enormous oak doors of the castle. Hagrid raised his enormous fist and gave three heavy knocks that echoed like a drumroll before a bad joke.

The doors creaked open, revealing Professor McGonagall in all her crisp-robed, steel-eyed glory. She took one look at the ragtag group of first-years, already exhausted and slightly traumatized from the journey, and sighed like she'd seen this play out a hundred times before.

"Thank you, Hagrid," she said, voice clipped and precise. "I will take them from here."

Hagrid gave Harry a brief wink before lumbering off.

McGonagall's gaze swept over the assembled students, her expression making it clear she had no time for nonsense. "Welcome to Hogwarts. In a moment, you will enter the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony. Follow me."

As she turned on her heel, Jim whispered in Harry's mind, "That woman could make a charging troll feel like it was running late for an appointment."

Harry, wisely, did not disagree.

And with that, the doors shut behind them with an echoing thud, sealing their fate for the next seven years.

—

The first-years stood huddled in the grand stone antechamber, waiting for Professor McGonagall to return. The torchlight flickered against the high walls, casting long shadows over the nervous, wide-eyed students. The room was silent except for the occasional shuffling of feet and the distant echo of plates clinking in the Great Hall beyond.

Well, almost silent.

Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, Susan Bones, Daphne Greengrass, Hannah Abbott, and Tracey Davis stood in a loose circle, exuding the kind of energy usually found in criminals, pranksters, and people who just realized they left the oven on.

A few feet away, Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle stood in a miserable, sodden huddle, still dripping from their totally accidental (but also completely on-purpose) fall into the Black Lake. Their robes clung to them like wet curtains, and their hair was plastered to their skulls. Every time Malfoy shifted, his boots made an undignified squelching noise. This fact alone made the entire night worthwhile.

"Alright," Harry said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "We all know the Sorting Ceremony is a test, but what kind of test?"

Jim's voice crackled to life in his head, a mixture of hyperactivity and sheer chaos. "Tell them it's a battle to the death! No—wait! A DANCE battle to the death! Like 'Step Up,' but medieval!"

Catpool snorted. "Nah, nah, go bigger. Tell them they have to wrestle an Acromantula while singing 'I Will Survive.'"

Harry smirked. "I heard the Sorting involves a giant three-headed snake."

Neville went paler than a ghost with a vitamin D deficiency. "W-wait, really?"

Hermione, catching on, nodded seriously. "Oh yes. The snake asks you three riddles. If you get them right, you get to pick your House. If you get them wrong, well…"

"…you become its dinner," Daphne finished smoothly, examining her nails like she hadn't just sentenced half the room to an imaginary doom.

Pansy let out a scandalized gasp. "That's ridiculous! My father never mentioned any giant snake!"

Draco, determined to reassert some semblance of dignity, straightened up. "That's because you lot are obviously making it up. My father told me all about the Sorting. There's a hat."

There was a beat of silence before Ron let out an exaggerated, horrified gasp. "A hat? That's even worse!"

Tracey shuddered dramatically. "Oh Merlin, not the hat."

Susan leaned in, eyes wide. "You've heard about the hat too?"

Hannah nodded solemnly. "My auntie told me it's no ordinary hat. It bites."

Draco faltered. "It does not bite."

Jim practically vibrated in Harry's skull. "YES, HARRY. RUN WITH THIS. GO FULL CHAOS."

Harry stroked his chin. "Well, I suppose it only bites if you don't put it on properly. You have to let it… swallow your head."

Crabbe made a strangled noise, and Goyle shifted uncomfortably.

Catpool cackled. "Yes! And tell them that if it doesn't like you, it eats your hair! Malfoy's about to faint, and I love it."

Harry's grin widened. "And if you're really unworthy, it devours your entire head. That's why we never hear about students who fail the Sorting."

Draco scoffed, though his voice wavered. "That's stupid. If that were true, someone would have seen it happen."

Ron shrugged. "You think they leave witnesses?"

Pansy clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes darting toward the doors like she was considering escape.

Hermione adjusted her robes with an air of tragic acceptance. "It's Hogwarts tradition. And honestly, if you don't make it through, they probably just send a letter home saying you got eaten by a rogue Basilisk or something. 'Tragic accident, truly. Now, about that tuition refund…'"

Daphne sighed. "I hear it's worst for people with expensive hair care routines. The hat has standards."

Draco's hands shot up to his platinum locks before he could stop himself. "That's a lie."

Tracey gasped. "Oh no. Draco. Your hair's wet."

Hannah let out a dramatic gasp. "That's exactly how the hat likes it! Moist and easy to digest!"

Draco let out an undignified yelp and scrambled backward, his boots making an even louder squelch.

Jim was howling. "MOIST. YOU SAID MOIST. PERFECT. I LOVE IT."

Catpool wiped away a fake tear. "This is better than any movie. I hope the Sorting Hat IS a horror movie villain. You ever seen 'The Thing'? That, but with haberdashery."

The first-years were snickering behind their hands when the large doors to the Great Hall creaked open once more. Professor McGonagall swept in, looking as regal and terrifying as ever.

Her eyes immediately settled on the nervous, slightly traumatized expressions of Draco and his cronies. She arched a single, knowing eyebrow at Harry and his friends, who quickly arranged their faces into identical masks of pure innocence.

"I trust you all have been waiting patiently," she said coolly.

Harry gave his best angelic smile. "Absolutely, Professor."

McGonagall clearly didn't believe him for a second. With a tired sigh, she turned on her heel. "Follow me."

As they walked toward the Great Hall, Jim's voice echoed in Harry's head. "This is gonna be the best school year ever."

Harry couldn't help but agree.

—

The Great Hall of Hogwarts was everything the first-years had imagined and more. The enchanted ceiling reflected the night sky, candlelight floated eerily in the air, and the long tables of students were filled with whispering, curious faces. At the head of the hall, the professors sat behind their own table, looking down like judges at a high-stakes talent show. Harry briefly considered if Professor McGonagall was their Simon Cowell—stern, intimidating, and probably hiding a devastating sense of humor.

Professor McGonagall, resplendent in her emerald robes, led them to the front where an aged wooden stool stood waiting. And on top of that stool sat the Sorting Hat—a battered, patched-up monstrosity that looked like it had survived a thousand years of questionable fashion choices.

Draco Malfoy, ever the drama queen, kept casting wary glances at the Hat like he expected it to launch itself at his face and devour him whole. Pansy Parkinson, always ready to outdo him in melodrama, seemed poised to bolt if it so much as twitched. Crabbe and Goyle, bless them, were making valiant attempts to look brave but mostly resembled two overgrown toddlers trying not to cry in public.

McGonagall turned to the first-years with the air of someone who had seen it all and was profoundly unimpressed. "When I call your name, you will step forward, place the Sorting Hat on your head, and be sorted into your House."

Silence fell. All eyes turned to the Hat.

It opened its jagged mouth, prepared to launch into its traditional, long-winded song.

Nothing.

Absolute silence.

The Sorting Hat did not sing.

Instead, a voice—deep, dramatic, and dripping with ominous foreboding—boomed through the Great Hall.

"Ah, fresh meat! Excellent! Welcome, first-years, to the Sorting! But beware—many have tried, and not all have survived."

Draco let out a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a strangled hiccup.

Older students glanced at each other in confusion. This was... new.

The voice continued, rising theatrically. "I am the Sorting Hat! Ancient and wise! Your fate is mine to decide! Yet some among you... will not make it out alive!"

Jim's telepathic laughter erupted in Harry's mind. Oh yes, my boy, this is a masterpiece! I should win an award for this performance!

Catpool cackled. Go bigger. Mention the devouring. Really lean into the 'Hogwarts Hunger Games' vibe.

Harry, struggling to keep his face neutral, watched as students started shifting uncomfortably. The professors were beginning to frown—except for Dumbledore, who was stroking his beard with the expression of a man trying to remember where he left his socks.

Jim, practically vibrating with glee, wasn't done. "Oh, you may wish to flee, but it is far too late! The Sorting Hat decides your fate! Will you be noble, or will you be snacks? Only the Hat knows if you'll ever come back!"

Pansy actually whimpered. Draco, looking as if he had just seen a ghost (or worse, a commoner), was gripping his robe so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

McGonagall's lips pressed together so hard they might've achieved diamond density. "What... exactly is the meaning of this?" Her voice was the kind of calm that promised impending doom.

Harry inhaled sharply. Showtime.

Jim, still projecting his voice through the Hat, cleared his throat. "Oh, but fear not! Perhaps you will be safe. If I do not sense fear within you, then perhaps I will spare your face!"

Susan Bones, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis were shaking from suppressed laughter. Ron was grinning like Christmas had come early, and Hermione—though exasperated—was visibly fighting the corners of her mouth.

Jim continued, now fully committed. "And now, let us see who among you has what it takes! Approach the stool, if you dare!"

Draco looked like he was seconds away from summoning his father's lawyers to sue Hogwarts for emotional damages.

Dumbledore, still stroking his beard, finally spoke. "Well, this is certainly a novel approach to the ceremony. But perhaps the Sorting Hat should continue in its usual manner."

The Sorting Hat twitched and, now free from Jim's enthusiastic possession, muttered, "Right. That was unexpected." Then, as if nothing had happened, it launched into its usual (and far less traumatizing) song about the Houses.

Draco Malfoy, however, did not look convinced that he was safe.

Harry grinned. Best. Sorting. Ever.

—

The Sorting Hat twitched.

Not a cute little wiggle. Not a dignified adjustment. A full-body, aneurysm-level spasm like it had just been slapped by a Dementor wearing fishnet stockings. It cleared its nonexistent throat.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty, But don't judge on what you see, I'll eat you whole and—"

It paused.

The Great Hall, which had been buzzing with laughter and whispered bets on when the Hat would completely lose it, went dead silent.

"Ahem," the Hat muttered. "I mean—sort you properly. Right. Let's start again."

Jim, a sentient magical staff that happened to sound a lot like Jim Carrey if Jim Carrey had unlimited coffee and zero impulse control, snorted telepathically into Harry's mind. "Did that hat just threaten to EAT children? Oh, this is gonna be a fun night."

Catpool, Harry's telepathic, fourth-wall-breaking, foul-mouthed pet panther, cackled. "Fun? FUN? Jimbo, this is comedy GOLD. I'm talking Oscar-worthy. I wanna see a hat-based slasher film now. 'The Sorting Hat Massacre: The Hat Hungers.'"

The Hat twitched again.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty, But don't judge on what you see, I'll eat—I mean, I'll sort you—oh bugger, that's still in my head. Right. A proper redo."

McGonagall rubbed the bridge of her nose. She looked like she had just remembered that yes, this was her job. This was her life. And this was why she needed a vacation.

Dumbledore, who had been cursed by Loki (formerly James Potter, aka Harry's dad) a few years back to slowly descend into insanity, leaned over to McGonagall with a bright-eyed smile. "The Hat seems to be having an identity crisis. Perhaps a hobby? Knitting?"

McGonagall exhaled through her nose like a bull about to charge.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty, But don't judge on what you see, I'll eat—I mean, sort—damn it! No, no, I've got this. One more go."

The Great Hall was holding its collective breath. Draco Malfoy was clutching his chair like a lifeline. Pansy Parkinson was staring at the Hat as if it might explode at any moment. Hermione Granger's hand was twitching like she wanted to raise it and correct reality itself.

Then:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty, But don't judge on what you see, I'll eat—I mean, I'll sort—SON OF A BANSHEE—"

Silence.

The Hat sighed the sigh of a man who just realized he left his phone on the bus.

"I hate everything."

Catpool let out a laugh so unhinged that Harry was genuinely worried for his own sanity. "This is the single greatest moment of my life. I want this engraved on my tombstone. 'Here Lies Catpool: He Lived for the Hat's Breakdown.'"

Jim, still howling, gasped, "I think we broke it. I am both proud and aroused."

Finally, the Hat groaned, like an old man forced out of his favorite chair, and muttered in the most defeated tone ever recorded:

"You know what? The Houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. You know what they stand for. Let's just get on with it."

There was a pause before the first-year students collectively burst into panicked whispers.

"That's it?"

"Does that mean we pick?"

"Is the Hat cursed?!"

Draco looked personally offended. "Is this some kind of joke? My father will hear about this!"

Harry, who had barely recovered from laughter, turned to Ron, Hermione, Neville, Susan Bones, and Hannah Abbott, who all looked varying degrees of traumatized. Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis were staring at the Hat with the kind of wary suspicion usually reserved for cursed objects in haunted tombs.

Harry smirked. "Well, that was dramatic."

Ron, pale, nodded. "I think I preferred the giant."

Hagrid, who had been standing near the teachers' table, grinned. "Awww, bless ya, Ron."

Susan Bones, blinking in shock, whispered, "Is this normal?"

Neville shook his head so fast he almost dislodged Trevor from his pocket. "No. No, it is not."

Hermione, clearly recalculating everything she knew about Hogwarts, pinched the bridge of her nose. "This school is going to kill me."

Jim telepathically screamed in excitement. "HOGWARTS, BABY! YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE GETTING A NORMAL SCHOOL EXPERIENCE? BUCKLE UP, NERDS!"

Catpool chimed in, "You know what? Let's just start flinging kids into Houses like dodgeballs. 'BOOM! YOU'RE A RAVENCLAW, NERD! BAM! SLYTHERIN, ENJOY THE CHAOS! KAPOW! GRYFFINDOR—GOOD LUCK LIVING PAST FIFTEEN!'"

Harry, wiping away tears from laughter, looked at the Hat. "You good, buddy?"

The Hat sighed. "I am so very tired."

Harry clapped him on the side. "Same, pal. Same."

—

As Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her lips pressed into a thin line that screamed, "I'm already regretting my life choices," she unfurled the scroll and called out, "Abbott, Hannah!"

The Great Hall fell into silence.

Hannah gulped theatrically and turned toward Harry, who nodded at her like a director giving final instructions before an Oscar-worthy performance.

Lean into it. Full-blown terror. Scream like a final girl in a horror flick. Trust me, it'll be amazing.

Jim chimed in, And for added flair, flail a bit. Maybe twitch. Really sell the whole 'devoured alive' thing.

Catpool, ever the professional, added, Bonus points if you shout 'My spleen!' before going limp. It'll traumatize at least three kids and make the Slytherins question their life choices. Win-win.

Hannah, being a good sport (and maybe slightly insane for trusting Harry), nodded. Then, with the confidence of someone about to make history, she took a deep, shaky breath and walked to the stool as if she were approaching the guillotine. Each step slower than the last. Her legs trembling. Eyes darting around the Hall as if searching for an escape route.

By the time she reached the stool, half the first years looked like they were considering just bolting for the door and living as feral children in the Forbidden Forest instead of going through this.

McGonagall sighed. "Miss Abbott, kindly—"

Hannah sat.

She reached for the Hat.

She placed it on her head.

And then—

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The scream that left her mouth was the stuff of nightmares. A pure, visceral, soul-rending shriek of terror that echoed through the Great Hall.

The Sorting Hat, barely perched on her head, twitched violently as Hannah thrashed on the stool, arms flailing, legs kicking. She shook, convulsed, and—just as rehearsed—let out a final, blood-curdling, "IT'S EATING ME! IT'S EATING ME!" before going completely still, head lolling forward in apparent death.

For a second, there was silence.

Then absolute pandemonium.

Several first years screamed. Pansy Parkinson shrieked and scrambled onto the bench, clutching Draco, who was too busy trying to climb onto the table to help her. Seamus Finnegan dove under the Gryffindor table like a man who had seen too much. Even some of the older students flinched, their faces somewhere between horror and "Oh, Merlin, what is happening?"

Neville, Ron, Hermione, Susan, Tracey, and Daphne, meanwhile, were playing their roles perfectly.

Ron gasped, clutching his chest. "Merlin's pants! Not Hannah! She was so young!"

Hermione buried her face in her hands. "I told her not to go first! I told her!"

Neville was hyperventilating. "It—It wasn't supposed to be like this! I thought this school was safe!"

Susan grabbed Daphne's arm, shaking her dramatically. "We're next! WE'RE NEXT!"

Daphne, ever the Slytherin, just muttered, "I regret everything."

—

As McGonagall sighed heavily—an exasperated noise that seemed to say, "I am too old for this nonsense"—she glanced at the scroll again and announced, "Bones, Susan."

Susan swallowed hard, turning to look at Harry, who was already smirking like an evil mastermind watching his latest scheme unfold.

Alright, kid, Jim's voice rang in her head. Time to step up. Remember, the goal is absolute chaos. Sell it. Make 'em believe.

Catpool added, And if you can manage to throw in a blood-curdling wail, I will personally award you with an imaginary Oscar and a signed picture of my left buttcheek.

Susan shuddered. "That is… not an incentive."

Catpool scoffed. Excuse you, this is a very exclusive offer! Limited edition. Mint condition.

Harry, ignoring their madness, gave Susan a reassuring nod. "Go big or go home, Bones."

Susan took a deep breath. Then, with the same energy as a horror movie protagonist walking into the murder basement, she trudged toward the Sorting Hat. Each step slower, more hesitant, her hands trembling at her sides.

By now, the Great Hall was on edge. The first years were exchanging nervous glances. The older students were whispering. Even some of the professors were shifting uncomfortably.

Susan reached the stool. She turned to McGonagall, eyes wide, lip trembling. "Professor," she whispered, just loud enough for the hall to hear. "I don't want to die."

McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "Miss Bones, for the love of Merlin—"

But it was too late. Susan sat, placed the hat on her head, and immediately let out a shriek so high-pitched that it was likely only dogs and banshees could hear it.

"OH SWEET HELGA IT'S SUCKING OUT MY SOUL!"

The hall exploded.

Several first years bolted from their seats. Pansy Parkinson clutched Draco, who was too busy trying to crawl under the Slytherin table to be of any help. Seamus Finnegan straight-up dove behind Dean Thomas like a human shield. Hagrid, bless his giant heart, was half-standing, looking like he was ready to charge the Sorting Hat and wrestle it off her head.

Dumbledore, however, was clapping. "Brilliant! Spectacular! The drama, the agony! It's like watching Shakespeare performed by a banshee on fire!"

Susan thrashed, kicking wildly, then went completely rigid. She twitched once. Then twice. And then—

Silence.

Hermione let out a sob. "I told her not to go second! I told her!"

Ron gasped, clutching his chest. "She never even got to finish her Chocolate Frog card collection!"

Neville was pale as a ghost. "Why—why does no one warn us about this part?"

Tracey turned to Daphne, wide-eyed. "Do you think we can just… not get Sorted?"

Daphne, looking utterly exhausted already, muttered, "I should've transferred to Beauxbatons."

McGonagall, who had clearly reached her limit, stormed forward and yanked the Sorting Hat off Susan's head.

Susan gasped, eyes snapping open. "I—I saw the abyss," she whispered. "There was only darkness… and whispers…"

"What did they say?" Ron asked, completely enraptured.

Susan took a shuddering breath. "They said… 'Hufflepuff.'"

The Sorting Hat, sounding thoroughly done with life, grumbled, "Hufflepuff."

McGonagall all but threw the hat back onto the stool. "OFF YOU GO."

Susan stumbled toward the Hufflepuff table, where Hannah immediately pulled her into a dramatic embrace. "I thought I lost you!"

"I thought I lost me too," Susan croaked.

Dumbledore was still clapping. "Absolutely delightful! 20 points to Hufflepuff for… interpretive horror?"

Flitwick, still gripping the edge of the table like he was questioning all of his life choices, sighed. "Sure. Why not?"

—

The Great Hall was abuzz with whispers as the next name was called.

"Crabbe, Vincent."

Vincent Crabbe, a boy built like a brick wall with the brainpower to match, sat frozen at the Slytherin table, staring at the Sorting Hat like it was about to leap off the stool and devour his face. His usual expression—one of mild confusion—had shifted into something akin to existential horror.

Draco Malfoy, who had finally managed to pry Pansy off his arm, gave Crabbe a not-so-gentle shove. "Go on, Crabbe."

"No," Crabbe muttered.

Draco blinked. "What?"

"I said NO." Crabbe crossed his massive arms over his chest, shaking his head so violently his jowls wobbled. "I don't wanna die."

The entire hall went silent.

Draco looked at him as if he'd just declared his undying love for a Blast-Ended Skrewt. "Excuse me?"

Crabbe, eyes darting around, pointed an accusatory finger at the Sorting Hat. "I SAW WHAT IT DID TO ABBOTT AND BONES!" His voice carried across the hall, bouncing off the enchanted ceiling. "YOU SAW! IT ATE THEM! IT ATE THEIR SOULS! I'M NOT GOING NEAR IT."

Up at the staff table, McGonagall exhaled through her nose in a way that suggested she was mere seconds away from handing in her resignation letter and moving to a remote cottage to spend her remaining years knitting sweaters for stray Kneazles.

Meanwhile, Harry and his friends were thriving.

Harry solemnly placed a hand on his chest. "Oh, noble Vincent Crabbe, doomed before his time."

Ron sniffled dramatically. "Aye, he goes bravely to his fate, knowing full well that the beast cannot be sated."

Hermione covered her mouth as if choking back a sob. "The third victim. When will the madness end?"

Neville shook his head, staring into the distance like a war veteran reminiscing on the horrors of battle. "So young… so tragically dim…"

Tracey Davis, never one to miss an opportunity for theatrics, let out an exaggerated wail. "OH, HOW CRUEL THIS WORLD MUST BE, TO CLAIM HIM SO SOON!"

Daphne, who had maintained some level of dignity thus far, sighed dramatically and clutched at her chest. "He marches to his doom! But let it be known, he was an honorable fool!"

Crabbe whimpered. "I changed my mind. Can I go home?"

McGonagall, now pinching the bridge of her nose so hard it was a miracle she hadn't Vanished it, muttered through clenched teeth, "No, Mr. Crabbe, you cannot go home. SIT."

Crabbe let out a low whimper but obeyed, moving with the speed and enthusiasm of a man walking the plank. He hesitated in front of the stool, turned back to his housemates, and gulped.

Harry gave him an encouraging nod. "Go bravely, soldier."

Crabbe, taking a deep breath as though preparing for execution, sat down as if lowering himself into an electric chair.

McGonagall unceremoniously plopped the Sorting Hat onto his head.

Silence.

Absolute, utter silence.

Nothing happened.

No screaming. No thrashing. No violent exorcist-level flailing.

Just… nothing.

Crabbe cracked one eye open. Then the other. "…Am I dead?"

The Sorting Hat let out a long-suffering sigh. "No, you absolute turnip. You're in SLYTHERIN."

Crabbe blinked. "Oh."

And then—

The Great Hall erupted.

Harry and company collapsed into hysterics. Ron was pounding the table, gasping for air. Hermione had buried her face in her arms, shoulders shaking. Neville was wheezing. Susan and Hannah were clinging to each other, openly cackling. Even Daphne—who had thus far maintained the illusion of composure—was grinning ear to ear.

Crabbe just sat there, mouth slightly open, brain slowly connecting the dots.

"…Wait." He turned to McGonagall, then to the still-laughing Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. "It was… A PRANK?"

Harry, wiping a tear from his eye, grinned. "Yup."

The realization sank in.

Crabbe's face slowly twisted in betrayal. "You mean… I wasn't going to be eaten?"

Ron, still gasping for air, shook his head. "Nope."

"…And I wasn't about to die?"

Hermione wiped her eyes. "Not even a little."

Crabbe narrowed his eyes, steam practically pouring from his ears. "So I was scared for nothing?"

Daphne patted his shoulder as she passed. "No, not nothing." She smirked. "You've provided excellent entertainment."

The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs cheered.

Crabbe, red-faced and spluttering, stomped toward the Slytherin table.

Draco, watching his large, lumbering friend seethe as he sat down, muttered, "I knew Hogwarts was going to be a nightmare."

Pansy just nodded solemnly. "We're all going to die."

Up at the staff table, Dumbledore clapped his hands together with manic glee. "Marvelous! Simply marvelous! Reminds me of the time I mistook a Nargle for a lemon drop! What a delightful little scamp it was! Had the Queen of Denmark on the run for weeks!"

McGonagall stared at him, visibly restraining herself from launching the Sorting Hat at his head. Hagrid, sitting beside her, merely sighed and patted her shoulder.

"Yeh knew what yeh signed up for, Professor. Yeh knew."

McGonagall groaned and turned back to the list. "…Davis, Tracey."

The Sorting continued.

But nothing could top that.

—

As McGonagall—who at this point looked like she was contemplating her life choices, the meaning of the universe, and whether early retirement was a viable option—called out, "Davis, Tracey," the Great Hall braced itself.

Tracey Davis, future professional menace and part-time chaos goblin, rose from her seat at the Slytherin table with all the grace of a doomed queen walking to the guillotine. She placed a trembling hand to her forehead, let out a tragic sigh, and staggered forward as if she had just been sentenced to life in Azkaban for crimes against dramatic subtlety.

"No... no! I cannot! I must not!" she wailed, clutching her robes like the tragic heroine of a Victorian ghost story.

The Great Hall, still recovering from the Crabbe fiasco, immediately perked up.

"Merlin's saggy left—what is she doing?" Ron muttered, eyes wide.

"Committing to the bit," Harry said approvingly. "Respect."

Meanwhile, Catpool, comfortably seated in Harry's mind like a squatter who had no plans to leave, cackled. This girl? This girl is my new best friend. Get her a contract. I want her in all my sequels.

Jim, ever the showman, telepathically added, Oh, the melodrama! The pathos! The sheer commitment to the art of bullshit! I am in the presence of greatness!

Tracey staggered forward, reaching the stool like she had just climbed a mountain to meet her fate. Then she turned, eyes full of sorrow, and whispered, "I have lived a good life… Tell my mother I fought bravely."

Daphne Greengrass, refusing to let Tracey outdo her, immediately clutched her chest and gasped, "Tracey, no! You promised me we'd grow old together, drinking overpriced tea and mocking lesser beings!"

Susan Bones, not to be left out, threw herself dramatically into Hannah Abbott's arms. "She goes where none have returned unchanged! The Sorting Hat claims another!"

Neville solemnly shook his head, looking far too into it. "She was too young. Too chaotic. We were not ready."

McGonagall inhaled so deeply it was a miracle she didn't implode. "MISS DAVIS, SIT."

Tracey gave one last soulful look at her peers, let out a final suffering sigh, and plopped down. The Sorting Hat was placed on her head.

Silence. And then—

"You are the single most exhausting student I've had to deal with, and it has been one minute," the Hat grumbled. "Slytherin."

Tracey gasped. "A curse upon my house! A weight upon my soul!"

Jim telepathically narrated, And lo, the Sorting Hat did decree her fate! A tragedy worthy of the ages! Write this down, someone! Get me a quill!

Catpool added, Hold up, she's got star potential. Tracey, baby, we'll do lunch. My people will call your people.

Harry, watching Tracey sob dramatically into her hands as she flounced to the Slytherin table, turned to Ron and Hermione. "That was majestic."

Ron, blinking, nodded. "I'm terrified and impressed."

Hermione, rubbing her temples, muttered, "This school is a mistake."

Dumbledore, who had been clapping at random intervals since the ceremony started, suddenly stood. "Exemplary! The giant squid shall write sonnets about this moment!" He then sat back down and began humming the theme song to a television show that did not exist in this reality.

McGonagall massaged her temples so hard it was a wonder her skull was still intact. She turned to the next name on the list.

"Finnegan, Seamus."

"Oh, boy," Catpool whispered. "I have a very good feeling about this one."

---

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