Chapter 1: The Sorting Ceremony
"Susan Bones, Hufflepuff!"
"Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hufflepuff!"
In the Great Hall, beneath the enchanted ceiling that mirrored the night sky, the Sorting Hat perched on its stool. Its patched fabric twisted and writhed as it sang its annual song, the wide rip near its brim serving as a mouth. Occasionally, when a particularly bold first-year prodded its peak, it would cackle in response.
As each student was Sorted, applause rippled through the Hall—some enthusiastic, some merely polite. Even Gryffindor and Slytherin, despite their longstanding rivalry, maintained a veneer of civility for the welcoming feast.
The unsorted first-years watched with a mixture of nerves and anticipation as their classmates donned the Hat, then walked to their new tables accompanied by the Hat's running commentary.
Among them stood one boy who seemed utterly disconnected from his surroundings. Thin and pale, he stared at the floating candles overhead, the translucent ghosts drifting past, the House tables stretching into the distance. His dark eyes moved from detail to detail as though seeing the world for the first time. Finally, he whispered to himself:
"Who am I? Where am I?"
A pause. "Wasn't I in a hospital bed?"
Before he could puzzle out the strangeness of his situation, Professor McGonagall's stern voice cut through the chatter.
"Evan Hals!"
She stood beside the three-legged stool, consulting her parchment. When no one approached, her eyebrows rose slightly. She tried again, more firmly.
"Evan Hals!"
Still nothing. Even Dumbledore glanced over from the staff table, his half-moon spectacles glinting. Whispers began among the older students.
"Who's Evan?"
"D'you reckon he got lost on the way up from the boats?"
"This ought to be good…"
The remaining first-years, acutely aware of the attention, shuffled backward. This left the blonde-haired boy standing alone in the suddenly empty space, looking conspicuous and confused.
"Mr. Hals, please come forward," Professor McGonagall repeated, her tone patient despite this being her fourth attempt.
"Me?" Evan pointed at himself uncertainly. Something about this scene felt both alien and strangely familiar.
"Yes. Please proceed as the others have done—there are still students waiting to be Sorted." Despite her exasperation, McGonagall's voice remained kind. She assumed the boy was simply overwhelmed.
Before Evan could respond, someone gave him a gentle shove. Then another. The first-years, united in their desire to move things along, collectively pushed him toward the stool.
"Come along, dear." Professor McGonagall guided him by the shoulder, pressed him onto the stool, and lifted the Sorting Hat.
The moment it settled over his eyes, blocking out the candlelight, the Hat spoke in a voice only Evan could hear.
"Well now, don't look so frightened. You're not the first to be nervous, and you won't be the last. Just relax—this won't hurt a bit!"
Evan barely suppressed an eye-roll. From his time among the first-years, he'd gathered enough context to understand where he was. But how was this possible? Hogwarts was supposed to be fiction. Wasn't it?
The Hat's voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts. "Oh yes, quite real, I assure you. You're not dreaming—I'm one hundred percent certain of that!"
"Muggle-born, are you? Every few years I get students who think magic is all mirrors and wires. Some of them even try to find hidden rabbits inside me. I tell them there's nothing up here but thoughts, but they never believe me."
The Hat chuckled at its own joke, its rip widening in what might have been a grin.
Evan tried to keep his thoughts blank, knowing the Hat could read memories. But despite his efforts, images flickered through his mind unbidden—scattered fragments he couldn't quite piece together. A woman with long blonde hair, perhaps thirty, teaching him something. Her lips moved soundlessly. Then a rush of fear—
The Hat made a thoughtful noise. "How odd. A wizard-raised child who doesn't know Hogwarts? Most unusual…"
Sweat prickled at Evan's temples. These weren't his memories—they belonged to whoever had lived in this body before. But if the Hat kept digging, would it uncover something he couldn't explain?
From outside, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat pointedly.
"Right, right," the Hat muttered. "Let's see then… Cheerful disposition. Quick mind. Vivid imagination." A pause. "And you've dabbled in the Dark Arts, haven't you?"
Evan's thoughts stuttered. I have?
"Oh yes," the Hat said, almost conversationally. "Rather obscure magic, actually. Old. Makes people see things they'd rather not. Someone once used it for pranks, though I doubt Dumbledore would appreciate a repeat performance."
"So… Slytherin?" Evan wondered, trying to recall what he knew about the Houses. Gryffindor prized courage. Ravenclaw valued wit. Slytherin sought ambition and cunning. Hufflepuff welcomed everyone else with loyalty and dedication.
If he'd somehow learned Dark magic, surely that pointed toward Slytherin. Unless he'd be Sorted into Ravenclaw for cleverness?
"No, no, no," the Hat said, and was that amusement in its tone? "Nothing so simple. Slytherin typically prefers students with rather more… natural talent. So…"
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The final word rang out across the Hall.
Evan pulled the Hat off, blinking in surprise. "Gryffindor?"
"Oh yes," the Hat said cheerfully, just for him. "You belong there, I'm quite certain. And I'm never wrong—you have exactly the qualities they need!"