Sorting

They were led into the Great Hall, and Damian couldn't help but admire the sheer magnificence of it. Four long tables stretched out before them, filled with students from the older years. Floating candles hovered above the tables, casting a warm glow over everything, and the ceiling—it was as if they were still outside. The night sky, with its scattering of stars, stretched above them.

"It's enchanted to look like the sky outside," he heard a familiar voice murmur. Damian glanced over to see Hermione Granger, the bushy-haired girl from the train, whispering about the ceiling. 'Some of her lines never get old,' he thought, smiling to himself.

At the front of the hall, sitting on a stool, was the Sorting Hat—worn and frayed, yet he knew it was not as it seemed. Damian's heart quickened slightly, but he kept his face composed. He had a plan, and he knew exactly where he wanted to go.

As Damian reached the front of the hall, he glanced at the staff table. Among the sea of teachers sat Professor Flitwick, his magical guardian. Their eyes met, and Damian gave him a polite smile. Flitwick nodded slightly, a small gesture of encouragement.

Professor McGonagall stood by the Sorting Hat, a long parchment in hand. The hall was quiet except for the soft rustle of robes and the occasional murmur. Then, the hat suddenly parted at the brim, revealing a mouth-like structure, and began to sing its Sorting Song.

A thousand years or more ago

When I was newly sewn,

There lived four wizards of renown,

Whose names are still well known:

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,

Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,

They hatched a daring plan

To educate young sorcerers

Thus Hogwarts School began.

Now each of these four founders

Formed their own house, for each

Did value different virtues

In the ones they had to teach.

By Gryffindor, the bravest were

Prized far beyond the rest;

For Ravenclaw, the cleverest

Would always be the best;

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were

Most worthy of admission;

And power-hungry Slytherin

Loved those of great ambition.

While still alive they did divide

Their favourites from the throng,

Yet how to pick the worthy ones

When they were dead and gone?

Twas Gryffindor who found the way,

He whipped me off his head

The founders put some brains in me

So I could choose instead!

Now slip me snug about your ears,

I've never yet been wrong,

I'll have a look inside your mind

And tell where you belong!

The students listened intently, and as the final note faded, a round of applause filled the hall.

"Now, when I call your name, please come forward, sit on the stool, and place the hat on your head," McGonagall instructed, her voice steady.

The first name she called was Hannah Abbott. She walked nervously to the stool, and after a brief moment under the hat, she was sorted into Hufflepuff. The table erupted in cheers, welcoming their new member.

But then, McGonagall paused, her lips trembling slightly. Damian noticed her face paling as she read the next name.

"Black, Damian."

Whispers immediately spread across the Great Hall, a ripple of curiosity and unease. The name carried a weight that many in this room could not ignore—memories of betrayal and dark history attached to the Black family. He could feel the eyes on him, judging. Even the teachers looked in different ways. Snape looked as if he swallowed a lemon, Dumbledore looked cautious, and the rest were interested and alert. But Damian kept his head held high and walked calmly to the stool, sitting down without hesitation. There was wary in McGonagall's eyes but something else. Sympathy? Maybe he was over thinking.

As soon as the hat was placed on his head, he thought, 'I want to talk. Let's talk. I want to talk. I want to talk. I want t-'

A voice echoed in his mind almost instantly. "Alright then, let's talk," the Sorting Hat said, its tone slightly amused.

Damian couldn't help but ask, "What exactly are you? Some kind of artefact made of soul magic?" The idea had been bouncing around in his mind ever since he learned about magical constructs.

The hat chuckled softly. "Calm down, boy. I am an alchemical creation, made by the Founders themselves. I am connected to this castle, and as long as Hogwarts stands, so do I."

That was... fascinating. And reassuring. But before he could dive deeper into that thought, the hat cut through with a comment.

"Your Occlumency skills need quite a bit of work, young Damian," it said lightly. "Your walls are thin, and your mind is far too open for one trying to conceal such... secrets."

Damian tensed for a moment. The hat knew more than he had thought possible. "Another one of the reincarnators," it mused, its tone thoughtful.

He blinked in surprise. "Another? You've met others like me?"

"Indeed," the hat replied, sounding almost bored. "The last was in the twelfth century. Quite an interesting mind, but that's a story for another time."

Damian filed that information away, his thoughts whirling. But before he could ask more, something else came to mind.

"What about Dumbledore?" he asked cautiously. "What kind of person is he?"

The hat paused, and then it answered, "He is a good man. But very manipulative. An old man with many plans."

"Good to know," Damian muttered, feeling both relieved and wary.

"Now," the hat continued, "where shall I place you? You have the qualities of Ravenclaw, with your thirst for knowledge, and the courage of Gryffindor, considering the risks you're willing to take."

Damian shook his head. "I need to be in Slytherin. I have a plan, and I need to see it through, no matter what happens."

The hat hummed for a moment, considering his words. "Very well," it said finally. "But do visit me later—in the Room of Requirement. We can talk more."

And then, the hat shouted aloud for the entire hall to hear:

"SLYTHERIN!"

The table to his right burst into applause and cheers as the Slytherins welcomed him into their fold. Damian stood, handing the hat back to McGonagall, and made his way toward the Slytherin table, his heart steady, but his mind racing, head held high.