Chapter 15: Sorting Ceremony

The Sorting Ceremony at Hogwarts was always a highly anticipated event. Every student watched closely, eager to see which talented newcomers would be joining their House.

But this year's ceremony was especially noteworthy.

The savior of the British wizarding world—long-awaited for a decade—was finally stepping into the magical realm. And alongside him, another student, shrouded in prophetic mystery, was also enrolling.

Beyond these two, numerous pure-blood heirs—potential future pillars of wizarding society—were also being sorted. For those invested in strengthening their factions, the Sorting was more than just a school tradition; it was an opportunity.

Draco Malfoy, for instance, had attempted to befriend Harry Potter on the train. Unfortunately, with Ron Weasley by Harry's side, the attempt had been futile.

As for the so-called "prophet"?

Draco had no such intentions. His father had warned him—caution was necessary. A seer could be dangerous. And as a young heir of a pure-blood family, Draco was well aware that some of their business dealings weren't exactly... spotless. If this prophet turned a blind eye, all would be well. But if he was the self-righteous type, trouble could follow.

After all, everyone was curious about others' secrets, but no one wanted their own exposed. Information asymmetry was a powerful and terrifying thing.

"Hufflepuff!"

The Sorting Hat's voice echoed through the hall as the first student, Hannah Abbott, walked toward her House table, greeted by warm applause.

As the ceremony continued, name after name was called, and students took their seats at their respective tables. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin—the Sorting Hat's verdicts followed one after another.

Roger Virgil, however, had to wait.

With his last name starting with "V," his turn would come near the end. The long wait made his mind wander.

One House for the brave. One House for the wise. One House for the loyal and kind. One House for the ambitious and cunning.

Had Hogwarts borrowed this structure from somewhere?

"Roger Virgil!"

Professor McGonagall's voice snapped him back to reality.

Roger straightened up and walked forward.

Whispers erupted the moment his name was called.

"Roger? Is he the legendary one…?" "He's the prophet?!"

At the Slytherin table, students murmured amongst themselves.

"Gryffindor already got Harry Potter. Shouldn't we get the prophet?"

Meanwhile, at another table, a young student whispered in horror:

"Merlin forbid, he must not come to our House. My uncle says he's a dark sorcerer who kills Muggles for fun!"

"Your uncle is lying," a Hufflepuff girl shot back.

Roger, however, paid no attention to the chatter. The moment the Sorting Hat was placed on his head, the outside world faded away.

And then, a voice spoke in his mind.

"So, you really don't want to be in Slytherin?"

Roger's thoughts repeated in an unyielding loop.

"Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin."

The Sorting Hat sighed. Special cases weren't uncommon. Many great wizards had been a little… odd as children. But Roger's mindset was particularly stubborn.

"Alright, alright," the Hat said. "No need to keep repeating it. But then, where should I put you? Hm."

It paused, trying to analyze him.

"Gryffindor? Are you often afraid?"

Roger's mind rejected the idea. Fear wasn't his defining trait.

"No? Well, recklessness isn't bravery either. But the ability to overcome fear—that is true courage."

The Sorting Hat considered.

"You hold yourself to a high standard. 'Though ten thousand stand in my way, I shall go forward'? That's quite the philosophy."

"Ravenclaw, then? You think you're not smart enough?"

Roger internally frowned. Intelligence wasn't just about getting things right—it was about learning from mistakes.

"Exactly," the Hat agreed. "You acknowledge your flaws and work to improve. That in itself is wisdom."

"Hufflepuff? Hm… no, your personality doesn't quite fit with that House."

The Hat deliberated, weighing Ravenclaw and Gryffindor against each other.

Then, finally, it spoke.

"Gryffindor!"

The decision was clear.

At his core, Roger's wisdom was rooted in courage—the courage to face the unknown, to grow stronger, to seek knowledge not just for its own sake, but as a means of power.

Yes. Gryffindor was where he belonged.

When he realized that Slytherin wasn't where he wanted to be, it was clear that Gryffindor was a far better fit for him.

The moment the Sorting Hat's decision was made, a deafening roar erupted from the Gryffindor table, as cheers and screams seemed to shake the very foundations of the Great Hall. Students waved their wizard hats enthusiastically, their voices ringing out in triumph.

It was nothing short of a victory for Gryffindor—Savior, prophet, a grand slam for the house at this year's Sorting Ceremony!

Roger glanced over at Gryffindor's table. Well, not everyone shared in the excitement. A few students looked away, their gazes downcast, unwilling to meet his. It was the same feeling one might get when encountering Professor X—sometimes, those with hidden secrets prefer to keep their distance.

The ceremony moved on swiftly after Roger's Sorting, with only a handful of students left to be sorted. Soon, it was time for the traditional school song and the opening feast. As usual, Headmaster Dumbledore delivered his well-known speech, reiterating the rules Roger had memorized: avoid the third-floor right-hand corridor, steer clear of the Forbidden Forest, and so on.

While the students eagerly dug into the magnificent spread before them, chatting and laughing, Roger's gaze wandered occasionally to the professors' table. But he wasn't looking at Professor McGonagall. His attention was fixed on the Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor, Professor Quirrell, and the Potions master, Severus Snape.

Roger knew Snape's reputation—sharp-tongued, dismissive of idle chatter, and unapproachable. Yet, in this moment, Snape was leaning toward Quirrell, whispering to him with unusual frequency.

Has Snape been watching Quirrell since the start of the semester?

Roger's mind raced. He knew that Voldemort was residing in the back of Professor Quirrell's head, but he couldn't quite tell if Snape was simply observing Quirrell or if something more was at play—perhaps a subtle test, or even something darker.

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