The mont they passed through the double doors, Albert imdiately understood why the Great Hall was the emotional heart of Hogwarts. It was vast, stretching beyond any reasonable architectural limits, filled with four impossibly long tables, already packed with students representing the four Houses.
The true spectacle, however, was above. Hundreds upon hundreds of candles floated effortlessly in the air, illuminating the scene without the need for cumberso chandeliers. The ceiling, magically enchanted, perfectly mirrored the stormy night outside—a dark, roiling expanse where thunder and lightning flashed silently.
Albert's gaze imdiately fixed on the floating candles. His mind raced back to the un-smoking torches: this was another instance of perfected magical engineering.
The sheer thought of hundreds of open flas overhead—and the potential for ssy, dripping wax—was enough to make his Muggle-born, sanitary-minded consciousness rebel. The fla must be purely magical, a self-sustaining cold light, he concluded. A perfect, non-polluting version of the Fairy Fire.
His architectural contemplation was cut short as the line halted. They had reached the front of the hall, where a single three-legged stool stood facing the student body. Upon it lay the legendary Sorting Hat—a truly repulsive object.
It was ancient, patched, and so unbelievably filthy that Albert felt a montary spike of professional revulsion. Its tattered brim gave it a perpetually disgruntled expression.
"I genuinely hope soone cleans this thing properly after the ceremony," Albert muttered under his breath, leaning toward Fred. "Imagine wearing that dusty, possibly fungal relic after a thousand years of never being washed."
The image of that unhygienic hat being placed upon his carefully chard, clean hair was truly unsettling. I had enough foresight to cast an Impervius Charm on my robes to avoid the rain, but now I have to wear a millennium's worth of gri.
Albert's ntal critique continued even as the Hat, after a brief silence, burst into its traditional introductory song, its voice echoing eerily across the hall. The students applauded respectfully, and Professor McGonagall unrolled a massive scroll of parchnt. The mont of destiny had arrived.
"When I call your na, you will step forward, sit on the stool, and put on the hat," she announced sternly.
"Abbott, Hannah!"
The process began. As expected, Albert was next. His surna starting with 'A' ensured he would be one of the first to face the music.
With the eyes of a thousand students fixed on him, Albert walked forward, mounted the stool, and felt the heavy, disgusting object descend onto his head. It imdiately slipped down, covering his eyes. The scent was a mixture of old leather, dust, and sothing indefinably swampy.
"No Slytherin, no Slytherin," Albert whispered, a genuine, if brief, mont of anxiety striking him. While his pragmatism allowed for Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, he absolutely rejected the house that housed the Malfoys and the pure-blood maniacs.
"Hmm… difficult. Very difficult indeed," a small, dry voice rasped directly in his ear. The Hat's consciousness felt like a dusty old ledger being thumbed through. "Courage, yes, a startling amount for a first-year. You're not ill-intentioned, no. But there is trendous talent… and a mind that craves knowledge far beyond re bravery. Great capacity for cunning and deep ambition hiding under that casual exterior…"
Albert ntally rolled his eyes. Here we go. Another personality test.
"You would do splendidly in any house except Slytherin, it seems. You possess the intellectual curiosity of the Ravenclaw, the work ethic of the Hufflepuff, and the reckless boldness of the Gryffindor," the Hat continued, sounding faintly amused. "Where do you wish to go, then? I sense you already have a preference…"
Albert knew he had to choose. Ravenclaw promised learning, but Gryffindor offered the best environnt for his dual goals: the Weasley twins were here—the perfect partners for nocturnal exploration (and inevitable trouble)—and the house culture was inherently more accepting. Friendship and midnight adventures over solitary study, he decided instantly.
"Ah, a choice made. Pragmatism guides your heart, not just your head…"
"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat roared, its voice echoing with the decision.
The table farthest to the left exploded in a volley of shouts, cheers, and stomping feet. Albert peeled the unspeakable Hat off his head and handed it back to Professor McGonagall. As he walked toward the Gryffindor table, he spotted the twins and Lee Jordan in the queue. Their mouths were gaping open, mirroring the collective shock of the entire Great Hall.
Ravenclaw? No. Gryffindor? The Sorting Hat must be broken.
Several older students at the Gryffindor table rose to greet him, their chests proudly displaying Prefect and Head Boy badges. Albert shook each hand with a polite smile, offering a brief, cheerful nod of acknowledgnt.
The ceremony resud. Albert only turned his attention back when Professor McGonagall called out "Diggory, Cedric." He looked at the handso, young boy—the future "Cream Boy" hero of the novel—wondering if his presence, the literal butterfly effect, would alter this boy's sad destiny. Cedric was, predictably, sorted into Hufflepuff.
The sorting continued until, inevitably, the Weasley twins were called. Both, of course, were imdiately sorted into Gryffindor. An older, impeccably neat, and deeply red-haired young man at the table—undoubtedly Percy Weasley—grinned smugly and waved them over.
With the twins' sorting, the ceremony concluded. Professor McGonagall rolled up her parchnt, vanished the stool, and carried the Hat away.
Lee Jordan and the twins rushed to the spot Albert had saved them.
"Albert!" Fred burst out, barely catching his breath. "We were absolutely certain! Everyone was certain you'd go to Ravenclaw!"
"You're a genius! You should be an Eagle, not a Lion!" George declared, staring at him as if Albert had sohow betrayed a fundantal law of physics.
"Is it really that surprising?" Albert asked, picking up a goblet. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Actually, I just figured out a big secret about the Sorting Hat."
"What secret?" Lee Jordan demanded, his intellectual curiosity instantly overriding his shock.
Albert paused, allowing the suspense to build slightly, his grin widening. "It's not a secret anymore," he whispered. "It's the reason I'm here at this table."
He swept his gaze across their expectant, slightly mud-splattered faces. "I explained it quite clearly, and yet, none of you have guessed. Perhaps I truly am worthy of Gryffindor, after all, given your powers of deduction."
Before they could press him, all attention was drawn to the Head Table. Albus Dumbledore, looking magnificent and eccentric in robes embroidered with stars and half-moons, rose to give his welco speech.
"Welco!" Dumbledore announced, a broad, twinkling smile lighting his face as he spread his arms wide. "Welco to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we indulge in this magnificent feast, I have but a few words to say. And those words are: 'Fool, Blubber, Oddnt, Tweak! Thank you all!"
He sat down imdiately, and the hall erupted in bewildered silence followed by confused laughter.
The sheer gap! Albert thought, deeply impressed. In contrast to the half-hour of pointless drivel he rembered from his previous life, Dumbledore understood that an audience—especially a hungry one—had the patience of a hungry gnat. Four words. Perfect.
"Do you know what those words an?" Albert imdiately turned to the Gryffindor Prefect next to him—the one who had shaken his hand earlier—a boy who seed to embody organizational neatness.
The Prefect's expression froze, the question clearly knocking him completely off balance. His mind, trained on rules and schedules, was ill-equipped for arcane riddles. He stamred, unable to provide an answer. In that mont, the Prefect silently concurred with the Weasley twins: this boy should absolutely have been a Ravenclaw. The thirst for knowledge was unnerving.
"Well, it seems no one knows," Albert muttered, sinking into thought. "So, I suppose I'll have to ask the Headmaster myself then?"
Several nearby students, including George and Fred, exchanged wide-eyed looks. No Ravenclaw student has such a terrifying lack of social filter! The whispers were confird: This was an Eagle hiding undercover among the Lions. Soone throw him to the next table, quickly!
Ignoring the horrified reactions, Albert delved into his own ntal reserves. These four words were a famous, unsolved mystery of the Harry Potter canon. He recalled the multiple fan theories from his past life:
The Latin Rumor: The words supposedly translated to so kind of ancient blessing, like "May rlin Bless You All."
The House Comntary: A more cynical theory suggested the words were a veiled comntary on the other houses:
Fool (Ravenclaw's view): Anyone not in Ravenclaw is a fool.
Blubber (Gryffindor's view): Others cry or whimper instead of fighting bravely.
Oddnt (Slytherin's view): Half-bloods and Muggle-borns are useless scraps.
Tweak (Hufflepuff's view): Students from other houses need minor adjustnts to their ways.
The truth remained elusive, but Albert was already calculating the logistics of a direct, respectful approach to the Headmaster—a task far more daunting than any charm he had practiced.
BOOM!
The thought was instantly obliterated by a cataclysmic sound. A blinding streak of lightning struck the very roof of the castle, and the ceiling enchantnt failed spectacularly. For one terrifying instant, the illusion of the starry night vanished, replaced by the reality of a massive, dark stone roof as the raging storm broke through the magical barrier. Fear spiked through the hall, and everyone instinctively looked up.
Dumbledore, however, was already on his feet. He casually raised his wand—a movent so subtle and quick that Albert almost missed it—and pointed it at the damaged ceiling. A wave of silvery, calming energy pulsed out from the tip.
The lightning and the thunder ceased instantly. The illusion of the starry night returned, the massive stone roof magically fading back into the clear, tranquil image of a cloudless, night sky. The magical atmosphere was repaired, sealed, and stable once more.
"Well," Dumbledore said cheerfully, as if he'd rely flicked a light switch. "The banquet begins!"
He raised his spoon and lightly tapped his cup. In a breathtaking instant, every single plate on every long table, which had been empty monts before, was magically heaped high with food: roast beef, mountains of potatoes, steaming pies, and puddings of every description.
The sight and sll were overwhelming. The entire hall imdiately forgot the lightning strike, the sorting, and the riddle, and descended into the glorious, chaotic noise of the feast.
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