Draco's pale eyes gleamed with curiosity as he leaned closer to Nicholas, keeping his voice just low enough that only their group could hear. "Is that boy the Harry Potter?" he asked, gesturing subtly toward the pair standing near Hermione. His finger pointed directly at Harry, whose scar was momentarily visible when a breeze lifted his unruly black hair. Draco’s expression betrayed a mix of intrigue and something colder as his gaze flickered disdainfully toward Ron Weasley standing beside Harry.
Nicholas nodded, maintaining a neutral tone. “Yes, he’s that Potter,” he replied.
A smile tugged at Draco's lips, his curiosity turning into something more calculating. “Why don’t we make him our friend?” Draco suggested, his voice taking on a persuasive lilt. “It wouldn't hurt to have him join us. Imagine it—Nicholas Gryff and Harry Potter together in one circle,” he added with a whisper, clearly picturing the prestige it could bring.
Pansy, standing beside them, let out a muffled laugh, while Blaise shook his head with a smirk. Even Hannah stifled a small smile, though she looked slightly more skeptical. Nicholas couldn’t help but chuckle at Draco’s suggestion, knowing full well his friend’s ambitions. Draco might have had a polished, aristocratic demeanor, but beneath that exterior, he was still just a boy eager to make connections, particularly ones that would elevate his status.
“Just say what you really mean, Draco,” Nicholas teased, leaning in a bit closer with a raised brow. “You want to befriend Harry. No need to dress it up with talk of circles and prestige.”
Draco’s cheeks flushed pink, and he took a quick step back, looking momentarily flustered. He shot Nicholas an indignant look, as though his secret had been uncovered before everyone. “I—well, it’s just practical, isn't it?” he stammered, struggling to maintain his composed front. But Nicholas simply gave him a nudge on the shoulder, urging him forward.
“Go on then,” Nicholas encouraged, a glint of mischief in his eye. “As you said—what harm could it do?”
Draco hesitated, glancing back at his friends. They all wore encouraging, if somewhat mischievous, smiles—though knowing them, Draco suspected they might just be enjoying his discomfort. Resolving himself, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath, turning to stride toward Harry with his usual swagger. Crabbe and Goyle followed closely behind, lumbering like two overgrown shadows, their presence adding weight to Draco's approach.
Draco stopped in front of Harry, Hermione, and Ron, casting a dismissive glance at Hermione and a disdainful sneer at Ron. But when he turned his attention to Harry, his expression shifted, attempting a friendliness that seemed slightly forced. He spoke loudly, ensuring that all the nearby first-years could hear. “It’s true then,” he announced, his voice carrying through the corridor, “what they’re saying on the train. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts.”
The murmurs began immediately among the other students, a ripple of excitement passing through the crowd. “Harry Potter?” some of them whispered, craning their necks to get a better look at the boy who had lived. Harry, caught off guard by the attention, glanced around uncertainly before turning his focus back to Draco, who had a self-satisfied smile on his face.
Draco's pale, sharp eyes glinted with a calculating look as he gestured toward the two boys flanking him. “This is Crabbe, and this is Goyle,” he announced, his tone carrying a hint of condescension. He inclined his head slightly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. “And I am Draco. Draco Malfoy.”
His introduction seemed intended to impress, but the effect was swiftly undercut when Ron let out a poorly concealed snicker, his expression showing open amusement at Draco's formal manner. The sound sliced through Draco's thin veneer of superiority, and he bristled, a flush of irritation creeping up his pale cheeks. He turned his sharp gaze toward Ron, his expression hardening.
“Think my name’s amusing, do you?” Draco’s voice held an icy edge now, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’ve no need to ask yours. Red hair, shabby hand-me-down robes... you must be a Weasley.” He delivered the words with a sneer, his lips curling as if he had tasted something sour.
The barb hit home, and Ron’s expression darkened as the mirth drained from his face. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and his ears burned red with anger, but he held his tongue, glaring daggers at Draco. The tension between the two boys thickened, casting an uneasy silence over the small group.
Draco, satisfied that he had made his point, turned his attention back to Harry. With a small, self-satisfied smile, he extended his hand toward him. “Potter,” he said, his voice smoothing over like silk as he offered what he clearly thought was a gesture of goodwill.
Harry hesitated, his green eyes studying Draco’s outstretched hand with a wary gaze. The offer of friendship, seemingly genuine on the surface, was undermined by the sneering disdain Draco had just shown toward Ron. There was something cold and calculating in Draco’s demeanor that put Harry on guard, a sense that this invitation came with strings attached.
Draco’s smile began to falter as Harry’s hand remained conspicuously at his side. His expression tightened, but he pressed on to regain control of the situation. “You’ll soon find, Potter, that some wizarding families are better than others,” Draco continued, his tone shifting to one of thinly veiled superiority. His gaze darted dismissively toward Ron, who looked as if he might lunge at Draco any moment, then shifted back to Harry. “You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”
There was a brief pause as Draco glanced over his shoulder toward Nicholas and their other companions, as if to emphasize the company he could offer Harry—a circle that, in Draco’s mind, was more worthy. The implication was clear: Harry had a choice to make, and Draco intended to make it easy for him.
But Harry’s face hardened, his expression growing resolute. He had spent his life among people who judged others by superficial qualities—his aunt and uncle had done it daily—and he recognized that same smug superiority in Draco’s voice. He straightened his shoulders, meeting Draco’s gaze without flinching. Beside him, Ron held his breath, and even Hermione watched with a wary look, sensing the weight of the moment.
“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” Harry replied, his voice cool and firm, each word dropping with deliberate clarity. He kept his chin lifted, refusing to be intimidated by Draco’s family name or his polished airs.
Draco's hand dropped back to his side, his pale face contorting into a scowl as Harry’s firm rejection hung in the air. The sting of being refused so publicly was unmistakable, and his gray eyes darkened with brewing anger. However, Draco quickly masked the hurt with a sneer, his expression hardening into one of disdain. “You’ll regret this, Potter,” he spat, his voice sharp and cutting. “You and your red-haired friend.” His gaze swept over Ron and Hermione dismissively, as if they were beneath his notice, before he turned on his heel. His robes swirled dramatically as he stalked away, Crabbe and Goyle trailing behind like silent shadows.
Harry watched Draco retreat, his jaw set in determination. There was something about the arrogance and entitlement in Draco’s words that reminded him too much of the Dursleys. He was not about to let himself be bullied, especially by someone like Malfoy. Beside him, Ron snorted in disgust.
“What a childish way of speaking,” Hermione said, her voice dripping with disdain. She folded her arms, shaking her head as she looked after Draco. “I wouldn’t want to be friends with him, even if he is from one of those so-called prestigious ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight’ families.”
Ron nodded in agreement, still fuming from Draco’s insult. “That’s just how the Malfoys are, always thinking they’re better than everyone else. And not just the Malfoys—the lot of them, all condescending and rude.” He shot a glance in the direction of Nicholas, who was now talking with Draco and their group. “It’s a mystery how Nicholas is part of their circle.”
His words hung in the air, prompting a shared look between Harry and Hermione. They all turned to observe Nicholas, who stood amidst their group, his golden hair catching the light from the nearby torches. Despite Draco’s earlier display of arrogance, Nicholas seemed at ease with his companions, laughing as he clapped Draco on the shoulder. The scene was almost surreal—where Draco had been sharp and sneering with Harry and Ron, here he appeared less irritable, merely showing annoyance as Nicholas spoke a few teasing words that had the entire group laughing.
“Blimey,” Ron muttered, perplexed. He rubbed the back of his head, clearly trying to reconcile the two versions of Draco—the haughty bully and the boy laughing among his friends.
Their attention was drawn back to Nicholas, who must have sensed their eyes on him. He glanced over, catching their gaze, and then flashed them a bright, disarming smile. With a cheeky wink in their direction, he turned back to his friends, making it seem as though everything was perfectly natural.
Ron blinked, clearly impressed despite himself. “He’s... he’s really cool,” he admitted reluctantly. “It’s just that... he’s friends with those guys.” His tone darkened as he referred to Draco and the others. He then glanced at Hermione, only to find her sporting a tight-lipped, annoyed smile as she watched Nicholas, clearly unimpressed by his charm.
“You should talk to—”
Before Ron could finish his sentence, a sharp tap landed on his head. He winced, looking up to see Professor McGonagall standing over him, her eyes flashing with stern disapproval.
“Mr. Weasley,” she said crisply, raising an eyebrow. “I trust you’ll save your conversations for after the Sorting Ceremony?” Her voice was low, but it carried a distinct air of authority that left no room for argument.
Ron flushed crimson, nodding hurriedly. “Yes, Professor.”
McGonagall's eyes swept over the group, landing on each of them in turn. “Now, I suggest you all compose yourselves. The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin, and I expect nothing less than proper decorum from Hogwarts students.”
With that decisive nod, Professor McGonagall turned, her robes sweeping gracefully behind her as she led the first-years toward the grand doors of the Great Hall. The massive wooden doors, adorned with intricate carvings of magical creatures and ancient runes, began to open slowly, groaning with the weight of centuries. The soft golden light from within spilled out into the corridor, casting a warm glow over the faces of the eager students.
As the crowd of first-years began to shuffle forward, Nicholas slipped away from Draco and his group, weaving his way back through the throng. His sharp gaze searched for Hermione, and he soon spotted her standing a little apart from Harry and Ron, her expression still a mix of curiosity and unease. He approached with a small, reassuring smile, gesturing toward the open doors. “Shall we?” he asked, his tone gentle but formal, offering his arm.
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by his sudden return, but she accepted the gesture with a slight smile of her own, her hand lightly resting on his arm. Together, they fell into step, moving with the rest of the students toward the Great Hall. The buzz of anticipation and whispers filled the air around them, but Nicholas and Hermione exchanged only a brief, knowing glance, sharing the moment as they walked into the ancient heart of Hogwarts.
As they crossed the threshold into the Great Hall, the breathtaking grandeur of the space revealed itself in all its glory. The hall was immense, with a ceiling that seemed to vanish into the heavens above, enchanted to mirror the night sky in perfect detail. Stars shimmered against a backdrop of deep velvet black, while a crescent moon cast a cool, silvery glow over the scene. Occasionally, a drifting cloud would obscure a constellation, casting fleeting shadows across the faces of the gathered students, making the entire scene feel both ethereal and intimate.
Hermione’s eyes widened as she took in the enchantment, her hand gripping Nicholas’s arm a little tighter in her excitement. “It’s not real, the ceiling. It’s enchanted to look like the night sky. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History,” she whispered, her voice tinged with awe, as if she were sharing a great secret.
Nicholas glanced down at her, a soft smile playing on his lips. His expression was one of quiet appreciation, tempered by the composure he had learned from his upbringing. “It’s far more impressive in person than in the book, isn’t it?” he murmured, his tone gentle but thoughtful. He then added, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice, “I believe Ms. Bathilda toned down her descriptions—she didn’t want to rob readers of the wonder of seeing it for themselves.”
Hermione's curiosity flared, her brown eyes sparkling as she turned her gaze up to him. “How did you know that? Have you met her in person?” she asked, a note of eagerness slipping into her voice.
Nicholas nodded, a touch of pride entering his expression. “Yes, actually. She was invited to keep an eye on me and my friends during a gathering last Christmas. She even signed my copy of Hogwarts: A History,” he replied, his tone casual but tinged with the importance of the memory.
Hermione's face lit up with excitement, though she kept her voice low, mindful of the hundreds of students around them. “May I see it sometime? I would love to look at her signature!” she asked, her enthusiasm barely contained.
Nicholas chuckled softly, his amusement clear. “Of course. We’ll have plenty of time once we’re settled,” he assured her, giving her a small nod as they continued walking side by side.
The Great Hall stretched out before them, and they took in its every detail. Rows of long, polished tables ran the length of the hall, gleaming under the soft, golden light of the hundreds of floating candles that hovered overhead. Each candle's flame flickered gently, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the ancient stone floor and the eager faces of the students. The tables were already occupied by older students, their robes marking the colors of their houses—scarlet and gold for Gryffindor, yellow and black for Hufflepuff, blue and bronze for Ravenclaw, and green and silver for Slytherin.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
At the far end of the hall, elevated on a stone dais, stood the staff table, where the professors were seated in a line, their expressions ranging from stern to curious. The warm glow of the candlelight illuminated their faces, casting long shadows behind them, making them appear like figures from an age-old tapestry. In the center, a tall, bearded man with twinkling blue eyes and a long silver beard watched the new students with a welcoming smile—clearly, Professor Dumbledore.
As they neared the front of the Great Hall, the murmur of conversations gradually subsided, replaced by the soft clinking of the enchanted candles overhead and the gentle rustling of robes as students settled into place. A sense of anticipation filled the air, thick with the mystery of what was to come. The first-years gathered along the front, their eyes wide as they glanced around, trying to take in every inch of the enchanted hall. Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her gaze sweeping over the nervous faces with a look of firm yet reassuring authority.
“Now, if you would all stand quietly here,” she instructed, her voice calm but commanding, “we shall begin shortly. However, before the Sorting Ceremony commences, Professor Dumbledore has a few announcements to make.”
The students shifted slightly, craning their necks as Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat at the center of the head table. The headmaster's presence was imposing, yet warm, like a beacon of wisdom and kindness. His long silver beard and half-moon spectacles caught the flickering candlelight, and his eyes, which sparkled with a blend of mischief and deep understanding, surveyed the new arrivals with a welcoming smile.
“Welcome, welcome to a new year at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore began, his voice carrying through the Great Hall with a soothing yet firm resonance. It was a voice that commanded attention without needing to demand it. “Before we begin the feast, I must draw your attention to a few start-of-term notices. First, a reminder to all—particularly to our new students—that the Dark Forest, lying beyond the grounds, is strictly forbidden to any who value their safety.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, ensuring that the importance of his words settled in.
As he continued, he gestured toward a shadowy figure lurking near the edge of the head table. “Additionally, Mr. Filch, our caretaker—” A ragged-looking man stepped forward, clutching a lantern, with a pinched, sour expression on his face. Beside him, a sleek, gray cat with sharp, red eyes prowled close, its gaze unblinking as it surveyed the room. “—has asked me to remind you that no magic is to be used in the corridors between classes. And, as a further warning, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is strictly out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to meet an untimely and rather excruciating end.”
A murmur of curiosity rippled through the gathered students. Some exchanged uneasy glances, while others, like Nicholas, raised an intrigued brow at this ominous restriction. Dumbledore’s tone, however, remained light, almost whimsical, as though the matter of potential danger were merely another quirk of the ancient castle.
With a small, satisfied smile, he finished, “That is all for now. May your time here be filled with discovery, learning, and, above all, a little bit of magic. Thank you.” He sat back down, his robes swishing gracefully behind him as he resumed his place, leaving the first-years with a swirl of questions and a growing sense of awe.
As the last murmurs of conversation died down, the tall professor stepped forward, her presence commanding the attention of every first-year standing before her. She reached into the folds of her robes and produced a curious object—an ancient, battered hat that looked as if it had seen centuries pass within these hallowed halls. It was patched and frayed, its surface lined with deep creases, and it seemed to carry with it the echoes of countless Sortings past. With a careful motion, she set it upon a small, polished wooden stool at the very front of the hall. The enchanted ceiling above, with its vast expanse of twinkling stars, cast a silvery glow over the scene, making the moment feel all the more magical and solemn.
Curiosity rippled through the line of first-years. Nicholas could hear snippets of hushed questions from those around him. “What is that for?” a voice whispered from somewhere behind him. “Is it going to judge us?” another asked, with a nervous tremor. But Nicholas remained silent, his eyes fixed on the hat as if entranced. There was something oddly captivating about it. The way its folds and wrinkles moved, they seemed to shape into a face—wise and ancient, almost as if it might start speaking directly to him. A strange sensation tingled at the back of his mind, as though the hat were calling to him, inviting him to ponder what secrets lay within its magical threads.
The professor clleared her throat, and the whispers ceased as abruptly as if a spell had been cast. Her voice rang out, clear and commanding, reaching every corner of the Great Hall. “When I call your name, you will come forth. I shall place the Sorting Hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your house.” Her tone left no room for uncertainty, and she held up a long scroll, unfurling it with a flick of her wrist. The room grew still, anticipation crackling in the air like static.
“Abbott, Hannah,” she announced.
A girl with blonde pigtails stepped forward, her cheeks flushed with nervous excitement. Nicholas recognized her from the train ride and offered her a small, encouraging smile. Hannah hesitated only for a moment before gathering her courage and walking across the vast expanse of the hall toward the stool. Her shoes tapped lightly on the stone floor, each step echoing in the cavernous space, until she finally reached the professor’s side.
The tall witch gestured for Hannah to sit, and she did so with a visible gulp, her hands clutching the sides of the stool. The professor placed the hat upon her head, and for a few moments, the hall fell into a silence so deep that one could hear the crackle of the enchanted candles above. The hat’s brim twitched as if it were whispering, although no one else could hear what was being said.
Then, suddenly, the hat’s voice rang out, louder than any of the students had expected: “GRYFFINDOR!”
The shout reverberated through the Great Hall, and a roar of applause erupted from the Gryffindor table. The students there cheered and clapped, their faces warm with smiles, welcoming their new housemate with open arms. Hannah beamed in relief, the tension melting from her face as the professor lifted the hat from her head. She glanced back at Nicholas as she made her way to the Gryffindor table, offering him a small, apologetic smile. It was as if she felt a twinge of regret for not being sorted into the desired house of their group. Nicholas returned her smile with a nod, acknowledging the unspoken sentiment. As she continued, her gaze flicked briefly toward Draco and his companions, a look of uncertainty crossing her features before she took her seat among her new housemates.
Meanwhile, beside Nicholas, Draco leaned closer, muttering under his breath. “Let’s hope it knows better than to put Nicholas anywhere but Slytherin,” he sneered, a note of irritation seeping into his voice. Nicholas glanced sideways at him, understanding Draco’s unspoken desires. He, too, hoped that he might remain close to his friends, but there was a gnawing worry about what his grandfather might think if the hat chose a different path for him.
One by one, names were called out, and each time, a new student stepped forward to face the Sorting Hat’s judgment. The professor’s voice rang through the hall, marking the rhythm of the ceremony as the hat deliberated over each new mind it encountered. Some of the students were sorted in mere seconds, while others seemed to make the hat pause and ponder, its brim furrowing as it considered its decision. Each announcement brought a new surge of cheers from the respective house tables, filling the hall with the warmth of welcoming voices.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the professor’s voice called out, “Granger, Hermione.”
Hermione’s eyes widened in alarm, and she clutched the edge of Nicholas’s robes with a nervous grip. “I’m not sure I’m ready,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Nicholas bent slightly toward her, offering a reassuring smile. “Deep breath, Hermione,” he said gently, his tone steady and calm. “Go on, I’m certain you’ll be placed exactly where you belong. You’ve read every book about this place—now you’ll get to write your own story here.” He gave her shoulder a gentle pat, a gesture of confidence that seemed to help her find her resolve.
Hermione’s face softened with gratitude, her courage visibly renewed by his words. “Thank you, Nicholas,” she murmured, taking a deep breath before stepping forward, her chin lifted with determination. She walked toward the stool, her steps growing surer with each stride, her eyes fixed on the Sorting Hat as though she were daring it to find her unworthy.
The hat barely settled onto her head before it called out, “GRYFFINDOR!”
The declaration was met with enthusiastic cheers from the Gryffindor table, even louder than before. Hermione’s face split into a wide grin, her cheeks flushed with pride. She hurried over to join her new housemates, her enthusiasm evident as she exchanged greetings with older Gryffindors and took a seat beside Hannah Abbott.
Nicholas watched Hermione hurry to the Gryffindor table, her face flushed with excitement and pride. He could see the sense of relief and triumph in her smile, and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of happiness for her. It was clear how much the Sorting had meant to her, the realization of a dream nurtured from countless hours of reading and preparing for this very moment. But as he took in the joy on her face, the reality of his own impending sorting settled upon him, heavy with anticipation.
“Gryffindor! Gryffindor!” he heard the shouts and whispers ripple through the hall from the Gryffindor table, eager for their house’s newest member. And then, breaking through the excited murmur, Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out, steady and clear: “Nicholas Gryff!”
The name seemed to hang in the air for a moment, reverberating through the Great Hall like a distant chime. A collective hush fell over the gathered students, the clamor of conversations dying down almost instantly. Curious whispers followed, darting between students seated at their long, polished tables, and Nicholas could feel dozens of pairs of eyes turning toward him. It was as if the entire room was holding its breath, waiting to see what the next descendant of Godric Gryffindor would bring to Hogwarts.
Nicholas’s pulse quickened as he took a deep breath, steadying himself. He could sense the weight of history and expectation pressing down on him, the legacy of his forebears stretching back through the centuries, intertwining with the very stones of this ancient castle. Yet he greeted the attention with a confident smile, letting it settle onto his features like a well-worn mask. His strides were deliberate and unhurried as he made his way toward the Sorting Hat, each step measured, his robes trailing gracefully behind him.
As he approached the front, he caught sight of the professors seated at the elevated table, each of them watching with expressions ranging from curiosity to keen interest. He even detected a subtle smile from Professor Dumbledore, who nodded ever so slightly in acknowledgment. The female professor who stood beside the Sorting Hat and stool met Nicholas’s approach with a rare, gentle smile, a warmth in her eyes that softened the lines of her stern features.
Nicholas came to a stop in front of her, offering a respectful nod. “I suppose it has been nearly a century since the last Gryff stepped foot in these halls,” she remarked, her tone softer than he had heard it before. Her eyes lingered on him with a kind of fondness, as if acknowledging the significance of this moment. “Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Gryff.”
Her words were spoken with a gravity that hinted at the history he carried, the legacy that tied him back to Godric Gryffindor himself. He felt the weight of her acknowledgment settle around him like a mantle. “Thank you, Professor,” he replied, his voice carrying a quiet confidence that matched his smile. “May I know your name?”
“Minerva. Minerva McGonagall,” she answered, inclining her head slightly. Her expression softened further, as if she allowed herself a moment of indulgence amidst her usual formality. “Now, don’t keep the little lions waiting. Gryffindor awaits its youngest heir once more.”
Her words seemed almost prophetic, as if his sorting was already a foregone conclusion. Yet Nicholas only smiled in return, a glimmer of humor in his eyes, before turning to sit upon the stool. He could feel the eyes of the hall upon him, a mixture of curiosity, expectation, and silent hope. Draco’s gaze was particularly intense, his expression an odd blend of encouragement and tension, while Pansy and Blaise exchanged quick glances. He knew they were hoping he would join them in Slytherin, but Nicholas himself wasn’t sure what to expect.
As he settled onto the stool, Professor McGonagall raised the Sorting Hat, and a hush descended upon the hall. When the ancient hat was placed upon his head, its wide brim dipping over his eyes and casting the world into shadow, Nicholas braced himself for what was to come.
And then, a voice, exuberant and filled with an unmistakable thrill, burst into his mind. "Ah, a most splendid day indeed!" The Sorting Hat’s voice rang directly into his thoughts, its tone brimming with joy and nostalgia. "A young Gryffindor returns to these halls at last! Tell me, how many generations has it been? I do believe the last was that young lad, Godfrey. Yes, yes, your grandfather—there is much of him in you, is there not?”
Nicholas couldn’t suppress a wry smile, though he winced inwardly at the volume of the hat’s enthusiasm. "You’re right, but could you perhaps tone it down? My head’s aching with all this shouting."
The hat gave a hearty chuckle, though its voice softened as it continued its musings. "Apologies, young Gryff. It’s just been far too long since I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to one of your lineage. Let us see what you bring to the table, eh? Ah, yes... Courage, and in abundance! A heart that beats with the very fire of your ancestor’s blood. The kind that stands firm even when shadows grow long and the world seems daunting. But there’s more... Oh yes, there is always more."
Nicholas felt a strange sensation as the hat seemed to delve deeper into his thoughts, as if sifting through the very fabric of his being. "You possess a keen mind—sharp, clever, quick to learn. You would thrive among the scholars of Ravenclaw, no doubt. And then, there is ambition—ambition enough to carve your own path, to shape your own destiny. Slytherin could provide you with the means to do so, to stand alongside those who seek greatness. And oh, how deeply you value loyalty, the steadfast devotion to those you hold dear—qualities Hufflepuff would admire greatly."
The Sorting Hat lingered for a moment, as if truly weighing each option, letting the silence stretch long enough that Nicholas began to wonder where he might truly end up. He thought of his friends that longed for Slytherin, Draco's hopeful expression, and Pansy's quiet encouragement, but also of the warmth of Hermione's smile as she joined Gryffindor.
"But no," the hat continued, its voice turning warm, almost affectionate, "beneath it all, there is a bravery that cannot be overlooked. The kind that would face any foe, challenge any peril, and do so with a steady heart. Yes, it is this courage that defines you, young Gryff. A true heir of the lion’s pride. There is only one place for you to be..."
The hat paused, as if savoring the moment, and then, with a thunderous proclamation that filled the Great Hall, it roared:
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The word echoed through the chamber, and for a heartbeat, the room was still. Then, the silence shattered into jubilant cheers and applause, as the Gryffindor table erupted with joy. Red and gold banners seemed to shimmer even more brightly in the flickering candlelight, and the faces of the Gryffindors beamed with pride and enthusiasm. The sound of hands clapping and voices cheering blended into a wave of warm welcome.
Nicholas felt the tension in his shoulders melt away, a smile spreading across his face as Professor McGonagall lifted the hat from his head. He rose from the stool with a sense of renewed purpose, casting a final glance back toward the head table where the professors watched. Dumbledore’s smile deepened, his eyes twinkling with a kind of knowing satisfaction, while Professor McGonagall’s expression held a rare look of approval.
As Nicholas made his way to the Gryffindor table, the cheers of his new housemates washed over him, and he couldn’t help but feel the beginnings of a bond with those who awaited him there, faces eager to welcome him into their ranks. He stole a quick glance at Draco and the others, seeing the flicker of disappointment in Draco’s eyes but also a hint of regretful understanding, as if he had known, deep down, that Nicholas would be placed here.
Reaching the Gryffindor table, Nicholas was met with warm handshakes and claps on the back from older students, their excitement palpable. He caught Hermione’s wide smile, her joy unrestrained as she greeted him from her seat. As he took his place amidst the welcoming chaos, he allowed himself a moment to look up at the enchanted ceiling, the stars twinkling down like distant, benevolent watchers. The night sky above seemed to hold a promise, as if the very magic of Hogwarts recognized the start of a new chapter, both for Nicholas and for the school itself.
In that moment, Nicholas felt a surge of pride well up within him. He had been sorted into Gryffindor—the house of his ancestor, and perhaps, the place where he could truly forge his own path. The applause gradually died down, the Sorting continuing as new names were called, but Nicholas knew that his journey at Hogwarts had only just begun.