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Harry was riding the Hogwarts Express for his first ever year at the school for Witchcraft and Wizardry, sat opposite his new friend — a boy with ginger hair, a smattering of freckles over his face, and some dirt on his nose. He’d introduced himself as Ron Weasley, the sixth brother in a family of seven. The dirt on his nose was something that Harry had seen Ron’s mum try and clean off earlier, before the train had even departed.
Their conversation had been interrupted by a girl — Hermione Granger — coming to ask if they’d seen a tearful boy’s toad — Neville, apparently — and then asking about what house both boys thought they’d be in. She was gone now, however, and Harry could focus solely on Ron again.
“What house are your brothers in?” asked Harry.
“Gryffindor,” said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. “Mum and Dad were in it, too. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I don’t suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin.”
At this, Harry became antsy. He was suddenly reminded of Ollivander, from Diagon Alley, with his wide, pale eyes and the strange eeriness with which he spoke to Harry.
“I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter...” was what Mr. Ollivander had said, was it not? “After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great.”
Ron shot Harry an inquisitive glance, curious. Harry rushed to explain himself, explaining about his experience in Ollivander’s; how Harry’s wand — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple — was the twin to Voldermort’s (he ignored Ron’s flinch at the use of the Dark Wizard’s name), and what Mr. Ollivander had said regarding both him and Voldermort doing ‘great things’...
..he ended his ramble with a breathless “And now I’m a bit worried I’ll be in Slytherin, to be honest.”
Ron blinked at him. Then, somewhat awkwardly, he offered Harry a smile.
“Ollivanders are always a bit of an oddball, according to my mum. Don’t take him to heart — besides, I’m sure you’ll get into whatever house you want, mate.” Ron said.
Yet Harry did not feel comforted by this and he suspected that Ron knew that, as the Weasley boy looked out of the window and said nothing for the rest of the ride.
Harry felt like lead had replaced his limbs as a voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.”
Harry’s stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he saw, looked pale under his freckles. They crammed the last of their sweets into their pockets and joined the crowd thonging the corridor.
Harry only felt a brief surge of relief to see Hagrid, with his thick beard and beady eyes, leading the first-years. Ron, he subconsciously noticed, was stood close to Harry. Closer than he possibly might have, had Harry not openly worried about what house he’d be sorted into.
“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, although his voice sounded distant to Harry. Ron’s hand was around Harry’s elbow, gently tugging him to a boat that they shared with Neville, the boy who kept losing his toad, and Hermione, the girl with bushy hair.
“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself, “Right then — forward!”
And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone else was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead, but Harry could only stare down at his shoes and feel sorry for himself.
Deep down, he knew that he would be going to Slytherin. What followed the boat road was a blur, most of which he spent being gently guided by Ron. Ron was a good friend — he hoped Ron would at least still be his friend when Harry was inevitably sorted into Slytherin.
A witch in emerald green robes — Professor McGonagall — led all the first years to a small chamber off the hall. Harry tried to listen to her, but only certain words managed to cut through his spiral.
“—Your house will be something like your family at Hogwarts—”
Family? great. Harry’s going to Slytherin and they’re all going to act like the Dursley’s. He’d hoped that coming to Hogwarts would get him away from that.
“—The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”
Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville’s cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron’s smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his hair.
“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.”
She left the chamber. Harry swallowed. Once again, his limbs felt like lead, and his new friend Ron sidled up to him, rubbing his shoulder with his own in a discreet fashion to ground him, although he looked a bit nervous himself. Harry managed a weak smile at him, which Ron was grateful for, as he nodded at Harry once — a respectful nod.
McGonagall returned shortly after, cutting his and Ron’s pleasant interaction short.
“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall told the first years, “And follow me.”
The events that followed were nothing short of shell-shocking.
Students had been called to sit on a stool, the Sorting Hat reading out that student’s house from what it garnered in their head.
Harry had been shifting nervously on his feet as the list got closer to his name. Ron had glanced at him, but as McGonagall began to read out names — Parkinson, Patil, Patil — and got very close to calling Harry’s, the redhead leaned over slightly, whispering to him.
“You’ll be alright, mate. Deep breaths.” he said.
At last—
“Potter, Harry!”
As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.
“Potter, did she say?”
“The Harry Potter?”
The last thing he saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the Hall full of people craning to get a good look at him.
...
There was a long deliberation. McGonagall, to the trained eye, looked antsy. Harry’s father and mother were both Gryffindor’s: why was this sorting so long?
The whispers got louder. Amidst the first years, Ron looked anxiously at the Gryffindor table — none of his brother’s were looking at him, but rather, Harry.
“Better be..” the Sorting Hat began, but Ron had seen the somewhat panicked flap of Harry’s hands — a quick flinch up, then back down his hands went to instead clutch the stool with an iron grip — and knew that the Hat wasn’t listening to Harry.
“SLYTHERIN!” the hat cried, and all fight had drained from Harry at once. McGonagall, silent and shocked to her core, lifted the hat from Harry’s head. Ron saw just how pasty and still Harry had become, numbly trudging to the green and silver table in the wake of the Hall’s silence.
It was at this, at the look of utter terror on Harry’s face, that made Ron’s mind up. If the Hat would hear him out, that is. Yes, it was how small his friend was making himself seen — not that it was hard, with a boy so scrawny that his clothes were just a little too baggy on his frame — and how Malfoy, who had been sorted into Slytherin earlier, was now looking at him. As if their fight on the train — more like a verbal spat than a fight — meant nothing. As if Harry would just abandon what he said the first time Malfoy offered his hand now that he’d been sorted into Slytherin.
“Weasley, Ron!”
He walked forward with confidence he hadn’t known he had and firmly sat himself on the stool.
“Not to worry, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall tried to comfort him, “You've nothing to be worried about.”
The Hat dropped over his eyes and Ron set to work to convince the Hat to place him in Slytherin.
...
Harry felt dread worm in his stomach like a slug. A dying slug that was squeezing out thousands more slugs every minute to swamp Harry in the disgusting wrongness that settled beneath his skin.
“You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head.” the Sorting Hat had said, and try as he might, Harry couldn’t get the Hat to sway it’s opinion.
And now, he was in the snake pit.
And now, Ron hated him. Harry was in green robes, staring at an empty plate, unable to look up and see what Ron’s expression was. He barely noticed Ron’s name be called.
What he did notice was that the Hat took a while again, and unrest rippled through the Hall.
“..A Weasley sorting never takes this long..!” Harry heard one of the older years whisper to her friend, who hummed in agreement.
Harry dared to hope, finally looking up at Ron. He was gripping the stool as Harry had been, and from what Harry could see of Ron’s face under the Sorting Hat, he was frowning (his lips were drawn down the same way Harry had seen Dudley when he wasn’t allowed cake before dinner). Why, though? he’d said it on the train — “Imagine if they put me in Slytherin.”
It was as if that thought had sparked reality, for the Hat suddenly cried—
“SLYTHERIN!”