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10.

Chapter Ten:

“I can explain,” is the first thing that Harry says once the sorting hat is placed over his head. 

For a few seconds, the hat stays silent. And then it laughs, wheezy and incredulous. “Harry Potter,” it breathes out, “the boy-who-lived. Oh, the irony.” 

Harry rolls his green eyes. “Very funny,” he mutters. 

The sorting hat gives a long, low and thoughtful hum. “Though the boy-who-dimensionally-time-travelled is more fitting. On the other hand, it’s quite a mouthful. Perhaps the boy-who-keeps-on-living? The boy-who-can’t-die? The boy-who-leaped-through-time? The boy who—”

“Wait, wait. The boy-who-what? Dimensionally time travelled?” Harry cuts in, tone bewildered. “Is, is that even a thing?” 

“My, my… what house to put you in?” The hat muses, completely ignoring Harry’s question and averting the conversation in a different direction all together. “You’re brave, you’re loyal, cleverness is definitely hiding somewhere in there—”

“Rude! And don’t just ignore my question!” Harry chimes in. 

“—And you still have a thirst to prove yourself. Well, you definitely can’t escape your true house this time, Mr. Potter.” Pausing, the old hat then announces, “SLYTHERIN!” 

Harry takes the hat off himself and passes it to a surprised Mcgonagall. She takes the hat with shaky fingers and wide eyes, mumbling a barely there, “thank you,” that pierces the booming silence in the great hall. At once, there is awkward but polite clapping from Dumbledore that everyone then reciprocates. There’s even a chorused shout from the Gryffindor table, “We didn’t get Potter! We didn’t get Potter!’’

It makes Harry smile as he makes his way down to the table of green and silver and takes a seat beside Draco.

There are a few others who get sorted after Harry and once that’s done, Dumbledore gives his usual odd speech with a warning. “And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

“Wonderful,” Harry grumbles under his breath, remembering the fiasco that the philosopher’s stone had brought him the first time. Beside him, Draco snorts.
 

Dumbledore waves a hand and the tables start piling up with dishes of all sizes. There are main courses and side dishes, chicken and gravy, Yorkshire puddings and sausages, cottage pie and many, many others. Harry spies treacle tart and places two pieces of the fine dessert onto his plate. It might not be the healthy choice, but, well, Harry doesn’t exactly care. 

“Harry Potter in Slytherin,” a girl voices somewhere from Draco’s side. Her black hair is short, touching just the edges of her jawline. Harry thinks her name might be Pansy Parkinson. “What a turn of events.” 

“Not really,” Harry says. He stabs his fork into his cake and then brings it towards his mouth. The treacle tastes like heaven. It’s rich and creamy and makes his taste buds tingle. Harry has a weakness for them. He internally vows that treacle tart is the best dessert he’s ever had. For a few moments, the flavour takes away his worries.