The castle doors part with a resounding echo, revealing the cavernous expanse of the stone hall. Its lofty ceiling is shrouded in shadows, pierced only by the flickering glow of torches that cast a warm, undulating light upon the ancient walls.
Guided by the stern, commanding presence of Professor McGonagall, we first-years shuffle forward, our collective unease palpable in the air. Whispered conversations ripple through the crowd, a cacophony of hushed voices tinged with anticipation and a hint of fear.
The tension in the room is palpable, a tangible force that presses down upon us with the weight of a thousand years of tradition. This is the moment we have all been dreading and desiring in equal measure.
The Sorting. It is more than a mere ritual; it is the first decisive act that will shape our destinies at Hogwarts. Here, in this grand hall, friendships will be forged, alliances will be formed, and rivalries will be born—long before any of us has cast a single spell.
And then, amidst the solemnity of the occasion, a misstep occurs. A blunder, so public and so unexpected that it sends a ripple of surprise through the assembled crowd. The moment is fraught with a tension that speaks of consequences yet to unfold, a portent of the trials and tribulations that lie ahead in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.
We are led to the foot of a grand staircase, waiting just outside the entrance to the Great Hall. The murmurs among the first-years grow, whispers of awe and nerves, until— "What do you think they'll do first?" Theodore Nott mutters, his voice carrying in the hush.
"Some kind of test?" A Hufflepuff girl asks nervously. Draco Malfoy smirks. "If there was a test, half of you wouldn't even be here."
His voice is loud, arrogant, performative. He wants to command attention. And for a brief moment—he does. Until he takes a step too far back. And his foot catches the hem of his robe. Time seems to slow as he topples backward, arms flailing, his breath escaping in a sharp oof! as he lands hard on the stone floor.
The reaction is instant. Laughter erupts, some stifled, some barely held back. Even among the purebloods, I see smirks poorly concealed. I do not laugh. I only watch. Because this is a test. Not of Draco. Of everyone else. Draco's face is a mixture of shock and rage, his cheeks colouring a deep red. He scrambles to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his pristine robes, scowling at anyone who dares to meet his eye.
The moment has already passed, but the damage is done. Draco Malfoy has lost something tonight. Not status. Not wealth. Respect. And once lost—it is difficult to regain. Daphne Greengrass meets my gaze from across the group. Neither of us speak. Because we both already know. Draco will never live this down.
As we wait near the grand staircase, the whispers among the first-years grow louder.
"What do you think they'll do first?" Theodore Nott murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Some kind of test?" a Hufke the right sort of friends."
And then—he extends his hand. A moment of silence. Harriet stares at it, her expression one of confusion. She does not hesitate out of calculation; she hesitates because she does not understand the social implications of his offer.
A second passes. Then another. And then—she does not take it. She does not shake it. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, confusion flickering across her face, before turning away entirely—a silent dismissal of his attempt to assert dominance.
"I think I can figure that out on my own," she says simply, her tone devoid of any malice or pretence. And the world shifts.
Because Harriet Potter does not know what she has done. But we do. Every noble-born heir in this hall knows. Draco Malfoy's hand remains outstretched, and for the first time, he is left standing in silence, the object of hushed whispers and stifled laughter. His attempt at establishing superiority has been rebuffed, not with hostility or fear, but with the quiet confidence of a girl who has yet to realize the full extent of her influence.
In the wizarding world, when an heir of a noble house extends their hand in greeting, it is an unspoken pact of mutual recognition. To accept is to acknowledge their standing, to forge alliances, to honour the traditions of our lineage.
To refuse such an offering is to commit an act of defiance—a bold declaration that the would-be patron's prestige is in question. It is a subtle yet potent snub that resonates with the weight of generations.
Harriet Potter, however, remains blissfully unaware of these intricate social customs. Her actions are guided by an innate sense of what feels right to her, not by the unspoken rules that govern the elite. When Draco Malfoy extends his hand to her, offering a silent accord of respect and camaraderie,
She neither accepts it as a peer, nor does she reject it as an adversary. Instead, she simply fails to grasp the significance of his gesture.
Her emerald eyes meet his with confusion rather than intentional slight, and for a moment, Draco stands with his hand extended, a flicker of incredulity crossing his features as he realizes his attempt to establish dominance has been met with bewildering indifference.
The whispers ripple through the assembly of first-years like a breeze through autumn leaves, each murmur a testament to the misstep that has just occurred. Draco's face hardens, his cheeks suffusing with a telling blush as he retracts his outstretched hand, the affront lingering in the air between them.
Daphne Greengrass watches the spectacle with an air of mild amusement, her keen mind already cataloguing the potential alliances and rivalries that might stem from this public display. Theo Nott's eyes flicker with a spark of intrigue, a silent acknowledgment of the shift in power dynamics.
Blaise Zabini, meanwhile, offers a nonchalant shrug, as if the incident were of no consequence, though his sharp gaze misses nothing.
As for myself, I observe the unfolding drama with an unwavering calm. There is no need for me to intervene or to add fuel to the fire. My silence is a statement in itself—a declaration that I am biding my time, watching, learning, and waiting for the opportune moment to exert my influence. I see the potential in Harriet's unintentional slight, recognizing it as a catalyst that could alter the social landscape of Hogwarts in ways that favor my long-term strategies.
Draco's blunder and Harriet's obliviousness to the gravity of her actions have unintentionally set the stage for a shift in dynamics that I can exploit. The other students, particularly those from notable pureblood families, are keenly aware of the subtle power plays at work here. They see Draco's attempt at asserting dominance falter and Harriet's inadvertent rebuff of his advance, and they begin to question the balance of power that they had assumed was immutable.
In this moment of uncertainty, I stand as a silent observer, my mind churning with possibilities. The game of influence and control within Hogwarts has just become infinitely more interesting, and I am ready to take centre stage when the time is right.
The doors to the Great Hall swing open with a resounding creak, revealing the enchanting spectacle within. The long house tables are filled with students, their faces a blend of curiosity and apprehension as they wait for the Sorting to commence. The high table is a sea of black robes, punctuated by the colourful attire of the faculty members who will soon guide and shape the destinies of the new arrivals.
At the front of the room, positioned with an air of solemn gravitas, is the ancient and mysterious Sorting Hat. Its once vibrant fabric has faded with age, the brim is frayed, and yet, it exudes an aura of wisdom and ancient magic that commands respect from all present.
The Great Hall is immense, its enchanted ceiling mirroring the star-dotted sky outside. Floating candles hover above the long tables, where the four Houses sit in anticipation, whispering amongst themselves as we enter.
At the front of the Hall, the Sorting Hat sits upon its stool, a relic of wisdom and ancient magic that commands respect from all present. Its once vibrant fabric has faded with age, the brim is frayed, yet its aura is undiminished.
One by one, names are called. The first-years step forward, apprehension etched on their faces as they approach the Sorting Hat. The anticipation in the room is palpable, a tangible force that presses down upon us with the weight of a thousand years of tradition.
I watch, unmoving, as each student takes their turn. The Hat is placed upon their head, and moments later, their fate is announced to the entire Hall.
"Granger, Hermione!" Professor McGonagall calls out, her voice echoing in the silence. The Sorting Hat takes only a moment before declaring, "Gryffindor!" Hermione exhales, relief apparent on her face as she joins her new housemates.
Next comes Draco Malfoy. "Malfoy, Draco!" His name is greeted with a mixture of whispers and expectant silence. The Hat barely touches his head before it announces, "Slytherin!" Draco struts over to the Slytherin table, a smug smile playing on his lips as he takes his place among his kin.
"Nott, Theodore!" Theodore's name is met with less fanfare, but there is a certain level of interest as he sits down. The Sorting Hat deliberates for a moment longer than it did with Draco. Then, "Slytherin!" Theodore gives a small nod, almost imperceptible, before moving to join his house.
"Greengrass, Daphne!" Daphne's composure is unmatched as she steps forth, her gaze fixed straight ahead. The Sorting Hat assesses her, and without hesitation, proclaims, "Slytherin!" Daphne glides over to her house, her posture regal and composed.
"Selwyn, Damian."
The room falls silent as my name echoes off the stone walls of the Great Hall. With a measured stride, I step forward from the crowd of first-years.
I step forward with a calm, measured gait, the murmurs of the crowd fading into the background. As I take my place on the stool, the Great Hall falls into a hushed silence, all eyes trained on me. The Sorting Hat, ancient and wise, is gently placed upon my head.
Within moments, a voice, both old and youthful, resonates in the depths of my mind. "Ahhh… intriguing," it muses. "Here is a mind quite unlike the rest."
I sit motionless, allowing the Sorting Hat to delve into the intricacies of my thoughts. "Ambition and cunning, yes," it observes, "but tempered with a rare foresight. You do not simply desire power—you strategize to command it."
The voice seems to approve. "Slytherin would be eager to claim you, but your aspirations transcend the pursuit of pureblood supremacy. Your vision encompasses the entire wizarding world."
There is a brief pause, as if the Sorting Hat is considering the best place for someone like me. "Ravenclaw, perhaps? You hold knowledge in high esteem, using it as a tool to shape your destiny."
I remain silent, my thoughts my own. The Sorting Hat does not require a response; it has seen all it needs to. "Indeed, Ravenclaw is where you shall thrive. It is a house that values the pursuit of learning, and you, Damian Selwyn, will use that knowledge to its fullest extent."
The Sorting Hat's voice grows louder, echoing through the Great Hall. "RAVENCLAW!"
Applause erupts around me as I remove the Sorting Hat, revealing a small, knowing smile. I rise from the stool and make my way to the Ravenclaw table, my stride confident and purposeful.
As I pass by the Slytherin table, I do not glance in their direction. My decision has been made, and with it, the first move in a grand game has been played. The applause fades as I take my seat among my new housemates, ready to embark on the next phase of my intricate plan.
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