Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Hogwarts and Sorting

September 1st arrived with the crisp clarity of early autumn. Arthur stood on Platform 9¾, the scarlet Hogwarts Express gleaming in the morning light as students and parents bustled around him in a chaotic dance of trunks, pets, and emotional goodbyes.

“Remember our arrangement,” Aurora said, standing beside him with the professional composure that characterized all their interactions. “A letter every week detailing your progress and any concerns.”

Arthur nodded, his attention divided between their conversation and his careful observation of the platform’s occupants. He could already identify several pure-blood families from the way they acted. He knew he had to stay away from them as they would never be his friends with his identity as a muggle born.

The Hogwarts train journey proved pleasant enough. Arthur met many first years—mostly Muggle-borns and half-bloods—and found that he got along fine with most. No one prominent from the canon was in his year, so everyone was effectively new.

Arrival at Hogsmeade Station was a flurry of activity. Steam billowed, voices rose, and trunks were hauled from the train carriages. Arthur disembarked with quiet efficiency, joining the throng of first years shepherded toward a cluster of boats waiting at the edge of a dark lake, with the giant figure of Hagrid directing them.

The boat ride was… breathtaking, even for him. The first glimpse of Hogwarts—rising majestically from the cliffs, bathed in the ethereal glow of twilight—was undeniably impressive. Ancient and imposing, the castle radiated an aura of power and mystery that resonated even with his detached sensibilities.

The boats carried them through a curtain of ivy into an underground harbor where they disembarked onto a pebbled shore. Hagrid then led them up a stone passageway to emerge in the shadow of the castle, and soon after, up another flight of steps to a massive oak front door. After three tremendous knocks from Hagrid’s fist, the door swung open to reveal a tall, stern-looking witch in emerald-green robes—Professor McGonagall, whose familiar presence confirmed that parts of this world still aligned with the stories Arthur remembered.

McGonagall led them across the flagged stone floor of the entrance hall, past a doorway buzzing with excited voices, and into a small, empty chamber.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” she said, surveying the assembled first years with sharp eyes. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses.”

She explained the house system—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—and its importance in shaping Hogwarts life. Arthur listened attentively, though the information wasn’t entirely new to him. When McGonagall departed, promising to return when they were ready, whispered speculation about the sorting process erupted among the first years.

Arthur felt a curious mix of anticipation and wariness. He had read enough about the four houses to understand their stereotypical attributes, yet he wondered which would truly suit him best.

When McGonagall returned, she led them in single file into the Great Hall. Arthur had read descriptions of the room, but the reality surpassed his imagination. Thousands of candles floated above four long tables where older students watched the new arrivals. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the night sky outside, scattered with stars. At the top, the staff table stretched across the width of the hall, with Albus Dumbledore seated in the center—easily identifiable by his long silver beard and half-moon spectacles.

Arthur studied the Headmaster carefully, not sure what level of power and influence the old wizard held in this crossover universe. In the books he remembered, Dumbledore had been a complex figure—brilliant and benevolent, yet sometimes manipulative in pursuit of his greater goals. How similar would this version be?

McGonagall placed a four-legged stool before the first-years, upon which sat the Sorting Hat—patched, frayed, and ancient. A hush fell over the Hall as a tear near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat began to sing.

Its song described the four houses and their founders, the qualities each valued, and the hat’s role in placing students where they would best develop their potential. Arthur listened with academic interest, noting the subtle psychological framing that established house stereotypes while offering just enough flexibility to accommodate exceptions.

When the song ended, McGonagall began calling students forward one by one, each taking their turn on the stool with the ancient hat dropped over their eyes. “GRYFFINDOR!” “HUFFLEPUFF!” “RAVENCLAW!” The Great Hall erupted in applause for each new addition to their respective houses.

Finally, his name was called. “Hayes, Arthur!”

As his name echoed through the hall, Arthur stepped forward with measured confidence, his expression neutral as he took his place on the stool. The hat dropped over his eyes, plunging him momentarily into darkness as it listened to his thoughts.

“Well, well,” a small voice murmured in his ear. “What have we here? Not a typical first-year mind, certainly. I sense experience… knowledge beyond your years… but I can’t quite place why. Interesting…”

A moment of tension passed as Arthur worried that the hat might access memories of his previous existence. Yet the hat’s next words reassured him.

“Hmm, no matter. I see intelligence—a thirst for knowledge that would serve you well in Ravenclaw. I also sense courage, of a calculated sort; a willingness to face known risks for proportionate rewards. And then, ambition. Such determination to shape your own destiny, regardless of convention or expectation.”

Arthur remained silent, knowing that any attempt at deception would be futile with the hat so intimately connected to his thoughts.

“You’ve suffered loss,” the hat observed more softly. “And that loss has shaped you—hardened you in ways both visible and hidden. You seek power—not for its own sake, but as a means to security and autonomy. Those are very Slytherin traits.”

The mention of Slytherin prompted Arthur’s first direct communication with the hat. “A Muggle-born in Slytherin? I don’t think that happens often.”

“Rare, but not unheard of,” the hat replied. “Though such students face… challenges.”

“Then perhaps another house would be more practical,” Arthur suggested internally.

“Practical?” The hat seemed amused. “But that would not be true to who you are. The cunning and ambition I see in you—it would be a disservice to place you elsewhere. Besides, I sense deep down that you relish a challenge.”

“What I really prefer is peace and quiet,” Arthur countered in his thoughts.

“No,” the hat contradicted gently, “you prefer challenges—obstacles that force growth and development. And being sorted into the house of Salazar will provide that. The current occupants may not welcome you for your birth, but that will only push you to become stronger.”

“But it would isolate me from the entire school,” Arthur argued silently. “Slytherins won’t accept me for my blood status, while the other houses would reject me for my house.”

“Yes,” the hat acknowledged, “but isn’t that isolation what you secretly desire? The solitude to pursue your own path, free from social expectations? We both know where you truly belong, Mr. Hayes. There’s really only one place for a mind like yours…”

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat announced loudly to the hall.

The word reverberated, shattering the expectant silence. A stunned hush fell over the Great Hall, punctuated by scattered whispers and murmurs of disbelief. Slytherin? Hayes? A Muggle-born? In Slytherin?

McGonagall’s momentary hesitation before removing the hat spoke volumes—she, too, seemed taken aback by this unusual sorting. Arthur rose from the stool with deliberate calm, straightening his shoulders as he faced the four house tables, where hundreds of eyes stared back with shock, curiosity, and in some cases, outright hostility.

At the Slytherin table, the reaction was palpable. Cold stares turned his way as he walked with carefully composed steps toward his new house. Pureblood faces, aristocratic and disdainful, registered undisguised disgust. A Muggle-born. Tarnishing their noble house. An affront to their traditions and heritage.

Other houses reacted with a mixture of surprise, unease, and wary curiosity. Gryffindors exchanged concerned glances, Hufflepuffs looked bewildered, and Ravenclaws observed with detached intellectual interest. There were no cheers, no welcoming applause—only silence, stares, and a palpable sense of rejection.

Arthur slid onto the Slytherin bench with quiet grace, meeting the cold stares with an expression of carefully cultivated indifference. He was in Slytherin—a Muggle-born in a house steeped in blood purity and ancient tradition. The irony wasn’t lost on him, nor was the challenge it presented. As he sat straight-backed amid the isolation, a strange, steely resolve settled in his chest. If this was to be his path, so be it. He would face whatever came with the same determination that had carried him through the loss of his parents and the upheaval of his carefully constructed plans.

As the last student was sorted and the feast began, Arthur turned his attention to his plate, eating with deliberate precision, his face betraying nothing of his inner thoughts. Let them glare. Let them whisper. Their opinions were irrelevant to his greater purpose. He had faced worse than schoolyard prejudice.

He had been reborn into a world of magic and marvels—of gods and monsters. Hogwarts was merely the first step on a much longer journey, one that would eventually lead him beyond this insular magical society to the wider wonders and dangers of the Marvel universe. What were a few years of social isolation compared to the power and knowledge he intended to acquire?

The Sorting Hat had been right about one thing: Arthur Hayes did enjoy a challenge. And Slytherin House would certainly provide that.

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