Chapter 273 : The Sorting Ceremony
The once darkened hall now glowed warmly under the soft light of hundreds of floating candles. Students from each House gathered by their respective long tables, awaiting the arrival of the first-years.
The returning students chattered happily beneath the flickering candlelight, exchanging stories about their summer holidays, calling out to friends from other Houses, and commenting on one another's new hairstyles and robes.
Phineas sat alone at his usual place at the Slytherin table. As always, the space around him remained conspicuously empty. No one knew exactly how many new students would be arriving or how many had graduated the previous year, but regardless, they all preferred to crowd together rather than sit beside Phineas.
Once, it had been fear that kept them away—fear of the boy who had launched a family feud over a petty dispute, and who had driven that family nearly to ruin. It had seemed safer to steer clear.
Now, Phineas suspected, it was the quiet warnings from home. Their parents would have surely sensed that something had shifted. Even if they hadn't realized at first that Phineas had been attacked by Voldemort over the summer, the Dark Mark on their arms would have reacted. It would have told them the truth. The Dark Lord had returned.
Scanning the crowd, Phineas noted that apart from the absence of a few graduates, little had changed. His gaze drifted to the staff table—and then paused.
There, seated in the center, was Dumbledore, dressed in a purple robe adorned with silver stars, his matching hat perched at a jaunty angle. He leaned sideways, speaking to a woman beside him.
The woman was whispering in Dumbledore's ear. Though Phineas couldn't hear her, he imagined her voice—high-pitched and sickly sweet—creeping into his mind like nails on glass.
She looked like a spinster aunt: short, plump, with tightly curled greying hair. Perched atop her head was a massive pink bow that matched the fluffy pink cardigan she wore over her robes.
(This description is borrowed directly from the original work, and the author takes no responsibility for comparisons involving spinsters. Save your complaints!)
As the woman took a sip from her goblet, Phineas caught a clear view of her face. Toad-like. Drooping eyelids. Bulging eyes. It left no doubt.
Dolores Umbridge.
Fudge's loyal lapdog at the Ministry of Magic—and one of the most despised figures in recent wizarding history.
Phineas frowned. This was wrong.
In the original timeline, Umbridge hadn't come to Hogwarts until Harry's fifth year. But this was only Harry's second. She was three years early.
Was this the butterfly effect? Had his presence changed things that drastically?
No. It wasn't just a butterfly flapping its wings—his arrival had shattered the original timeline entirely.
He realized, perhaps too late, that the events from the books could no longer be trusted as a roadmap. From the moment he'd arrived in this world, things had already begun to diverge. The characters around him had minds of their own. They weren't puppets of a story—they were living beings who would react, choose, and act of their own volition.
Voldemort's return had happened differently because one of the Horcruxes had been destroyed. Umbridge's early arrival likely stemmed from the Ministry's reaction to that event. Cause and effect. Nothing could go as planned anymore.
As Phineas mulled over these thoughts, Hagrid lumbered into the Great Hall and took his usual seat at the end of the staff table. That meant the first-years had crossed the Black Lake and were now waiting outside the doors.
Moments later, the doors opened.
Led by Professor McGonagall, the first-years filed into the hall, still wide-eyed and dripping from the misty journey across the lake. Professor McGonagall carried the three-legged stool and, atop it, the patched and grubby Sorting Hat.
The chatter in the hall died down as the Sorting Hat was placed in the center. The first-years stood nervously, facing the older students. Some were shaking—just like every batch before them—terrified of the unknown process to come.
Phineas smirked. Hogwarts had a long-standing tradition: never tell the new students the truth about the Sorting. Instead, spread terrifying rumors—fighting trolls, slaying dragons, dueling with spells. The usual.
The Sorting Hat's brim creaked open like a mouth, and it began its familiar song:
---
More than a thousand years ago,
When I was just newly sewn,
Four great wizards joined as one,
Their names in legend firmly known:
Bold Gryffindor from wild moors,
Fair Ravenclaw by riverside,
Kind Hufflepuff from broad green fields,
And sly Slytherin from the tide.
They dreamed a school to teach the young,
To mold and shape each wizard's fate,
They built this castle, grand and strong,
Where magic thrives within each gate.
But each had thoughts on who belonged—
What qualities they most adored:
For Gryffindor, the brave of heart,
And Ravenclaw, the sharpest mind,
While Hufflepuff sought loyal hands,
And Slytherin, the most inclined.
Their spirits merged inside of me,
When they could sort no more,
Now place me firmly on your head—
I'll see what House you're for!
---
Applause rang out as the Sorting Hat fell still. Professor McGonagall unrolled a parchment and, scanning the hall with her keen eyes, read aloud:
"Harper Avery."
A timid-looking boy shuffled forward and perched nervously on the stool. The hat barely touched his head before it shouted:
"Slytherin!"
The Slytherin table erupted in applause. The Averys, being one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families, were always well-received.
More names followed.
"Ginny Weasley" – Gryffindor!
"Luna Lovegood" – Ravenclaw!
"Colin Creevey" – Gryffindor!
"Astoria Greengrass" – Slytherin!
Phineas noted that, for the most part, things aligned with the timeline he remembered. Hermione's deviation last year remained the exception.
Once the final student had been sorted into Hufflepuff, Professor McGonagall took the hat and stool and exited. Dumbledore rose, tapping his goblet lightly. The hall quieted.
"Welcome, our new students," he began, his voice warm and clear. "And welcome back, our old students. There will be time for announcements later. But for now—eat well!"
Laughter and cheers filled the hall as golden platters materialized. Dumbledore sat down, brushing aside his beard to begin his meal.
Phineas frowned. This wasn't the plan.
They had agreed to announce Voldemort's return during the ceremony. It would defy the Ministry, yes—but Hogwarts was under Dumbledore's authority. Better to risk the Ministry's wrath than leave students unprepared.
Two things had gone wrong: Dumbledore hadn't kept to the plan—and Umbridge had arrived.
"Time to eat, Phineas!" came a soft, shy voice.
He turned. Astoria Greengrass sat beside him, her cheeks faintly pink. Rather than join her sister at the far end of the table, she had chosen to sit next to the most feared boy in school.
It was common knowledge that the Greengrass family supported House Black. Most families aligned that way avoided associating with those deemed 'dangerous' or 'tainted' by conflict. Yet here Astoria sat, undeterred.
Shaking off his thoughts, Phineas turned to the food—hearty cuts of roast beef, pies, bread, vegetables, and jams. The same as every year.
He sighed and began to cut his meat with practiced calm.
Astoria poured him a glass of apple juice, placing it by his hand. "What were you thinking about?" she asked gently.
"Nothing much," he replied after a bite. "Just wondering why the Ministry would send her here. Even among pure-bloods, she's not well-liked—especially by those of our station."
Astoria said nothing, but listened intently.
Phineas continued, "She claimed to be a Selwyn when she joined the Ministry. The older staff treated her well—until she started throwing that name around to bully the Orvis family."
"You know, the Orvis family was once one of the most dependable allies of the Selwyns. Naturally, they didn't take it lightly. Their patriarch confronted the Selwyns for clarification. That's when Umbridge's lie unraveled. She claimed she was of Selwyn blood, but that the connection was distant—too obscure for the family to recognize."
Finny snorted. "In truth, the Selwyns just couldn't be bothered to acknowledge someone so insignificant. But Umbridge turned their silence into a badge of legitimacy. The irony is, her father was a Muggle-born wizard who once mopped floors at the Ministry."
Astoria was at a loss for words. Provoking a family like Selwyn without understanding their power—she might as well have begged for ruin. Unlike the Blacks, who were already dwindling, the Selwyns remained robust. Even without counting their distant branches, each generation numbered over a dozen. When you included the side branches, their lineage spread through half of Greece. And yet, Umbridge had dared to drag their name into her schemes. It was madness.