"Solim, R… Ryff, I can't find it! I can't find it anywhere." Neville's eyes were swollen, as if he'd been punched by a troll.
"Don't worry, you'll find your toad soon. Can you stop crying for a second?" Solim sighed, taking Hermione and Neville by the arms toward one of the boats. "Honestly, what's so special about that toad? If you want a pet, I'll get you an owl later."
When all the first-years had boarded, the little boats began to glide forward on their own, drifting silently toward the towering castle ahead. Hermione and Solim sat together at one end, Neville at the other—the poor boy's backside was rather large for such a small boat.
As the majestic silhouette of the castle loomed closer, even Solim couldn't help but whistle. Yes, it was that castle—Hogwarts—complete with its own iconic theme playing in his head.
"Ah, that's Hogwarts Castle! I read all about it! The ceiling of the Great Hall is enchanted to look like the sky—" Hermione began excitedly, her words tumbling over one another.
"All right, all right, Hermione. Spare me the lecture," Solim interrupted quickly. "By the way, are you really sure about going to Gryffindor? I think Ravenclaw suits you better."
"Huh? Why do you say that?" Hermione frowned, confused. "How do you know Ravenclaw is right for me?"
"Well, let me tell you something your books won't," Solim said, grinning. "Gryffindor stands for courage, Slytherin for ambition, Ravenclaw for wisdom, and Hufflepuff for loyalty. That's what A History of Hogwarts says, but it doesn't tell the whole story."
Hermione tilted her head, curious, as Solim continued.
"Gryffindor's full of mischievous brats. Their common room is chaos, and you can forget about studying there. Unless you have ironclad focus, it's impossible. Ravenclaw and Slytherin are much better if you actually want to think. Ravenclaw even has its own private library—smaller than the school's, sure, but every book there was chosen by Rowena Ravenclaw herself."
Solim smiled faintly. "Slytherin doesn't have a library, but there are loads of hidden rooms nearby—perfect for brewing potions or practicing spells without wandering half the castle at midnight."
He shrugged. "Hufflepuff's lounge is underground, too, next to the kitchens. The people there are… friendly. Very friendly."
Then he looked back at Hermione. "So, Hermione, after getting to know you a bit, do you really think you'll fit in with a bunch of reckless Gryffindors who equate foolishness with bravery? They sneak out at night, get into trouble, and lose house points. Could you stand that? Could you keep quiet while others ruin your grades?"
Hermione hesitated, and Solim added with a grin, "And don't get me started on Potions class. Professor Snape hates Gryffindors. He'll take every chance to humiliate them. If you end up there, you'll have a rough time."
Solim turned to Neville. "Speaking of Potions—Neville, did you study the materials I told you to?"
Neville froze. "Uh… I… forgot." He looked utterly mortified.
"I figured. Well, you'd better start. We've got two Potions classes Friday morning. If you get stuck, ask me for help," Solim said, then turned back to Hermione. "Actually, if you both end up in Gryffindor, I'm sure Hermione would be glad to help, right?"
"Huh? Oh—yes, of course!" Hermione stammered, clearly distracted by Solim's earlier comments. After a pause, she said, "By the way, I met someone on the train while helping Neville look for his toad. The boy who—well, the one they call the savior."
"Oh, you met the famous Harry Potter? And that freckled Weasley kid too?" Solim chuckled, noticing Hermione subconsciously touch her cheek as if checking for freckles. "Disappointed?"
"It's not that I'm disappointed," Hermione said quickly. "I just thought—"
A loud plop cut her off. Solim spun around—Neville had stood up too fast and capsized his boat.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake." Solim groaned, jumping into the water to drag the sputtering boy to shore. "Try being careful next time!" Soaked from head to toe, Solim waved his wand, drying both their robes instantly.
"Okay, first-years! This way!" a booming voice called from the shore.
"That's our cue," Solim said, nudging Neville forward. "Come on. Hermione, you go ahead."
Hermione glanced at Neville—now dry again—and marveled at the effortless spellwork. Magic really was incredible. Despite being Muggle-born, she was quick to recognize that Solim was unusually skilled for his age.
"Solim?" she asked timidly as they walked toward the castle. "Can I… come learn magic with you and Neville sometimes? I'm worried I won't keep up with the lessons."
Solim smiled knowingly. "I understand. You're not behind, Hermione. Most students don't know any magic before Hogwarts. But if you want to join us, you're welcome. I usually study every—"
"Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday," Hermione finished confidently.
Solim smirked. "See? You already remember better than Neville."
Under Hagrid's lead, the first-years followed the steep path up to the castle. Even Solim had to admit the view was awe-inspiring. All around, whispers filled the night—wizard-born kids bragging to each other, Muggle-borns staring up at the glowing windows with open mouths. A few tripped on their robes or stumbled on the stairs.
The chatter about Harry Potter died down as they reached the entrance. Soon, nerves took over; everyone knew the Sorting Ceremony was next.
"Were those… ghosts?" Hermione whispered as a group of transparent figures floated past.
"Spirits," Solim corrected softly. "They're the echoes of wizards—consciousness, not true souls. There's a difference. I'll explain later." He stopped speaking as Professor McGonagall appeared, scroll in hand.
"All right, quiet please!" she said crisply. "The Sorting Ceremony is about to begin. I am—"
"Trevor!" Neville suddenly cried, bolting forward.
Solim almost choked. Neville had just interrupted Professor McGonagall—right before the ceremony. The toad sat by her shoe, croaking miserably.
"I'm so sorry, Professor," Neville stammered, retrieving Trevor. Solim stepped up quickly.
"He lost it earlier, Professor. I told him he'd find it," Solim said, trying to defuse the situation.
McGonagall's lips twitched, then thinned. She gave Neville a glare that could curdle milk. "Everyone—follow me, in single file."
As she turned, clutching her scroll like she wished it were Neville's neck, Solim muttered, "You're in trouble now, Neville. She's Head of Gryffindor. Good luck."
Neville's face turned pale as parchment. Hermione gave him a push. "Come on, Neville! Don't freeze up now."
The great doors swung open, and the sight before them took every breath away. Floating candles illuminated the vast hall; stained-glass windows shimmered in the candlelight. Hundreds of older students filled the four long tables, whispering and craning to get a look at the newcomers. At the far end, teachers sat behind a raised table, watching them closely.
In the center stood a three-legged stool with a tattered, filthy wizard's hat resting on it.
Even the wizard-borns had never seen anything like it. The room buzzed with nervous excitement.
"Relax, Neville," Solim whispered. "The hat won't bite. If you really want Gryffindor, now's the time to show courage. You don't want to disappoint your gran, do you?"
Ahead of them, a freckled redhead was muttering to a bespectacled boy. "Fred and George said I have to wrestle a troll! They'd better be joking."
Hermione leaned closer to Solim. "That's Harry Potter—the boy with the scar. I saw them on the train."
The murmurs fell silent as Professor McGonagall stepped up beside the stool. The hat twitched, creased, and then split open at the brim like a mouth. It began to sing:
"You may think I'm not pretty,
But never judge by looks alone.
If you can find a hat more fair,
I'll eat myself—thread and bone!
Your bowlers may be shiny black,
Your top hats neat and trim,
But I'm the magic Sorting Hat—
The finest there's ever been!
There's nothing hidden in your mind
That I can't plainly see;
So try me on, and I will tell
Where you ought to be!
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart;
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart.
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and true;
Those patient Hufflepuffs are loyal,
And unafraid of toil, too.
Or maybe in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning
Will always find their kind.
Or perhaps in cunning Slytherin,
You'll make your real friends there—
Those who'll use any means to win,
Ambition beyond compare!
So put me on—don't be afraid,
Don't wriggle, fret, or frown;
For I'm a thinking cap, you see—
I'll never let you down!"
When it finished, the hall burst into thunderous applause. The hat bowed to each of the four tables before falling still once more.
"Ugly thing, isn't it?" Solim whispered to Hermione. "Look closely—it's covered in dust and mold. I'd bet my wand it's never been washed."
The first-years around them exchanged horrified glances, realizing he was right. The brim of the hat was speckled with faint green and white spots.
"And if the outside looks that bad," Solim went on cheerfully, "just imagine what the inside smells like."
"Shut up," Hermione hissed, smacking him in the ribs. "There's a feast later—don't ruin my appetite."
Solim chuckled softly as Professor McGonagall unrolled her parchment and began calling names.
The Sorting Ceremony had begun.