Anxiety Before the Sorting Ceremony

Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the room, her gaze slowly sweeping over each young, uneasy face.

Her eyes paused for a moment on Uchiha Madara, who was leaning in the shadows by the door. Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Seeing no reaction from him, she moved her gaze away and turned it back to the majority of the first-years.

"Welcome to Hogwarts." Her voice echoed faintly through the stone-walled room. Compared to her sternness at the door, her tone was somewhat gentler now.

"The start-of-term feast will begin shortly. But before that, you must first face something of utmost importance—being assigned to the House best suited to you." Professor McGonagall raised her voice slightly to ensure everyone could hear her.

"The Sorting Ceremony marks the beginning of your time at Hogwarts, and it carries great significance. The House you are assigned to is not merely a label; it will be your home at Hogwarts for the next seven years. You will attend classes with your fellow House members, live and study together in the common room, and fight together for your House's honor."

She paused briefly, allowing the words "home" and "honor" to settle in the first-years' hearts.

Then she began introducing the four Houses, her voice taking on a different shade for each one. "Hogwarts has four Houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin."

Each time she spoke a name, there was a subtle change in her tone—

When she said "Gryffindor," there was a faint, nearly imperceptible sense of belonging and pride in her voice—she was the Head of Gryffindor; "Hufflepuff" earned calm approval; "Ravenclaw" received rational respect; and when she said "Slytherin," she returned to complete objectivity and composure.

"Each House possesses its own glorious and long history, and each has nurtured countless gifted witches and wizards who have made outstanding contributions to the wizarding world."

Her gaze passed over the crowd, lingering briefly on several children who looked particularly nervous, as though offering them silent encouragement.

"At Hogwarts, your conduct is closely tied to your House's honor. Following the rules, performing well in class, and winning glory for your House will all earn your House points. Conversely, breaking school rules will cost points. These points—"

She pointed toward the hall outside. "—will be displayed in real time in the four enormous House hourglasses in the entrance hall. At the end of the school year, the House with the highest score will be awarded the House Cup, the highest collective honor at Hogwarts. I hope every one of you will work hard to bring credit to your own House."

As she spoke, her eyes once again swept habitually over the first-years' appearances.

When she saw Harry's black hair, which stubbornly stuck up no matter what anyone did to it, and the smudge of dirt that had somehow appeared on Ron's nose, she let out an almost inaudible sigh.

But when her gaze passed over Uchiha Madara, her brow furrowed even more deeply—an instinctive wariness toward someone who was "too perfect" and "out of place."

Perhaps sensing Professor McGonagall's intense stare, Harry hurriedly touched his hair and tried to smooth it down, though it was entirely futile.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place before the entire school in a few minutes," Professor McGonagall said at last, her tone returning to brisk professionalism. "I suggest you use this remaining time to straighten your appearance and calm yourselves. When everything is ready in the Great Hall, I will return to take you in."

With that, she gave Uchiha Madara's direction one more long look, then turned and left the small room with steady steps. She gently closed the door behind her, leaving behind a room full of nervous, excited, uneasy whispers—and the silent outsider—in an atmosphere of growing anticipation.

The soft click of the door closing seemed to pull away the last support holding the room's tension in place.

The first-years collectively let out a breath, only for deeper unease and excitement to take its place.

Quiet chatter, the rustling of straightened clothes, and the restless sounds of pets filled the room again, though everyone kept their voices low, as if afraid of disturbing something.

Harry felt his palms sweating. He could not help moving closer to Ron and asking in a dry whisper, "Ron, what do you think... what do they use to put us into different Houses? There has to be some kind of... standard, right?"

Ron seemed to recall some particularly unpleasant "family rumor." His expression shifted, and he shuddered for no apparent reason.

With a miserable look, he leaned close to Harry's ear. "A standard? I heard... it might be dragon slaying. Fred and George scared me with it last year, made it sound completely convincing. They said that in their year, everyone had to fight a miniature Hungarian Horntail in the middle of the Great Hall, in front of the whole school. The longer you held out, the better the House..."

He quickly added, trying to find some comfort in Harry's instantly pale face. "I think they must have been making it up! Yeah, it had to be a joke! How could that possibly be true...?"

But the words "fighting a dragon" had already lodged in Harry's mind like a spell.

A test? Against a dragon? In front of the entire school?

He could practically see one of Dudley's favorite monster movies playing before his eyes: himself standing in the middle, holding that holly wand, while a monster blasted fire at him... He felt dizzy, and his stomach clenched.

What was he supposed to do? He had not even properly learned a single spell yet!

Was he supposed to charge in and use his fists like Dudley did in a fight?

Or... his thoughts involuntarily slipped in another direction—Muggle methods?

A gun? No, he could not get one, and wizards could defend themselves with magic anyway.

Traps? Explosives? Leaving aside whether he even knew enough, in a place like the Great Hall...

He looked around anxiously and realized that quite a few other first-years were just as pale as he was, their eyes full of panic as they exchanged uneasy looks.

Clearly, the terrifying "rumors" about the Sorting Ceremony were not spread only by the Weasley twins.

Among the crowd, only Hermione Granger's voice stood out clearly. She was speaking rapidly in a low voice to a girl beside her who looked close to tears. "...The Levitation Charm is the most basic one, but if it really is a combat test, Protego might be more practical—though that's third-year material... Or perhaps the Impediment Jinx? But that needs precise magical control too... I wonder whether Transfiguration could be useful, maybe enlarge something to block the way..."

She was completely immersed in her own deductions and anxiety, trying to arm herself with knowledge, unaware that she was only adding to everyone else's pressure.

Harry wanted to cover his ears.

He had never felt so helpless or nervous. Not even when he had somehow turned a Smeltings School teacher's wig bright blue, been dragged home from school by an enraged Vernon, and faced the threat of being locked in the cupboard until adulthood had he felt like this—as though he stood on the edge of a cliff, about to be thrown into an unknown arena.

Just as the oppressive panic was about to reach its peak—

"Ahhh—!"

Several sharp, brief screams suddenly rang out behind Harry. His heart nearly stopped, and he sprang high into the air as if he had been fitted with a spring.

The room instantly fell silent. Every gaze turned toward the source of the sound, and then everyone seemed to have been hit by a collective Freezing Charm. The sound of sharply drawn breaths was clearly audible.

Around twenty pearly white, translucent figures were silently passing through the stone wall behind them!

Like a chillless fog, they drifted and floated a few inches above the ground. As they moved, they talked and argued in voices carrying hollow echoes, as though conducting a serious discussion that spanned life and death.

"...That's why Peeves is simply beyond saving!"

A tall, thin ghost in a powdered wig and courtly attire said indignantly, his body passing straight through a chandelier without the slightest obstruction.