He was begging. Not out loud — of course not — but his hands trembled on the edge of the stool like he might claw his way off it.
"Not Slytherin, please…""Not Slytherin."
The Sorting Hat's voice, thick and velvety, coiled around his mind like a slow-moving shadow.
"Oh, but you'd do well there, Potter. Don't deny it. Clever. Quiet. Cunning, whether you admit it or not."
Harry swallowed. His throat was dry. "I don't care. Anywhere else."
"Why? Because of a reputation? Because you're afraid of what it might make you?"
Yes. God, yes.
But he didn't answer. He couldn't. Because part of him wondered if the Hat was right. Part of him wanted the power. Wanted to matter.
"So be it," the Hat hissed."SLYTHERIN!"
It wasn't silence that followed — it was something heavier. Like the entire Great Hall had exhaled and forgotten how to breathe back in.
Some clapped. Barely. A few Slytherins smirked as if they'd won something. Ron Weasley's face turned from shock to something uglier. Hermione didn't even blink. And from the High Table, Dumbledore's expression... didn't shift.
But Snape. Snape was watching him. Not with surprise. Not with anger. With something else entirely.
Recognition.
That night, deep in the dungeons of Slytherin, Harry sat on the edge of his new bed. The stone walls were cold. The green flames danced like they were mocking him.
He stared at the silver serpent on the curtain, wondering if it would come alive and bite him for real.
He didn't sleep.
And somewhere far beneath the castle — or maybe inside himself — something shifted.
Something old. Something angry.Something ready.