Chapter 11 : The Great Hall
Hogwarts — September 1, 1991, 7:12 PM
The ceiling wasn't a ceiling.
Matt stood in the entrance to the Great Hall, eleven years old and five years a transmigrant, and lost every carefully maintained layer of adult composure to the sight of the sky inside. Stars wheeled overhead — real stars, or perfect imitations, scattered across a vault of deepening blue that faded at the edges into the stone walls as though the architecture had simply decided to stop existing where the night began. Candles floated in midair, hundreds of them, flames steady despite the absence of any surface to hold them.
"It's bewitched to look like the sky outside," Hermione whispered beside him. "I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."
Of course she did. But Matt couldn't mock it, because the real thing was better than any book, and Hermione's voice had the same breathless edge as his own pulse.
The first-years had crossed the lake in boats — four to a vessel, lanterns swinging, the castle growing larger with every stroke of the oars until it filled the world. Matt had shared a boat with Harry, Ron, and Neville. Nobody had talked. The silence had been reverent, the kind reserved for cathedrals and births and the first time you see something that rewrites your understanding of what's possible.
Now they stood in a cluster at the Great Hall's entrance, forty-odd eleven-year-olds trying not to look terrified while four long tables of older students watched them with the predatory amusement of people who'd survived this particular gauntlet.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front. Tall, severe, spectacles catching candlelight. She held a scroll in one hand and a three-legged stool in the other. On the stool sat a hat.
The Sorting Hat was uglier than Matt had imagined. Frayed, patched, a brim that sagged like a frown. It looked like something Cork would have burned for being "not fit for Young Master's head."
Then it sang.
The song was familiar — houses, virtues, the eternal invitation to discover where you belong. Matt let the words wash over him and focused on the High Table instead. Dumbledore sat centre, blue eyes twinkling with the calibrated warmth of a man who was always, always watching. Snape beside him, black-robed, expression suggesting the feast was a personal affront. Quirrell at the end, turban purple, eyes darting — Matt's gaze caught on the Defence professor and held.
Voldemort is in this room. Twenty feet from Harry. Wearing a dead man's skull like a mask.
His hand found his wand through his robe pocket. The ash wood hummed against his fingers.
Not yet. Not tonight. Tonight is the Sorting.
The song ended. Applause. McGonagall unrolled the scroll.
"When I call your name, you will sit on the stool and place the Hat on your head."
Names began. Abbott, Hannah — Hufflepuff. Bones, Susan — Hufflepuff. Boot, Terry — Ravenclaw. The blue-and-bronze table erupted. Matt noted the face — the boy who'd asked about Whisper in the outline, now a real person clapping at his new house table.
"Granger, Hermione."
Hermione walked to the stool like she was approaching a final exam — chin high, hands shaking, absolute determination masking absolute terror. The Hat dropped onto her hair. A long pause. Matt watched her knuckles whiten on the stool's edge.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Hermione's shoulders sagged with relief. She stood, caught Matt's eye across the Hall, and gave him a look that said, very clearly: I almost went Ravenclaw. We both know that. Then she walked to the Gryffindor table and sat down.
More names. Longbottom, Neville — the Hat took nearly a minute, and Neville looked ready to be sick, but when it called "GRYFFINDOR!" he scrambled off the stool so fast he tripped. Matt caught his eye from the crowd and gave him a thumbs-up. Neville's smile was wobbly and real.
Malfoy, Draco — the Hat barely touched his head before screaming Slytherin. Draco walked to his table with the smugness of someone whose predetermined destiny had been confirmed. He glanced at Matt once, briefly, before sitting down.
"Potter, Harry."
The Great Hall went silent. Not quiet — silent. The kind of silence that has weight, that presses against your eardrums, that means everyone in the room has stopped breathing at the same time.
Harry walked to the stool. His back was straight but his hands were fists at his sides. The Hat dropped. Silence stretched. Matt could see Harry's mouth moving — whispering to the Hat, arguing his case, fighting for something with the same quiet desperation he'd shown in a library in Little Whinging two summers ago.
Put me in Gryffindor, Matt knew he was saying. Not Slytherin. Anywhere but Slytherin.
The brim opened.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor table exploded. The Weasley twins were chanting "We got Potter! We got Potter!" Ron was on his feet. Harry's face broke into a grin so wide and so relieved that Matt's chest ached with it — the same ache he'd carried in the library when a boy in oversized clothes had asked if dragons could change.
"Summon, Matthias."
His turn.
The walk to the stool was longer than it looked. The Great Hall stretched around him — a thousand eyes, four houses, centuries of tradition pressing down like atmospheric weight. Candlelight. Star-ceiling. The smell of old wood and magic and the faintest trace of roast chicken from the kitchens below.
He sat. McGonagall placed the Hat on his head.
Darkness.
Then a voice — not in his ears, but in the space between thoughts, intimate and ancient and faintly amused.
Oh my. What do we have here?
Please don't announce anything weird, Matt thought.
An old soul in a young body. The Summon heir returns. The Hat's voice was warm, curious, probing — like fingers turning pages in a book. Secrets upon secrets. And this power — I've never encountered magic quite like this. It lives alongside yours, doesn't it? A second system, bonded to your soul.
Matt's pulse spiked. You can see the system?
I can see everything you are, Mr. Summon. Including the things you'd rather I didn't. A pause. Don't worry. I've kept worse secrets than yours. Though yours are certainly... unique.
Which house?
Patience. The Hat seemed to settle deeper into his mind, browsing. You have the cunning for Slytherin — considerable cunning, in fact. The courage for Gryffindor. The loyalty of Hufflepuff runs deep in you, especially toward those creatures and that boy with the scar. But your thirst... The Hat's voice shifted, gaining weight. Your thirst for knowledge, for understanding every creature that walks, crawls, swims, or flies — that hunger to KNOW — there is only one place for that.
The brim opened.
"RAVENCLAW!"
Blue and bronze erupted. Matt stood, placed the Hat back on the stool, and walked toward the Ravenclaw table. Terry Boot was clapping with genuine enthusiasm. An older student shifted to make room.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry's face fell — a flash of disappointment, quickly schooled. Matt caught his eye across the Hall and mouthed two words: Still friends.
Harry's smile returned. Small, but real.
"Weasley, Ronald" — Gryffindor, predictably, Ron's relief visible from across the room.
Then Dumbledore stood, and the Great Hall went quiet again.
"Welcome," the Headmaster said, eyes sweeping the room with that particular twinkle that could mean anything from genuine warmth to calculated assessment. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. Before we begin our feast, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you."
He sat down. Food appeared on every table — roast chicken, potatoes, gravy, bread, pies, vegetables in quantities that would have made Cork weep with professional admiration.
Matt loaded his plate. The chicken was better than anything he'd eaten in two lifetimes — hot, crisp-skinned, seasoned with something that might have been rosemary and might have been magic. He thought about the flat he'd lived in before — the other life, the real one, the one with microwave dinners and twelve-hour shifts at the clinic. Eating alone at a kitchen counter while a documentary played on the laptop.
This is better.
In his pocket, Twig's tiny hand extended, snatched a crumb of bread, and retreated. Matt smiled.
Across the Hall, at the Gryffindor table, Harry was laughing at something Ron had said. Hermione was already explaining the house point system to Neville. The candlelight made everything gold.
At the High Table, Dumbledore's gaze drifted across the students. It lingered, for just a moment, on the Ravenclaw first-year with the calm eyes and the curious wand.
Matt felt it. Didn't look up. Ate his chicken.
Let him watch. I haven't done anything worth noticing yet.
The feast ended. Prefects called for first-years. Matt stood, brushed crumbs from his robes, and followed the Ravenclaw column toward the west tower.
He glanced back once. Harry waved from the Gryffindor crowd. Matt waved back.
Different towers. Same war. Same side.
The staircase spiralled upward, and Matt climbed toward his new home.
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