Chapter 141 : The Sorting
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Around him were the other boys and girls that he’d known since birth. They were all quite certain that they’d be in Slytherin, and Draco was tuning them out as they bashed the other three houses with an irritating sort of amusement.
He vaguely remembered his mother murmuring rapidly to him before his father had returned and declared it time for them to leave.
“Don’t let yourself think you need to be in Slytherin just because your father wishes it.”
He scoffed slightly and was glared at by the uppity witch in front of all the little first years—she obviously thought he was scoffing at her.
As if he’d ever let himself get sorted in anything but Slytherin. But he couldn’t help but remember the strange look his mother’s eyes had held in them. She’d looked so distant and rueful, as if she was miles away from the sitting room in their manor.
He wanted to know what his mother was thinking about when she’d told him those words. He wanted to know if she’d meant to let her words ring in his head for the rest of the day, if she’d meant to make him second-guess himself for the first time in his life.
Was she telling him that Slytherin wasn’t the only good house? Why would she want him in anything but the house of all Malfoys who’d ever lived?
And then the first years were being herded out of the small room and into the Great Hall in two single-file lines and Draco found himself standing right next to a nervous looking boy with chubby cheeks and ears that were a bit too large for his head.
Draco vaguely remembered his name as Neville, the boy from the train who’d been tramping around with that girl with the extremely curly hair and the bossy tone because they were looking for a frog.
And then the stern looking professor who Draco was sure already disliked him called his name and everyone was watching with mild interest to see the next in the line of Malfoys to get sorted in Slytherin.
He took a deep breath and fixed his look incase it’d slipped and strode with fabricated confidence towards the stool, sitting on it and setting his smug smirk on his lips as the hat called out “Slytherin!” before it even touched his overly-gelled blonde locks.
As he sauntered confidently towards the applauding Slytherin table, his mother’s words rang through his mind once more and he couldn’t help but send a silver-eyed glance in the direction of the Gryffindor table for a fraction of a second.
He couldn’t help but notice that they looked a whole lot friendlier than the Slytherins he was seated next to.
And he couldn’t help but wonder:
What if. . .?
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by Mark Ebson