Chapter 33: The Sorting Ceremony
The great doors of Hogwarts slammed shut with an echoing boom, sealing the first-years in a vast stone hallway. Flickering torches cast shadows across the high-arched ceiling, the castle's solemn grandeur pressing down like a living presence. Clark Kent inhaled, the air rich with aged parchment, polished wood, and candle wax. Stepping into this world—once just pages and screens—felt electric.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front, her emerald robes sharp against the stone, her glasses glinting with authority. Her piercing gaze swept the students, pausing on Clark with a flicker of curiosity, perhaps wariness. His smirk was subtle, predatory—she was a challenge, her stern intelligence a puzzle he'd unravel, much like he'd broken the Dursleys' public scorn and private fear.
"You are about to be sorted into your houses," McGonagall said, her voice crisp, commanding. "Hogwarts has four houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each values different qualities, and your house will be your family here. You'll eat, sleep, and earn or lose points for your house based on your actions."
Draco Malfoy, beside Clark, puffed up at Slytherin's mention, his aristocratic pride evident. Hermione Granger, on Clark's other side, folded her arms, her brows knitted, her sharp mind already analyzing. Clark's lips twitched—both were pieces in his game, like Petunia, now obedient in his pocket universe ring.
"The Sorting is simple," McGonagall continued. "You'll wear the Sorting Hat, which will choose the house that suits you."
Clark raised an eyebrow. He knew this moment from books and films, but the nervous whispers and shifting feet around him made it vivid, a chessboard where he'd claim his place.
The Great Hall's doors swung open, silencing the group.
"Follow me," McGonagall said, turning sharply.
Clark stepped into the Great Hall, his breath catching for a fleeting second. The vast chamber was a grand cathedral of magic, its enchanted ceiling a swirling night sky, stars twinkling above. Floating candles drifted, their golden glow bathing four long tables packed with older students. House banners—Gryffindor's lion, Hufflepuff's badger, Ravenclaw's eagle, Slytherin's serpent—hung proudly, symbols of legacy Clark would bend to his will.
At the head, the professors sat behind a grand table. Dumbledore's silver beard gleamed, his eyes twinkling with quiet amusement. Snape's severe scowl cut through the warmth, his brooding presence a shadow. Sprout's kind smile contrasted Flitwick's tiny frame, barely visible behind golden plates.
Clark's gaze settled on McGonagall, striding to the hall's center. Her authority was magnetic, her sharp mind a beacon Clark aimed to sway. He'd charm her respect, turn her stern gaze to his advantage, just as he'd dominated Petunia's submission in Chapter 28. His smirk deepened—this was no mere school; it was his empire's foundation.
A patched, ancient hat sat on a three-legged stool. To Clark's amusement, it stirred, then sang in a gravelly voice:
"Oh, you may think I'm just a hat, But listen now, and heed my chat! I sort the young and bold and bright, To find which house will fit them right.
Brave Gryffindors, with hearts so strong, Charging forth against the wrong. Cunning Slytherins, sharp and sly, With minds that scheme and reach for high.
Witty Ravenclaws, ever wise, Seeking truth behind the lies. And patient Hufflepuffs, so true, Loyal friends through and through.
So place me now upon your head, And I will see where you are led!"
Polite applause rippled through the hall, the Sorting Hat bowing slightly.
McGonagall stepped forward, a parchment scroll in hand. "When I call your name, sit and wear the Hat."
"Abercrombie, Euan," she announced.
A scrawny boy stumbled to the stool, his eyes wide. McGonagall placed the Hat on his head. Moments later— "GRYFFINDOR!" The Gryffindor table roared as Euan hurried over, relief washing over him. Clark watched, his smirk faint, noting the boy's eagerness—a follower, not a leader.
"Bones, Susan," McGonagall called. A red-haired girl with a steady gait sat, the Hat quick to shout, "HUFFLEPUFF!" Susan joined her table, her smile warm but guarded. Clark's eyes narrowed—loyal, dependable, a potential ally if swayed.
"Boot, Terry," came next. A lanky boy with sharp eyes sat, the Hat declaring, "RAVENCLAW!" Terry's nod was confident, his mind already racing. Clark marked him as clever but solitary, useful for knowledge, not power.
"Brown, Lavender," McGonagall said. A giggling girl with blonde curls bounced forward, the Hat pausing before calling, "GRYFFINDOR!" Lavender skipped to her table, chattering instantly. Clark's lip curled—she'd be loud, emotional, easily manipulated.
"Bulstrode, Millicent," followed. A stocky girl with a scowl sat, the Hat swiftly shouting, "SLYTHERIN!" Millicent joined her table with a grunt, her eyes cold. Clark noted her strength, a blunt tool if guided right.
"Finch-Fletchley, Justin," McGonagall called. A nervous boy with neat hair sat, the Hat deliberating before announcing, "HUFFLEPUFF!" Justin's relief was palpable, his smile shaky. Clark dismissed him—too soft, no ambition.
"Finnigan, Seamus," came next. A sandy-haired boy with a grin sat, the Hat quickly yelling, "GRYFFINDOR!" Seamus whooped, joining his table with a laugh. Clark saw his recklessness—useful in chaos, if directed.
"Longbottom, Neville," McGonagall said. A round-faced boy shuffled forward, his hands trembling. The Hat took its time, Neville's face pale, before shouting, "GRYFFINDOR!" Neville stumbled to his table, nearly tripping. Clark's smirk was cold—weak, but his fear could be molded.
"Parkinson, Pansy," followed. A sharp-featured girl strutted forward, her haughty smirk mirroring Draco's. The Hat barely touched her head before bellowing, "SLYTHERIN!" Pansy sauntered to her table, tossing her hair. Clark's eyes glinted—she was ambitious, a potential ally or rival.
"Thomas, Dean," McGonagall called. A tall boy with a calm demeanor sat, the Hat declaring, "GRYFFINDOR!" Dean joined his table with a nod, his ease notable. Clark marked him as steady, a quiet strength to watch.
"Weasley, Ronald," came next. A lanky redhead slouched forward, freckles stark against his nervous flush. The Hat paused, then roared, "GRYFFINDOR!" Ron's grin was shaky as he joined his brothers, their cheers loud.
"Granger, Hermione," McGonagall announced.
Hermione stiffened, then stepped forward, her bushy hair bouncing. She sat, McGonagall placing the Hat on her head. Clark watched, his gaze intense, sensing her tension through his Kryptonian perception. The Hat lingered, Hermione's lips pressing tight, her fingers clenched.
"A brilliant mind—Ravenclaw would suit you," the Hat's voice echoed in her head, audible to Clark's sharp senses. Hermione straightened, her eyes flickering.
"And yet… ambitious, determined. A hunger for mastery, control, to shape the world."
A long pause.
"The mind of a scholar, but the will of a…"
Another pause.
"Slytherin!"
The hall fell silent, whispers erupting. A Muggle-born in Slytherin? Scandalous. Hermione's face paled, stunned, before she walked to the Slytherin table, her steps hesitant. Draco shot her an intrigued glance, his smirk calculating. Clark's grin was predatory—she was his now, her shock a leash he'd tug.
"Potter, Harry," McGonagall called.
The hall hushed, every eye on Clark. He strode forward, his movements fluid, confident, the weight of his fame a cloak he wore lightly. Settling onto the stool, he felt the Hat's weight, its presence probing his mind like a wise judge.
"Hmm… curious," the Hat mused, its voice a whisper in his skull. "Very curious."
Clark's smirk was internal, his mind a fortress.
"I see power, great power. More than any child should have. Something beyond human… divine."
The Hat hesitated. "Bravery, yes, but pragmatic. Intelligence, but cunning. Ambition… oh, yes. You seek great things. And something else—"
A pause, the Hat's confusion palpable.
Clark's voice was cool, mental but firm. "Put me in Slytherin."
Another pause.
"You'd do well there," the Hat admitted. "But are you sure?"
"Yes."
"…Very well. If you're certain, then—SLYTHERIN!"
The hall froze, murmurs exploding. A Potter in Slytherin? Unthinkable. Clark stood, sauntering to the Slytherin table, his smirk unshaken. Draco's look mixed smugness and confusion, Hermione's gaze intense, the Slytherins' eyes speculative. At the head table, Dumbledore's twinkle dimmed, Snape's face a mask.
Clark's grin widened, his ambition a fire. T
Every student, every professor, was a piece to move.
Yes.
This was going to be fun.