When Sherlock held the Sorting Hat in his hands instead of putting it on, inspecting it closely, it wasn't just Professor McGonagall who was intrigued—even Dumbledore leaned forward with interest, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Yet he made no move to interrupt.
Fortunately, Sherlock didn't spend long examining it. After a moment, he placed the hat on his head with a decisive plop.
Just from touch and scent alone, it was clear this hat was ancient—filthy, greasy, and reeking with a pungent blend of sweat and hair oil.
I already consider myself fairly messy, Sherlock mused, but I didn't think people in the wizarding world could be even less concerned with hygiene…
And the last boy to wear it? Definitely the son of a baker…
As that thought passed through his mind, a quiet voice spoke near his ear:
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to offend your delicate senses. But I'm only a hat—I can't exactly clean myself, you know…
"That said, how did you know the last boy was a baker's son?"
Sherlock froze for half a second, then his eyes lit up. "Fascinating. You can read thoughts?"
That a hat could pick up on his inner musings—magic truly was extraordinary.
"No, no, nothing so invasive," the hat replied quickly. "Only the surface-level thoughts—especially when someone isn't trying to hide them. I'm not a Dark artifact, mind you. I can't perform Legilimency."
After clarifying, it pressed again, "So… will you answer my question?"
Sherlock obliged, more intrigued than annoyed. "Elementary deduction. There's foil crumbs and traces of white flour caught in your brim, along with a distinct scent of wheat that masks the hair oil—besides, the boy's demeanor and behavior already hinted at a working-class background. My observations simply confirmed it."
"Marvelous! Brilliant!"
The Sorting Hat practically gushed.
"Unparalleled intellect, admirable courage, a just heart, and a rebellious streak… This is hard!
You scoff at authority, break rules with flair… You're destined for greatness. Slytherin would help you on the path to glory, no doubt about it."
"And yet—you possess such keen intellect, an insatiable thirst for discovery… Ravenclaw could hone your insight and sharpen your already razor-sharp mind."
"Your desire to punish evil and champion justice? Oh, how Helga Hufflepuff would've adored you!"
"But then there's your fearless heart, your sheer boldness—how could I not place you in Gryffindor? If I don't, Professor McGonagall might murder me…"
"Oh, this is so difficult!"
"…"
Sensing the hat's inner turmoil, Sherlock responded calmly, "Personally, I've always believed courage is the best substitute for stupidity."
And so began a rather casual and animated conversation between Sherlock Holmes and the Sorting Hat.
Meanwhile, the Sorting Ceremony had ground to a halt.
The Great Hall was silent.
Was it really this difficult?
The last girl had already taken a while, but this boy was somehow taking even longer?
Noticing his sharp profile and hooked nose, several upper-year girls quietly made mental notes of his name.
Sherlock Holmes.
Whispers rippled across the hall, but Sherlock remained blissfully unaware—or, more accurately, unconcerned.
At that moment, he was far too engaged in conversation.
"What? I can see it—you're full of courage. The kind of dauntless bravery that forges heroes—"
"Don't bother. There's no such thing as a hero. Even if there were, I'm not one."
"But... But still..."
"Sentiment is a biological flaw of the weak. Intelligence is the new sexy."
"…"
The Sorting Hat was genuinely distressed.
This boy embodied traits from all four houses. Technically, he could fit in anywhere.
But as their conversation continued, the hat began to narrow its options—mainly between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw.
Initially, it had been leaning toward Ravenclaw.
After all, Sherlock himself had just declared that intelligence was the new sexy.
But then the hat picked up on something subtle—yet crucial.
Sherlock only pursued knowledge that served a purpose. If it wasn't useful, he saw no reason to learn it.
That, fundamentally, clashed with Ravenclaw values.
Others might overlook such a detail. But in Sherlock's case, it was pivotal.
He viewed knowledge as a tool—to be wielded, not revered. A true Ravenclaw chased wisdom for its own sake.
By contrast, Sherlock's courage was unshakable. He had a thirst for exploration, and an inner bravery that could bulldoze through any obstacle.
Even if he dismissed courage as a substitute for stupidity, the hat could tell—he was brave.
Ravenclaws would be buried in books, unavailable for adventures.
Gryffindors, on the other hand, would leap at the chance to join him.
What ultimately tipped the scales?
The moment Sherlock learned that Ravenclaw had many students who were basically living encyclopedias, his eyes lit up.
Wonderful! he thought. When I need information, I can just ask them. No need to waste time studying—I can spend more time exploring instead!
With that revelation, and after considerable deliberation, the hat finally respected Sherlock's choice and made its decision.
"Gryffindor!"
Sherlock removed the hat, bade it farewell, and walked over to the Gryffindor table.
"Congratulations!"
Hermione was beaming—clearly thrilled that someone she knew had been placed in the same house.
She was just about to say something when two identical redheads pushed their way over.
Fred and George Weasley.
"We were just joking about Granger almost being a Hatstall," said one twin, grinning.
"But then the real Hatstall showed up!"
"Hatstall?" Sherlock's curiosity was instantly piqued.
"What's that mean?" he asked.
"It's when the Hat gets stuck trying to Sort you," explained the other twin.
"Because it doesn't know where to put you."
"Would you two shut it?" snapped Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect—and older brother of the twins and Ron.
Rubbing his temples, he addressed Sherlock with a sigh, "Don't mind them, Holmes. They're the biggest troublemakers in the whole school."
Before term began, Percy had bought a book in Diagon Alley titled: How a Prefect Earns Respect.
It emphasized that prefects must uphold the house's image in front of new students.
No way could he let the twins corrupt the newcomers—even if they were family.
He then politely introduced himself and offered Sherlock the official explanation of the term Hatstall.
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