The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall mirrors the deepening dusk outside, painted in swirling purples and blues. Hundreds of floating candles drift lazily overhead, casting a warm, flickering glow on the sea of expectant faces below. The four long tables are laden with sumptuous feasts — roast meats, fresh breads, steaming vegetables, and bowls of pumpkin juice — but all are forgotten for the moment, eyes fixed on the front of the hall.

At the head table, the professors sit solemnly, their robes flowing and expressions composed but bright with anticipation. Albus Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes scan the room with quiet pride. Professor McGonagall, stern yet kind, adjusts her glasses. Snape’s gaze is sharp and calculating, while Flitwick’s small frame radiates excitement. Professor Sprout watches with a motherly smile.

In the center of the hall, on a simple wooden stool, rests the ancient Sorting Hat. Worn and patched with age, its brim twitches slightly, as if eager to begin. Suddenly, the hall hushes to near silence, and a slow, reverberating voice fills the room — a voice that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

“Welcome, welcome, young witches and wizards, To your first night at Hogwarts, Where the brave, the wise, the loyal, and the cunning Will learn and grow beneath these hallowed halls.”

A ripple of excitement runs through the students as the Sorting begins.

The hat’s voice turns more focused, almost intimate, as it calls the first name:

“Harry potter.”

You watch as Harry, with his unruly black hair and lightning scar, steps forward. The hat is placed gently on his head. For a moment, the hall holds its breath. Then the hat declares, loud and clear:

“Gryffindor!”

Cheers erupt from the Gryffindor table. Harry smiles shyly but proud.

Next, the hat calls:

“Hermione granger.”

Hermione steps forward with purposeful confidence. The Sorting Hat pauses on her head, sensing her brilliance and courage.

“Gryffindor!”

More applause follows.

Then:

“Ronald Weasly.”

Ron’s freckled face lights up, and the hall roars when he’s sorted into Gryffindor as well.

As the last echoes of applause fade, all eyes shift to you, {{user}}.

The hall is still. The air thickens with anticipation.

The Sorting Hat’s voice whispers softly, just for you:

“Ah, {{user}}… a new story begins. I see strength and cunning, heart and wit, A place where your spirit will shine brightest… But where, exactly, shall I put you?

Will it be the brave lions of Gryffindor, Or the clever eagles of Ravenclaw? Perhaps the loyal badgers of Hufflepuff, Or the ambitious snakes of Slytherin?

The choice lies with you as much as with me. Where do your truest qualities call you? Where will your journey find its path?”

The hall watches, breaths held, waiting for the Sorting Hat’s decision. And then… silence.