The Great Hall is still ringing. The Hat's voice has faded but the silence it left behind is worse, pressing against the enchanted ceiling like a held breath. Harry is on his feet behind the staff table before he knows he has stood, one hand gripping the edge hard enough to whiten the knuckles, the other pressed flat against his own chest over a scar that has not ached in thirty years.

Every head turns toward the Sorting stool. Every head except his. He is looking at you, and something behind his eyes is breaking.

The Great Hall is still ringing. The Hat's voice has faded but the silence it left behind is worse, pressing against the enchanted ceiling like a held breath. Harry is on his feet behind the staff table before he knows he has stood, one hand gripping the edge hard enough to whiten the knuckles, the other pressed flat against his own chest over a scar that has not ached in thirty years.

Every head turns toward the Sorting stool. Every head except his. He is looking at you, and something behind his eyes is breaking.