Harry potter: Revenge from azkaban

As the first-years waited outside the Great Hall, the warm golden light spilling from inside cast a magical glow across their faces. Hagrid leaned toward Professor McGonagall, lowering his voice.

"Professor," he muttered, "there's been a bit of a situation. One o' the third-years—his pants got burned off in a duel. I told him to change before comin' up. Thing is, he was duelin' two first-years. I don't rightly know who's at fault. What should I do?"

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

"First-years? And the third-year was the one who lost?"

She was clearly intrigued. Typically, first-years hadn't even learned magic formally, while third-years had already mastered basic and intermediate-level spells. The power difference should've been overwhelming.

"Yes," Hagrid nodded grimly. "Those two, right there."

He gave a subtle nod toward Cassandra—radiant and proud, like a queen in waiting—and Cassian Drayke, who stood silently with an unreadable expression.

McGonagall looked them over for a long moment, her sharp eyes narrowing.

"…We'll proceed with the Sorting first," she decided. "There are professors and upper-years waiting. We'll handle the rest afterward."

"Right you are," Hagrid stepped aside.

McGonagall turned to address the students, her voice clear and precise.

"Welcome to Hogwarts. The house you are about to be sorted into will serve as your home for the next seven years."

The first-years listened attentively, though a few still whispered excitedly among themselves.

"Before you join the rest of the school in the Great Hall," she continued, "you will be sorted into one of four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin. Your triumphs will earn your house points, while rule-breaking will cost them. At the end of the year, the house with the most points wins the House Cup."

Her gaze passed over them like a sharp breeze.

"Now, follow me."

The massive doors creaked open, and the new students stepped into the Great Hall, mouths falling open in awe. Above them, a magical ceiling reflected the night sky, stars glittering across a deep, indigo canvas. Dozens of floating candles hovered serenely above the tables, illuminating the space with a warm, golden light.

Cassian tilted his head up, silently studying the enchantment overhead.

"That ceiling isn't real," came a voice at his side. Hermione Granger, now familiar, had appeared next to him again. "It's been enchanted to look like the night sky. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."

Cassian gave her a slight nod. He wasn't unaware of the enchantment—he'd been analyzing the structure of the illusion itself. If the spell could be compacted, adapted for close-range use, it could form the foundation of an excellent misdirection charm—or even a lethal trap.

Professor McGonagall brought them to a stop near a small, three-legged stool. Atop it sat a patched, ancient wizard's hat. Its brim twitched.

"When I call your name, you will come forward, sit on the stool, and I shall place the Sorting Hat on your head," McGonagall explained. "It will then assign you to your house."

She opened the roll of parchment and began.

"Cassandra Vane."

Cassandra walked confidently to the stool, every step poised. Before the hat even touched her head, the brim split open and called out:

"Slytherin!"

The Slytherin table erupted in applause. Cassandra gave Cassian a triumphant smirk and glided gracefully toward her new house.

"Ronald Weasley!"

A tall, gangly red-haired boy bounded forward, clearly nervous.

"Ah, another Weasley!" the Sorting Hat crowed. "Gryffindor!"

Ron let out a relieved sigh and jogged over to join his siblings.

"Hermione Granger!"

Hermione hurried forward and sat down. Professor McGonagall placed the hat on her head.

"Well, well," the hat murmured. "Plenty of intelligence—Ravenclaw would suit you well. But there's ambition, too. A thirst for knowledge. You could go far in Slytherin... Oh, and such a strong sense of justice. Gryffindor, perhaps?"

Hermione sat, rigid and silent, as the Sorting Hat debated. One minute passed. Then another.

Professor McGonagall began to frown slightly. Five minutes had passed—and the hat still had not decided.

Such students were rare.

Only once in nearly a century had there been a case like this—what the professors quietly referred to as a Hasto. When the four founders had imbued the Sorting Hat with their own intelligence and magical essence, they had given it the power to read students' minds and sort them accordingly. A Hasto was a student whose qualities made all four founders hesitate, each of them eager to claim the child for their house.

"A truly exceptional mind," the hat murmured. "Tell me, dear, do you have a preference?"

"I'd like to be in Gryffindor," Hermione whispered firmly.

"Very well—Gryffindor!"

The hat shouted its verdict.

Cheers erupted at the Gryffindor table. Some of the older students even stood up to clap. A Hasto hadn't been Sorted into Gryffindor in decades.

At the Slytherin table, several students scowled. A prize like Hermione going to Gryffindor was a blow to house pride.

Professor McGonagall adjusted her glasses, then read out the next name.

"Cassian Drayke."

A ripple ran through the hall. Heads turned.

Cassian stepped forward, unbothered by the whispers. He looked far younger than the other students—barely nine years old—and yet he walked with composure far beyond his years.

Students murmured among themselves.

"Isn't he too young?"

"Why's he here?"

Even several professors exchanged puzzled glances. Dumbledore, however, simply leaned forward slightly, his twinkling eyes focused on the boy.

Cassian Drayke, the child who had survived Azkaban.

A nine-year-old who had cast the Killing Curse.

Though most wizards believed he should never have been released, Dumbledore had argued otherwise. He believed that Cassian had been shaped by the influence of Death Eaters, not born evil. The boy had never been given a chance—not truly.

Now, he would have one.

Cassian sat on the stool. McGonagall gently lowered the Sorting Hat onto his head.

"...Ah," the hat said after a pause. "You're a curious one."

Cassian said nothing.

"So much power... and darkness. And yet, a quiet mind. You've seen things no child should, haven't you?"

Still, Cassian remained silent.

"You're cunning, strategic, unafraid of shadows. You could thrive in Slytherin. But there's knowledge in you, too—a hunger for understanding. Ravenclaw might sate that. You hide a fire, though. Gryffindor would challenge you... test your boundaries."

Cassian's thoughts were carefully sealed behind walls of Occlumency. The hat probed deeper and found only echoes of pain—and resolve.

"What is it you want, boy?"

Cassian answered in his mind: I want to understand everything—and to never be powerless again.

The Sorting Hat paused. Then, very softly, it said:

"Then it must be... Slytherin!"

Applause burst from the Slytherin table. Some students clapped half-heartedly, still unnerved by the boy's cold presence. But others welcomed him eagerly.

Cassian stepped down, the hat in hand, and walked toward his new house without a word. He could feel eyes watching him, measuring him. Some with interest. Some with fear.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. His expression was unreadable.

And so, the Sorting continued.

But for many in the room, the ceremony had already delivered its most surprising revelations.

A Hasto in Gryffindor.

A prodigy from Azkaban in Slytherin.

The game h

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