Professor McGonagall led Morris briskly through several doors and corridors. They finally arrived at a small, empty chamber just before the Great Hall.
"We'll wait here," she said curtly, positioning herself near the door to the Great Hall.
Morris nodded his understanding and looked around the chamber with curiosity.
The room was sparsely furnished but not without interest.
Two suits of armor stood nearby, their metal surfaces gleaming in the torchlight. As Morris watched, they shifted slightly, moving their shoulders and arms with surprising fluidity. Their joints creaked and clicked with mechanical sounds that echoed off the stone walls.
Fascinating. Were they enchanted to guard this space, or did they simply move out of habit?
"Professor," Morris said casually, breaking the silence, "we're about to have the Sorting Ceremony, aren't we?"
"Yes," Professor McGonagall's answer was concise, delivered without looking at him. She was watching the door, waiting for Hagrid and the first-years.
"So how exactly do we choose which house suits us best?" Morris pressed, genuinely curious despite the circumstances. "Is there a test? Questions we answer? Some kind of magical assessment?"
Professor McGonagall's lips twitched slightly. "You'll find out soon enough, Mr. Black. It's traditional for first-years to experience the ceremony without prior knowledge of the exact method."
Morris nodded, then continued his probing. "What about Gryffindor? I've heard from some older students that it's a good house."
At the mention of her own house, Professor McGonagall's stern expression softened subtly.
"Gryffindor is indeed excellent," she said, and her tone carried a trace of unmistakable pride that she couldn't quite suppress. She adjusted her glasses in what might have been a self-conscious gesture.
"But I should be fair and note that every house has its unique strengths. Each has produced remarkable witches and wizards."
"Is that so?" Morris observed Professor McGonagall's gesture and a completely unrelated question suddenly occurred to him. "Speaking of which, Professor... you wear glasses. Do wizards get nearsighted too? I would have thought magical healing could correct vision problems easily."
Professor McGonagall turned to look at him fully for the first time since they'd entered the chamber. Her expression was somewhere between exasperation and amusement.
"Mr. Black," she finally sighed, removing her glasses briefly to clean them on her robes before replacing them, "you ask far too many questions. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Frequently," Morris admitted with a small smile. "Oh, sorry, Professor. I'll be quiet now."
He obediently closed his mouth and returned his gaze to the suits of armor beside him, watching their movements with fascination. They seemed almost to be breathing.
In a little while, noisy footsteps echoed from the corridor outside. Dozens of young voices, tired and excited grew steadily louder.
The door in front of them was knocked heavily three times—BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.
Immediately after, Hagrid pushed through, having to duck to fit his massive body through the doorway. He entered first, his lantern still in hand though it was no longer needed, followed by a stream of nervous first-year students who came in behind him, crowding into the available space.
"Everyone's here, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid announced in his booming voice that filled the entire chamber. "Got 'em all safe and sound. Not a single one fell in the lake."
Professor McGonagall nodded slightly at him.
At that moment, Hagrid's eyes swept across the room and landed on Morris, standing quietly beside Professor McGonagall. His eyebrows drew together in confusion.
"Who's that?" he asked, pointing with one finger. "Professor McGonagall, is he a first-year? I don't remember seeing him in the boats. Did he come up separately?"
"Yes, he is a first-year," Professor McGonagall said, her voice taking on an unmistakably stern tone that made several nearby students flinch. "Regarding this matter, Hagrid, I believe I need to remind you that as the person responsible for escorting the new students safely to the castle, you failed to notice that one student was missing from the group. That is a serious oversight in your duties."
Hagrid's face, mostly hidden beneath his wild, bushy beard, immediately flushed a deep red. The color spread from his cheeks down to his neck, visible even in the torchlight.
He shuffled his enormous feet, looking down at the floor like a scolded child. "I... I didn't notice," he mumbled softly. "There were so many of 'em, and it was dark, and..."
Being criticized by the Deputy Headmistress in front of a chamber full of first-year students was clearly not a pleasant experience. Hagrid looked quite distressed, his shoulders were slumping.
Morris, the actual culprit responsible for this whole situation, silently apologized in his heart. He hadn't meant to get Hagrid in trouble. The gamekeeper seemed like a genuinely kind person, and it wasn't really his fault that Morris had been abducted by an enthusiastic thestral.
"Return to the group, Mr. Black," Professor McGonagall said, her tone softening slightly as she gave Morris a gentle push toward the first-years.
Morris quietly walked to the back of the line.
During this brief journey through the crowd, he became aware that nearly all the first-years were staring at him with curious eyes. Some whispered to their neighbors, speculating about who he was and where he'd come from. A few looked suspicious, as if he'd done something wrong. Others just seemed confused by the whole interaction they'd witnessed.
Morris kept his expression blank and avoided making eye contact with most of them.
He did spot Hermione Granger in the group, standing near the middle with Neville beside her. She wasn't just looking at him—she was glaring.
Professor McGonagall moved to stand at the front of the group, her hands clasped in front of her. She cleared her throat loudly—a sound that instantly gained attention and silence.
"First," she began in her clear, authoritative voice that carried to every corner of the chamber, "welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You are about to participate in one of our oldest and most important traditions—the Sorting Ceremony."
She went on to briefly explain the house system: four houses, each founded by one of Hogwarts' original founders, each with its own history and values. She described how the houses would be like their families during their time at school, how they would earn points for achievements and lose points for rule-breaking, how the house with the most points at the end of the year would win the House Cup.
"In a moment, I will call you one by one," she concluded. "You will put on the Sorting Hat, and it will determine which house you belong to. Please wait here quietly until I return."
With that, she turned and walked through the large doors into the Great Hall, leaving the first-years alone.
Immediately, the chamber erupted into nervous chatter. Students began talking over each other, speculation and anxiety filling the air.
"What do you think the Sorting is like?"
"My brother said we have to fight a troll!"
"Don't be stupid, they wouldn't make us fight anything..."
"Maybe it's a quiz?"
Hermione pushed through the crowd with determination, heading straight for Morris. She stopped directly in front of him, hands on her hips, her expression serious and demanding.
"Where did you go?" she asked directly. "I didn't see you in the line earlier when we were walking up to the castle."
Morris hadn't expected to be confronted so directly. "Ah," he said, keeping his tone casual and unconcerned, "maybe it was too dark outside and you simply missed me. I was at the very back of the group, behind everyone else. Easy to overlook."
Hermione's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Then why did you get here so much faster than the rest of us?" She gestured around the chamber. "We all came in together, and you were already here waiting with Professor McGonagall. That doesn't make sense if you were at the back of our group."
'What a persistent, observant girl. '
Morris could see why she'd probably end up in Ravenclaw if the house system worked as advertised.
He shrugged, maintaining his innocent expression. "I got a bit lost in the courtyard when we first arrived—took a wrong turn. So, I ended up coming through the side entrance instead of following everyone else. Luckily I found my way before the ceremony started."
This explanation was obviously full of holes if you thought about it for more than ten seconds. How would a first-year who'd never been to Hogwarts before know where a side entrance was?
Hermione opened her mouth, clearly about to continue her interrogation and poke those holes, when the large doors opened again and Professor McGonagall returned.
"Form a line," she commanded, her voice cutting through the chatter. "Single file. Follow me into the Great Hall."
Everyone fell silent immediately and scrambled to comply, quickly organizing themselves into a somewhat orderly line.
Morris and Hermione, having been at the back during their conversation, naturally ended up near the end of the line.
The line began moving slowly.
They passed through oak doors and stepped into the Hogwarts Great Hall for the first time.
Morris's eyes widened slightly despite his usual composure.
"Well," he murmured to himself, looking around with curiosity, "not bad at all."
The Great Hall was enormous, far larger than he'd expected. It looked like a massive old-fashioned cathedral or perhaps a medieval banquet hall expanded to extreme proportions. The ceiling soared high, so high that the walls seemed to stretch up forever before reaching it.
Four house tables were arranged parallel to each other, running the length of the hall. They were already occupied by older students wearing robes in different colors—red and gold for Gryffindor, blue and bronze for Ravenclaw, yellow and black for Hufflepuff, green and silver for Slytherin.
The tables were topped with gleaming golden plates and goblets, empty now but presumably soon to be filled with the feast.
At the front of the hall, perpendicular to the house tables, sat the High Table where the professors were already gathered. They watched the incoming first-years with varying expressions of interest, amusement, and assessment.
In the center sat an elderly wizard with a long silver beard that reached past his waist and half-moon spectacles perched on his nose—undoubtedly Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster whose name had been on Morris's acceptance letter.
Looking up, Morris saw hundreds of candles floating in midair above the Great Hall, suspended by no visible means. They provided warm, flickering lighting that made the whole space feel both grand and warm.
Above the candles, instead of a solid ceiling, there appeared to be nothing but open sky—a deep night sky scattered with twinkling stars, exactly like the sky outside. The effect was disorienting, as if the roof had been removed and they were dining under the heavens.
But Morris recognized it for what it was: an enchantment. He'd read about it in "Hogwarts: A History." The ceiling was bewitched to mirror the sky outside, creating the illusion of openness while actually providing solid shelter.
Impressive magic, certainly. But Morris didn't feel particularly awed by it.
In his previous life, he'd seen far more spectacular displays than this—that was the power of modern technology. CGI effects, planetarium projections, architectural marvels of glass and steel that made this stone hall look primitive by comparison.
This was beautiful in its own way, charming in its old-world aesthetic, but it wasn't beyond his comprehension or experience.
However, something else in the Great Hall did catch his attention and hold it with intensity.
Those silver-gray, ethereal figures floating among and above the four tables. Translucent phantoms that drifted through the air and occasionally through solid objects or even through students, who shivered when they did.
Ghosts!
This was Morris's first time seeing actual living or rather, unliving ghosts.
As a half-baked necromancer, he was instantly captivated by these floating spirits.
Hermione noticed his focused, intense gaze and leaned slightly toward him. "Those are Hogwarts' resident ghosts, I read about them in 'Hogwarts: A History.' Each house has its own ghost, and they've existed in this school for a very long time. Centuries, some of them...."
However, Morris didn't respond at all, his attention was completely captured by the ghosts. He was completely immersed in his own world of observation and speculation, his mind racing with questions about their nature, their existence, whether they could be studied, whether his necromantic knowledge might apply to spirits as well as corpses...
"Hey," Hermione said, her voice taking on an edge of irritation as she realized she was being ignored. "Are you even listening to me?"
"Oh, sorry," Morris said absently, his eyes still tracking a particularly interesting ghost that was gliding through one of the Ravenclaw tables. "Could you repeat that? I missed what you said."
"No!" Hermione huffed, crossing her arms with indignation. "If you're not going to pay attention, I won't bother."
Morris glanced at her, noting the offended expression on her face, and found himself somewhat baffled by the intensity of her reaction.
Children's emotional responses were truly hard to understand. He'd apologized and asked her to repeat herself—what more did she want?
While they waited for the ceremony to begin, Professor McGonagall brought over a three-legged wooden stool and placed it prominently in front of the High Table, where all the first-years and all the older students could see it clearly.
Then she produced a hat and not just any hat, but quite possibly the most tattered, patched, worn-out hat Morris had ever seen. It looked ancient, like something that had been used for centuries and never properly maintained.
She placed this sorry-looking hat on top of the stool.
For a moment, nothing happened. Everyone stared at the hat in silence.
Then, suddenly, a rip near the brim opened like a mouth, and the Sorting Hat began to sing.
Its voice was surprisingly melodious despite its shabby appearance, and the song it sang was bizarre—explaining its purpose, describing the four houses and their qualities, assuring the first-years that it would find the right place for each of them.
Morris listened with interest. So, this was how the sorting worked—a sentient magical artifact that could assess students' qualities and place them accordingly. Fascinating, from a magical theory perspective. How did one enchant an object with that level of intelligence and judgment?
When the song ended, Professor McGonagall produced a long scroll of parchment and cleared her throat.
"When I call your name," she announced, "you will come forward, put on the hat, sit on the stool, and wait while the hat determines your house."
She paused, then read the first name: "Hannah Abbott!"
A small, blonde girl with a nervous expression stumbled forward from the line. With Professor McGonagall's help, she placed the enormous hat on her head, it fell down over her eyes completely and sat on the stool, gripping the edges.
There was a moment of silence, then the hat's voice rang out clearly: "HUFFLEPUFF!"
Enthusiastic applause erupted from the Hufflepuff table as Hannah, looking relieved, practically ran to join them.
The Sorting Ceremony had officially begun.
'So, this is how it works,' Morris thought, watching the process with interest and stroking his chin thoughtfully.
Then a concerning thought occurred to him, making his eyes narrow.
If this hat could actually read thoughts, wouldn't his identity as someone who had transmigrated from another world potentially be discovered?
That... wouldn't do. That could lead to all sorts of complications want.
Morris's mind raced, calculating risks and solutions.
He needed to be cautious.
If worst came to worst, if he sensed the hat digging, he would use a Wailing Curse on himself at his own mind to create enough mental chaos and noise that the hat couldn't get a clear reading. Yes, it would hurt and possibly give him a splitting headache, but it should temporarily scramble his thoughts enough to hide what needed hiding.
The sorting continued steadily. Students were called up one by one, the hat pondered for varying lengths of time and then announced its decision. The appropriate house table would erupt in cheers, and the new student would join their housemates.
"Susan Bones!" = "HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Terry Boot!" = "RAVENCLAW!"
"Mandy Brocklehurst!" = "RAVENCLAW!"
Finally, Professor McGonagall called.
"Morris Black!"
Immediately, whispers rippled through the entire Great Hall. Students turned to look.
Almost certainly because of his surname. "Black" apparently carried significant weight and unfortunate associations in the wizarding world.
Morris walked forward calmly, sat down on the stool and picked up the Sorting Hat. Taking a deep breath, he placed it on his head.
Then, a voice sounded directly in his ear.
"Hmm..." it said thoughtfully. "Relax, child. You're very tense. That tension will affect my ability to sort you properly."
Morris immediately began applying his meditation techniques, trying to empty his mind. Create mental silence, blank space, nothing for the hat to latch onto. This wasn't difficult for someone well-practiced in clearing their thoughts—he'd been meditating regularly for months now.
He visualized blank whiteness, empty space, the void.
"..."
Ten seconds of complete silence followed. Then fifteen. Twenty.
Around the Great Hall, students began shifting uncomfortably. This was taking longer than most sortings. Whispers started up again—speculation about what was happening, whether something was wrong.
"Are you really relaxed?" the Sorting Hat's voice came again, now carrying a note of confusion and mild frustration. "How very strange... why can't I see anything at all? It's like looking into a completely blank slate. Are you perhaps... an idiot? No, that can't be right..."
The hat seemed genuinely puzzled, shifting uneasily on Morris's head.
More whispers began to spread through the Great Hall—this was now officially the student who had taken the longest to sort during tonight's ceremony.
Hearing the Sorting Hat's words, Morris felt a wave of relief wash through him.
"Mr. Hat," Morris responded carefully in his mind, keeping his mental voice polite and calm, "please refrain from personal attacks about my intelligence, thank you. If possible, could you just sort me into any house? I don't have a strong preference. Whichever you think is most appropriate."
"That won't do!" The Sorting Hat's voice became unexpectedly serious, looking almost offended by the suggestion. "I don't simply assign students randomly! Every placement must be considered, must be right!"
There was a pause, a moment of what felt like intense concentration from the hat.
"Hmm... in that case, I must work with what I can perceive," the hat muttered.
Another pause.
"Yes," the hat said with sudden certainty. "Yes, the choice is obvious when I think about it this way..."
Then it shouted aloud, its voice ringing through the Great Hall: "RAVENCLAW!"
The silence that had fallen during Morris's long sorting broke instantly. Enthusiastic applause erupted from the Ravenclaw table.
Morris removed the hat, placed it back on the stool, and walked toward the Ravenclaw table.
At the Gryffindor table across the hall, the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan. All three wore expressions of regret, shaking their heads and making exaggerated sad faces at him. They'd apparently hoped he'd join them in Gryffindor.