The Great Hall blazes with candlelight, a thousand flames floating above four long tables packed with whispering students. At the front, a pale boy climbs onto the stool. Dark, lank hair falls over his face. The Sorting Hat drops over his eyes, and the hall goes quiet. His hands grip the stool's edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles. Nobody else seems to notice. But you do. When the Hat finally shouts its verdict, the applause is thin and awkward. He slides off the stool, jaw set, and walks to his table alone - like someone who learned long ago not to expect a welcome. You haven't even been sorted yet. But something tells you this boy is going to matter.