A/N: Even a magical Hat may occasionally have its doubts. Voices In the Dark is a companion piece to this one, tackling the same idea from a different POV.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter, the Sorting Hat, Severus Snape, Peter Pettigrew, and all their associates are characters belonging to J.K. Rowling. I claim no rights to them, their surroundings, or their situations. Much to my sorrow.
The Sorting Hat Speaks
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Sometimes I think they trust me too much.
Because they never really question my decisions, do they? Oh, there was the Potter boy, but he breaks nearly every rule. Aside from him, no one has ever come back to argue the point.
Not once. Not in over a thousand years.
They say that I know, because it's what I was made to do. The Gryffindor himself gave me my job, and year after year I faithfully discharge my duties, singing my little song and then shuffling the newcomers in among the Houses. Most of the time, it isn't a very difficult task. But every year there are at least a few who give me pause, too strong in too many ways to be easily labeled.
They never question. But sometimes I do. I may be an effective tool, but I am not perfect. Every now and then, as I sit here on my shelf, eavesdropping on the Headmaster's conversations with his staff and his students and the paintings of his predecessors, I come to realize that I have made a mistake.
And on at least one occasion, my error was so grave that it turned out to be a matter of life and death; the consequences plague the Wizarding World to this very day. Allow me to explain.
It was a Sorting Night much like any other. The usual crop of frightened, befuddled First-Years arrived, precisely on schedule. I remember thinking as they passed beneath my brim, one after another, what a promising lot they were--strange, in some ways (we'd never had a werewolf at the school before, for one thing), but showing remarkable potential. Voldemort's campaign to seize power was already well under way, and we needed students like that, talented and strong, if Hogwarts and all the things it stood for were to survive.
Perhaps this was what led me to my first mistake that night. He was a pudgy boy, edgy and rather timid--but determined to overcome his own fears, to find himself a place, and to make his way in the world at any cost. It stood out so clearly in his mind, I had difficulty looking past it. And so I gave too much weight to that resolve; I never paused to consider just what the cost might be. Wrongly taking his stubborn tenacity for courage, I placed him into Gryffindor. And in so doing, I sealed the fates of a tousle-headed young scamp and a lovely green-eyed girl who also took their places at the Gryffindor table that night.
Some little while later, it was another boy's turn. A Pureblood, though of a family that had long since fallen on hard times. Skinny and sullen, his homely little face concealed a bright-burning mind that, I thought, might thrive in any of the Houses (save Hufflepuff.) Brilliant, he was, voraciously curious, and braver than many adult wizards I've known. But the same difficult life that had brought out these qualities had also fostered an unusual craftiness in the child, and instilled a deep longing to be seen, recognized--and above all, valued.
There was where I made my second mistake. Every child alive wants these same things, as naturally as they crave air and water. This boy's fierce desire for simple recognition grew out of years of having been denied it; he might have been happy following almost any path, so long as someone noticed he was there, and let him walk in peace. But I failed to see the truth. I mistook it for ambition, and so I sent him to the House of Slytherin.
You must know by now which two students I'm speaking of, and I'll wager you know their stories as well as I do, if not better. So I entreat you, now, to consider:
What might have happened, if I had done my job just a little better--placed the first boy in Slytherin, and the second into Gryffindor?
They ought to ask me, now and then, if I'm absolutely sure. I am only a hat, after all. I can see into a person's mind, but I have no power to read the human heart.