Got Hisoka template in Harry Potter World - Chapter 7
Chapter 7: The Sorting Ceremony
Jack stood in the shadowed antechamber with the other first-years, the weight of hundreds of stares prickling his neck. The Great Hall stretched before them, enchanted ceiling swirling with storm clouds, four long tables packed with students in black robes trimmed in scarlet, blue, yellow, and green.
A hush fell as Professor McGonagall unrolled the parchment.
“When I call your name, you will sit on the stool and be sorted.”
One by one, students marched forward—Finch, Matthew to Hufflepuff, the Patil twins split between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Then—
“Fletcher, Jack.”
Whispers rippled through the hall. Jack kept his face blank as he approached the stool, but his pulse roared in his ears.
This is it.
The Sorting Hat dropped onto his head, its brim sagging over his eyes.
The moment the Sorting Hat touched Jack’s head, the world dissolved.
A pressure unlike anything he’d felt before settled against his temples—not painful, but invasive, like fingers combing through every thought he’d ever had. The Great Hall’s murmurs faded into white noise as the Hat’s voice, rich with centuries of wisdom, echoed inside his skull.
“Ohhh, this is delicious. A mind like a vault—triple-locked and full of surprises.”
Jack stiffened. Don’t think about the system. Don’t think about Hisoka—
“Too late,” the Hat purred. “I don’t know what that is, but it’s wrapped around your soul like ivy on a tombstone. And the hunger in you… Merlin’s beard, it’s intoxicating.”
Jack’s nails bit into his palms. You’re supposed to Sort me, not psychoanalyze me.
The Hat’s laughter was a dry rustle. “They’re the same thing, boy. Now let’s see… Ravenclaw? No—you love knowledge, but only as a weapon. Gryffindor? Pah! You’d stab bravery in the back if it gave you an advantage.”
A bead of sweat trailed down Jack’s spine. The Hat was peeling him apart like an onion, layer by layer.
“Hufflepuff, then,” Jack thought desperately. I’m loyal. Kind.
“Liar,” the Hat crooned. “You’d burn loyalty for kindling if it warmed your hands. But Slytherin… ah. Slytherin fits. Ambition so thick I could choke on it. Cunning like a razor between the ribs. You’re already one of them—you just don’t want to admit it.”
Jack’s breath hitched. They’ll eat me alive in Slytherin.
“And you’ll love every second of it,” the Hat whispered. “The challenge. The game. Don’t pretend you’re not itching to play.”
Silence.
Then—
“SLYTHERIN!”
—
The shout ripped through the Great Hall like a curse.
For three heartbeats, utter stillness.
Then—
At the Slytherin Table:
Draco Malfoy’s fork clattered onto his plate. “You’ve got to be joking.”
Daphne Greengrass went parchment-pale. “That’s… not possible.”
Blaise Zabini’s fingers tightened around his goblet, knuckles whitening. “The Hat’s finally lost it.”
A seventh-year prefect, Cassius Warrington, actually stood, his chair screeching against the stone floor. “Professor! There must be a mistake—”
At the Staff Table:
Snape’s quill snapped in his hand, ink bleeding across the parchment like a wound.
Dumbledore’s twinkle dimmed for the first time all evening.
McGonagall’s lips pressed into a bloodless line.
At the Gryffindor Table:
Ron Weasley choked on his pumpkin juice. “Blimey. A Muggle-born Slytherin?”
Hermione’s eyes were saucers. “That’s… unprecedented.”
Harry just stared, his scar prickling.
—
Jack’s legs moved mechanically toward the Slytherin table, every step echoing in the unnatural hush. The whispers hit him like thrown knives:
“—must’ve tricked the Hat—”
“—father will hear about this—”
“—filthy mudblood defiling our house—”
He reached the table. Not a single student budged to make room.
Then—
A freckled third-year, Marcus Flint, sneered and deliberately spread his arms across the bench. “No room for your kind here.”
Jack’s vision tinted gold at the edges—Ren flickering uncontrolled. The plates on the table rattled.
A hand suddenly yanked him down onto the bench.
Theodore Nott, quiet until now, stared at him with eerie calm. “Sit. Before you make it worse.”
Jack sat.
Theo released him like he’d been burned. “You’re either the bravest idiot I’ve ever met,” he muttered, “or the stupidest genius.”
Across the table, Daphne recovered her voice. “How. How did the Hat put you here?”
Jack reached for a bread roll, forcing his hand not to shake. “It said I was ‘too sweet’ for Hufflepuff.”
Draco’s laugh was jagged. “And I’m the bloody Minister of Magic.”
Blaise leaned forward, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Listen carefully, Fletcher. You might wear our colors, but you’ll never be one of us. One misstep…” He trailed off meaningfully.
Jack took a bite of bread, chewing slowly. Then he smiled—a slow, Hisoka-esque curl of lips that made Blaise recoil.
“Can’t wait.”
—
The Slytherin common room was a submerged cathedral of green-tinged shadows, the Black Lake pressing against towering windows. Prefect Gemma Farley delivered the usual spiel about house unity, but her gaze kept flicking to Jack like he was a bomb about to detonate.
When she dismissed them, the first-years clustered together—except for Jack.
Daphne whirled on him the moment the dormitory door shut. “This is a mistake. You don’t belong here.”
Jack shrugged out of his robes, unfazed. “Tell that to the Hat.”
Draco blocked his path to the nearest four-poster. “You’ll last a week. Maybe.”
Jack met his glare. “Bet?”
A beat. Then—
Pansy Parkinson giggled nervously. “Merlin, he’s mad.”
Theo, already curled in his bed with a book, spoke without looking up. “Either shut up or stab him. This is tedious.”
Jack claimed the bed by the door—strategic, back to the wall. As the others whispered furiously, he stared at the canopy, the Hat’s words slithering through his mind:
“You’ll love every second of it.”
Outside the window, a giant squid drifted past, tentacles ghosting against the glass.
Jack smiled.
Game on.