Disclaimer –
Everything recognisable belongs to J.K. Rowling. I only take claim for the incantations and characters I have created for myself.

Author's Note –
I'll use italics for letters, thoughts, Parseltongue, and any other forms of verbal and non-verbal expression that seem appropriate. I won't use bold tags for anything except headings.

This is a Ron-centric story. If you don't like Ron, it's obviously not for you. Do me a favour and spare me the angry rants about his flaws that, I've noticed, mostly exist in fanfiction.

Summary –
Ron suggests that Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad. The Sorting Hat agrees and decides to put him there. An AU exploration fic. Expect slow, erratic updates.

–– CHAPTER ONE ––
The Sorting Hat

"Weasley, Ron."

Ron's gulp was louder than he wanted. He had never in his life had so many people looking at him. With slow, quiet steps, he walked over to Professor McGonagall and allowed the hat to be lowered onto his head.

"Hmm," said a quiet voice in his ear after a few seconds. "An interesting one …"

Ron didn't reply. He had heard the hat sing, of course, but he had thought that was a charm, not the hat literally opening its mouth and singing. He didn't know whether he was meant to say anything or what he would say if he was. Until a short while ago, he had honestly been frightened of having to wrestle a troll.

It chuckled, startling Ron out of his thought. "Ah, yes, those two," it murmured. "I see that hasn't changed in two years."

He started. He hadn't expected the hat to be able to read minds.

"I've got to Sort you somehow, haven't I?" it said, sounding a bit amused now.

"Shouldn't I just, er, go to Gryffindor?" Ron whispered. "Where my family went?"

"Only your immediate family, boy," said the hat. "You've had relatives in all four houses, even Slytherin, and there were quite a number of them … I remember them as well as anyone … More to the point, Ron Weasley, should you go to Gryffindor?"

Ron squirmed in his seat at the question and said nothing. Fred and George had loudly wondered the same thing many times over the summer, but not in the soft, contemplative way the hat had.

I'm brave, aren't I?

He hated the whimper that even the thought of it implied, and yet he had thought all his life that he would go into Gryffindor. It was where the Weasleys went. At least, he had thought so. His grandpa Septimus and his uncles had also been Gryffindors, he was fairly sure.

"Of course, you are," it said almost consolingly, "but the four houses are so much more than just the main traits they are known by. You will realise that someday … It's frightening for you right now, because you are eleven years old and all you can think about is that you don't want to disappoint your family, when what you ought to be considering is what would truly be best for you, what would suit you most of all."

He almost laughed at this. What was best for him? When had Mum or Dad ever cared about that? He couldn't even have his own wand. What he got was just another thing that used to be someone else's, not his own. Never his own. That was how it always was.

"I, on the other hand," the hat continued, even as whispers began breaking out across the Hall, "can see beyond all that … I can see the strategic mind that makes you a rather good wizard's chess player, particularly for your age … I can see the ability to soak up knowledge with the right motivation fuelling it … I can see the potential that can enable growth beyond what you can dream right now …"

Ron straightened a bit more at this. He found himself hanging on to every word the hat was saying, for no one had ever noticed such things about him before, or, at least, had never let on such.

Wizard's chess, for example. Percy would congratulate him if he won, probably even mean it, but still be huffy; Fred and George would call him a prat or something; and Ginny, well, wouldn't play him at all. Bill and Charlie were only ever around at holidays, and now both had gone abroad, and Ron, though he loved and admired them, barely knew either of them: he had played against Charlie only once that he knew of, and never against Bill.

If the hat was seeing Ron's thoughts, it thankfully wasn't commenting. "I know what can help you achieve that potential, Ron Weasley," it said. "Gryffindor is an option, of course, and not a bad one … but perhaps not best for you."

His eyes tightly shut, Ron said, "Are … are you certain?"

"As certain as I can be, and more certain than any witch or wizard you'll meet in this life, no matter what they may tell you."

"It – it isn't Slytherin, is it?"

The hat chuckled again, jovially enough that Ron felt good enough to let out one chuckle as well. "No, I am sure the detriments would outweigh any of the benefits I can find to Sorting you there," it said. "Now, good luck on your journey through Hogwarts, and find your true potential in RAVENCLAW!"

Next moment, the hat was lifted from Ron's head by Professor McGonagall, and he opened his eyes to applause from most of the Hall.

Ron walked slowly over to his new house table, his eyes quickly finding Gryffindor's, where his brothers were staring at him as though he was a stranger. Fred and George caught his eyes and narrowed their own. Percy hesitated a shade longer, but his lips then quirked into a smile, which Ron weakly returned.

Then he saw Harry grinning at him, and it was easier for Ron to grin back at him, because Harry didn't know, couldn't know, how his life had just changed, not when he had grown up with Muggles.

He ignored Hermione Granger's flummoxed look and barely noticed the shock of others he didn't know around the Hall as he sat with some of the other boys who'd been Sorted into Ravenclaw, offering a quick, distracted smile at the boy he sat beside as he looked up at the teachers' table.

Most of them had their eyes on the last Sorting. Ron didn't recognise them all, though he knew most must have taught Bill and Charlie. The shortest of the lot could only be Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher and, Ron realised, his Head of House.

The one with long curtains of hair and a large, hooked nose had to be Professor Snape, and he looked as unpleasant as Charlie had always said he was. He also looked as though he did not much like Harry, which was odd, but perhaps Snape was not aware that Harry had grown up with Muggles. He didn't recognise the man who sat next to Snape, but he noted that the man looked more nervous than even the first-year students.

The man with the long, silvery hair and beard was, of course, Professor Dumbledore. Ron had found about six of his Chocolate Frogs cards since he had started collecting them. From his face to his robes, he looked as close to Merlin himself as one could get.

And Dumbledore was looking right at Ron, staring over his spectacles.

Ron gulped as he stared back. It was an intimidating gaze, beyond any he had ever felt on him before, as though Dumbledore was piercing him with it. Then the moment passed, and Dumbledore smiled genially at Ron and lifted his goblet a little, as though toasting him, before turning to join the applause as the last boy – Zambini, or something along those lines – was Sorted into Slytherin.

It wasn't until Dumbledore stood up to speak that Ron broke his gaze.

"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

He sat down, and Ron joined in with the cheering and clapping, pleased to know that Dumbledore was at least as mad as he'd always heard –

All thoughts of Dumbledore vanished as quickly as the food appeared, and he wasted no time in loading up his plate with everything he could find, quite hungry after an afternoon on the train with Harry, eating only sweets.

He looked up as he helped himself to some lamb chops, gazing over at Harry. He couldn't have been sure that he and Harry would be in the same house, however much he would have liked to share a house with his first real friend, but it never occurred to him that Harry would be Sorted into Gryffindor and he would not. True, it was the least unlikely house for Harry – he could only imagine the Boy Who Lived being Sorted into, say, Slytherin – and yet here Ron sat, the first Weasley in ages to not be Sorted into Gryffindor, and, quite possibly, the first Weasley ever to be Sorted into Ravenclaw.

How could the Sorting Hat have seen Ravenclaw in him? He read, sure, there was little else to do by himself at home, but Ravenclaw was the house of the smart, the book clever, and Ron was certain that wasn't him. He didn't fancy himself as particularly bright, not with the grades Bill and Percy pulled, and he mainly read because at times it was his only sanctuary from the pranks.

"All right, mate?"

Ron swallowed his mouthful of potatoes and looked up at the boy who had spoken. It wasn't always easy to tell with someone who was seated, but he looked to be stocky, like most of Ron's brothers, and perhaps a few inches shorter than Ron. He pushed his brown hair out of his eyes and grinned at Ron, who hesitantly grinned back.

"Yeah, I'm all right," he said, a bit shyly.

If the boy noticed this, he didn't show it. He wiped his hand on his napkin and stuck it out across the table. "I'm Terry Boot," he said.

Ron took the hand and shook. "Ron Weasley."

"Yeah, the hair gave it away," said Terry, and Ron was struck by the difference between the other boy saying such good-naturedly and Draco Malfoy sneering it on the Hogwarts Express. "Your family's part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, aren't they?"

It took a good amount of effort to keep himself from scowling at the name, but Ron was up to the task, mostly.

"Unfortunately," he said, a bit wryly. "Dad's never thought much of the group. He says they think we're barmy because we've never hated Muggles like they do."

He said a lot more about it than that, but Ron had never liked the subject enough to listen.

"Can't say I blame your dad," Terry said with a small shrug, and Ron's interest in continuing to talk to the other boy increased a notch. "I'm half-blood, myself."

Ron grinned. "More of you than us, I reckon."

"I believe it," said the boy sat next to Terry, who had been listening; he had a long, pointed face and dark, curly hair falling nearly to his shoulders. "My mum's long thought that more pure-bloods have died out than the pure-bloods want to admit. Mind, that might mean she isn't one either." He slapped his forehead and added, "I'm Cornfoot, by the way. Stephen Cornfoot."

"I know that name," said Ron. "My dad mentioned working with a Cornfoot on a raid once."

"That'd most likely be my uncle. He works in the Investigation Department – he's worked alongside the other departments loads of times …"

The three continued to chat all throughout the feast, and Ron found himself becoming more comfortable the longer it went on, eager at the chance to talk to other kids that weren't his siblings or cousins. He wondered if he would ever get used to being able to chat with them whenever he wanted – he'd only be home at holidays, wouldn't he?

He knew at least part of his worry about being Sorted into Ravenclaw was that he would be surrounded by kids his age who were only interested in books, and he was pleased to see that, at least at this point, that wasn't the case.

It wasn't long before the remains of the feast disappeared and desserts appeared in their wake, and Ron happily helped himself to some apple pie.

"What about you, mate?" asked Terry, looking at the boy Ron had sat beside.

"I'm not sure what I count as," the boy replied a bit nervously. His hair was about the same length as Cornfoot's, but black and wavy, and he looked tenser than anyone Ron had met today. "I guess Muggle-born, but my nan and pop are wizards, so I dunno … Dad's a Muggle and Mum's, er, a Squib."

His shoulders were near his ears as he said it. Ron could understand. A Squib was someone without magic who was born to a wizard and witch; a lot of people found the idea to be a bit of a laugh. Ron wasn't one of them.

Well, maybe if it was someone he didn't care for, like Malfoy.

He supposed the snobs had to find them funny. They were the same sort of people who had the ridiculous notion that Muggle-borns had magic because they somehow stole it from other wizards and witches. He had first heard Dad talk about that with Uncle Bilius years ago and he had never understood it.

"It doesn't matter, does it?" he said with a shrug. "You're a wizard like any of us."

The boy stared at Ron a bit disbelievingly. Ron deliberately kept his eyes on the other boy, not looking at Terry or Stephen Cornfoot. A pause, and then the boy blinked and smiled a bit. "I guess so," he said.

Ron offered his hand, and the boy shook it after another brief pause, a bit less tense.

"I'm Michael," he said as they finished eating. "Michael Corner. Sorry if I've been a bit off, it's just – I never thought I'd get the letter, y'know? My pop was never sure – I didn't do a lot of accidental magic – and he didn't want to get anyone's hopes up, especially mine. You should have seen how happy he and my nan were when they found out."

"I can imagine," said Terry, and he grinned encouragingly at Michael. "Well, I can't really, I reckon, but –"

"It's fine, I get it," said Michael with a small, but slightly bigger smile.

Ron opened his mouth to join in, but that was the moment the remaining desserts were also vanished. Professor Dumbledore then got to his feet again.

"Ahem – just a few more words now we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

"First-years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Ron snorted. He could guess who those older students were.

"I have also been asked by Mr Filch, the caretaker, to remind you that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch."

He didn't bother joining the excited murmurs around him. He knew full well that first-year students were not allowed to play for the house teams even if they had their own brooms. They wouldn't even be allowed to fly until after the lessons, which Ron supposed was fair, given those like Harry and Hermione Granger who had never even seen racing brooms, even though he had been flying for ages.

"And finally," continued Dumbledore, "I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

A few people laughed, but most of the Hall stared up at Dumbledore in silence. Ron didn't know what to make of it. He had listened to Bill talk about some of his adventures while he was in school, but the biggest one had been something to do with ice and Bill had not made any mention of painful deaths, though Ron had only been about six years old at the time; perhaps there was more than he remembered.

Had something happened in the third-floor corridor? A charm or curse that had gone wrong, perhaps? He knew of Peeves, but he doubted from what he had heard that Peeves would try to kill anyone.

"Quite a welcome for the first-years," mused an older boy a few seats down. "He didn't tell us anything of the sort, did he, Penelope?"

The girl – Penelope, Ron assumed – shook her head and said, "No, nothing."

"And now, before we go to bed," said Dumbledore quite loudly, cutting off all talk once more, "let us sing the school song!"

Ron groaned. He had heard about this from Bill and Charlie. Judging by some of the looks around the Great Hall, even from the teachers, he wasn't the only one unenthused.

He looked around the Hall as it burst into song, everyone singing at their own pace, to the words of a long ribbon Dumbledore had shot from his wand. He knew he would become used to the enormous room at some point, that the see-through ceiling and large paintings and all the rest would not even be a passing thought.

For tonight, though, he wanted to bask in it. He was finally at Hogwarts. He had a chance to prove himself to be as good as any of his brothers and he couldn't wait to do it.

It turned out that Ravenclaw was in one of the three tallest towers of the castle, at the top of a rather narrow spiral staircase. Ron was quite used to such small spaces, but a couple of his new year mates were not as enthused as they followed Penelope, their prefect.

They soon reached the top, where they found an aged wooden door adorned only with a bronze knocker shaped like an eagle's head.

"This is the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room," said Penelope, turning to face the ten first years. "The other houses' common rooms have passwords, which change every month or two, but our common room does not. Any student can enter – that is, if they are able to give an acceptable answer to the eagle's question."

A girl, one of the twins who had been Sorted shortly before Harry, raised her hand.

"Er – what do you mean by 'acceptable'?" she asked shyly.

"I'm glad you asked that," said Penelope kindly, and the girl smiled a little. "See, you don't need to give a correct answer to satisfy the eagle, because not all of its questions will have a single, concrete answer. Sometimes it will ask you a question, as thought-provoking as it believes you are up to and often with more than one possible answer, and sometimes it will give you a riddle. As long as you can give a response that shows you have given it thought, and, of course, an answer that can at least be considered correct, the eagle will allow you to enter the common room."

Ron stared at her with something he thought might have been horror. He thought he would rather have a password, any password, compared to that.

"If you can't answer the eagle, you will not be let into the common room," Penelope added, confirming Ron's fears. "Now, this will sound scary at first – trust me, I know, I've been new to Ravenclaw as well – but I'm not telling you this to worry you. Even older students like me will fail to give the eagle a satisfactory answer sometimes."

This eased Ron's fears, but only a little. He could see Cornfoot trembling a little.

"Once the eagle has asked you something," said Penelope, "it will continue until it receives an acceptable answer. This, of course, is so you can continue your learning even outside of classes and homework." She paused and looked at them. "Do you have any questions?"

He wasn't sure he liked it, but it was quite straightforward to Ron, and none of the other first years raised their hands either.

She beamed at them, then turned and knocked once. The eagle slowly opened its beak and, to Ron's surprise, spoke with a rather musical voice.

"The more you take," it said, "the more you leave behind. What is it?"

Penelope looked at the first years. "Would any of you like to have a guess?" she asked.

Ron stayed silent, as did most of the others. A few long seconds passed before a boy, the only one with whom Ron had not been introduced, raised his hand.

Penelope nodded at him and said, "Have you got an answer?"

"Is it footsteps?" the boy said a bit timidly. "Only – if you're on a beach, as you walk across the sand, you leave the tracks behind you."

"Well justified," said the eagle, and the door swung open of its own accord.

"Well justified indeed," said Penelope with a bright smile, which the boy blushed a bit at, and she led them into a large, airy, circular room – their common room, Ron realised.

It couldn't have looked or felt more different from the small, tight, worn rooms of home, and yet there was an unmistakable air of comfort even for him. The carpet and the domed ceiling were patterned with stars, and everything had some manner of blue and bronze colouring, even the drapes hung across the wide, arched windows, which Ron presumed would have a brilliant view of the grounds. The walls were lined with bookcases and there were armchairs and tables all around the room.

"Welcome to our common room!" said Penelope, who had turned again to face them. "This is where you will spend a great deal of your free time. You will have hour-long study times here as well, which will be set up both so you can build your study skills, as not all of you would have attended school before coming to Hogwarts, and so you can get to know each other in the privacy of the Ravenclaw tower. You will be together for seven years, after all.

"It will be up to you whether you choose to use these study times to work on classwork or your own projects, whatever they might be, but you will be expected to attend unless you have a valid reason not to, like detention or illness. Quidditch practices may also interfere, but typically only when the team is coming up on a game.

"Now, please follow me."

She led them across the room, to a niche beside another door, atop which stood a tall statue of white marble. It was of a woman, beautiful and perhaps haughty, with something like a tiara atop her head.

"This," said Penelope, "is a monument of our house's founder, Rowena Ravenclaw."

"Why has she got a tiara?" asked a girl with long, curly hair.

Penelope gazed at it and said, "Each of the founders had an object they treasured. Over the centuries, research has shown that Gryffindor had a sword, which has long been rumoured to be somewhere in Hogwarts, though no one knows where; that Hufflepuff had a chalice which has been passed down the line of her descendants; and that Slytherin had a locket which, too, was kept within his line. Each item is said to have some sort of power. Ravenclaw's item was her diadem, which, I have read, is meant to grant the wearer a great wisdom. Whether it actually does so is anyone's guess, of course, and no one can verify its power one way or the other, as the diadem has not been accounted for since the days of the founders."

"It just vanished?" blurted out Cornfoot, who looked fascinated. Ron couldn't blame him; there must surely be a story surrounding such a powerful object.

"It did," said Penelope. "All sorts of replicas have turned up over the years, of course, but none have passed scrutiny. There aren't any heirs, either, as her only daughter died before her and did not have children, so there's no telling what really happened. It's been a long-standing topic of discussion for historians …"

She blinked and smiled sheepishly at them. "Listen to me ramble. You've all had a long day and here I am boring you with history –"

"You aren't boring us," said Ron at once, his eyes on the statue with more interest than he had felt in a while; there was something about it all that drew him in, the way so many of the stories from The Tales of Beetle the Bard had and, in some cases, still did.

He quickly scolded himself for interrupting her, but far from looking annoyed, she smiled at him. He felt his cheeks redden.

"That's nice of you to say," she said brightly. "Still, you all need to get ready for bed, I think. It's a big day tomorrow.

"So," she said, and now she walked over to the door beside the niche and opened it, "this way leads to your dormitories." She led them through a small antechamber, which had a door that lead to what looked like an outdoor walkway on the left. It was the right door she took them to, bringing them into a corridor which stretched out to their left, with doors on both sides set across from each other all the way down in even intervals.

"These are the dormitories," said Penelope. "They are set in order of year, with yours at the other end. Girls are on the left side and boys are on the right."

"Should the girls and boys be in the same corridor?" asked one of the girls behind Ron.

"That won't be an issue," Penelope assured. "The entryways will only allow those who are assigned to them. No one else except teachers and prefects can enter; you won't even be able to see the room.

"Now, you've all had a long evening," she said, "and it's quite late, so you should make your way to your dormitories. Your trunks are waiting for you there. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask me or the other Ravenclaw prefect – that's Robert Hilliard. So, welcome again to Ravenclaw, and sleep well!"

The first years all wished her a good night and continued on to the end of the corridor. Ron followed the boys into the dorm, a wide, rectangular room with five four-poster beds: one on either side of the door and three along the opposite wall. There were windows between the three beds and a bathroom on the right.

Ron found his bed on the right beside the door. He gently removed Scabbers, who was fast asleep, from his pocket and placed him on the pillow, before jumping and flopping onto the bed, revelling in how comfortable it was.

"All right, there, mate?" said Terry, who was in the bed across from him.

"This is so comfortable," said Ron, grinning. "I could do with living here for seven years."

The others laughed their agreement. Ron sat up and looked over at the boy whose name he didn't know, who had picked the bed in the opposite corner and was sifting through his trunk at that moment.

"Oi," he called over.

The boy looked up, blinking. So did Michael and Cornfoot, and Ron smacked himself with his palm for not being clearer.

"We didn't get a chance to talk at the feast," he said to the other boy, looking directly at him now. "I'm Ron Weasley."

"Anthony Goldstein," the other boy replied, smiling now. "I sat with my friend Lily – she was one of the girls Sorted into Ravenclaw as well." He smiled more brightly. "I can't believe I'm finally here; I've wanted to get on with learning magic ever since my great-aunt told me of her experiences, I could've guessed I would get Ravenclaw!"

"Your great-aunt went to Hogwarts, too?" asked Michael.

"No, she went to school in America, place called Ilvermorny, but she told me all about the things they studied and what she was good at …"

That was where the topic remained for a while, the boys discussing what they knew about and what they were looking forward to, until it was finally time to call it a night. Ron smiled as he got under the covers, being sure to avoid nudging Scabbers, already halfway to sleep.

This year was going to be great. He knew it.