Title: A Hat's Tale
Summary: What's a hat to do when presented a very comprimising situation? Let one have their way, or choose the path of the individual?
Rating: Definitely PG. There's nothing here to offend--I hope.
a/n: I hope all of you fans out there like it. This was just a random idea floating in my head quite some time ago, and I hope it holds enough merit!

I was old, tattered and worn. I grew to embrace age, for as a wise old Headmaster once told me, age has no boundaries. I contemplated that for a time before allowing the beating to begin. I was not yet a thousand years to date when the most trying head slammed forcefully in my own. The name was a familiar one; it had grown to become some of the most famous Blood-Traitors of all time, or at least, Salazar himself would have said so.

The night was a recognizable one, the very scent told the date. September 1st. That was the exception to the rule of detainment that I otherwise was captive beneath its only regime. That day is one in what will most likely soon become millions. I do not yet know how long an article of clothing, such as I perhaps, can remain intact. Perhaps another thousand shall do, and I will cease to exist. Then, at least, no one will speak of my moment of weakness, my hesitancy, when that boy's head thrust into my brain.

His abilities I summed up; he would be great at just about everything, with the normal dearth of potions; no boy of his name had any capability in that branch of magic. It just was not in his family's nature. Bravery overshadowed his other, somewhat admirable traits. This is what caused irrational judgment overall in the line of the family's behalf. He seemed like every other man before him, but then, there was something more.

His aptitude to think was quite clear, if he somehow shot down his, if not, dauntless ways. He believed that no wrong could befall such a man filled with an inexplicable quantity of courage. Although, this is not what else I perceived. He had not only everything a true Gryffindor would, but he also held a taint of someone else. Whatever the reason he held such prestigious skill, he could not be a Gryffindor. Salazar would snatch him up in a twinkling of an eye.

I tried to reason with him. I told him of where the real fruits of his labors could be best nurtured, and yet, he shot down every suggestion in such a defiant way, I held my tongue, (I would, at least, if I had one). I held my silence when the boy's very thoughts hit me with such arduous determination, and a terrible fragility on his part. "Not Slytherin," he pleaded, "Anything but Slytherin."

At this, I grumbled. Who would not desire a place in the greatest House of the four? Who would stoop to such levels when greater triumphs, greater advances, could only transpire in the noble House of Salazar?

Nevertheless, as I begrudgingly permitted the boy to have his say, and place him in Gryffindor, I remembered a very significant aspect that I had so conveniently forgotten in this plight- he was a Potter.