A piece of Harry Potter slash fiction
by Mysterious Harry Potter Fan ’13
The Sorting Hat lay in his usual pose, lazily crumpled up on his shelf in Dumbledore’s office. He did what he always did in his spare time (which was all the time), prepare the song he would sing for next year’s sorting ceremony. As of now, he had written all the words and was replaying them in his mind, memorizing slowly but confidently.
Suddenly, a glint of silver appeared on Dumbledore’s desk and began materializing into something long and thin. The Sorting Hat’s eyes opened wide with surprise and anticipation. His cherished possession, for which he was the only true resting place, was returning. The object he wasn’t even sure if he owned, but that always came back to him, was coming back to him again.
After a few seconds the Sword of Gryffindor had fully solidified on the table. Narrow but thick and sleekly tapering, the sword displayed its alluring edge in the early evening sunlight entering aslant through the window. The rubies appeared watery, moist and plump in the pre-sunset gleam. The hilt, expertly ribbed to give a better grip, poked out from the end of the sword farthest from the Sorting Hat.
He could feel it beginning, the mysterious force, like magnetism, like destiny, pulling the sword and his brim toward each other. They drifted together in mid-air, floating in the space between the desk and the shelf. The Sorting Hat closed his cloth eyelids, bracing himself for the coming contact…
And there it was, the tip, always sharper than he remembered, grazing the inner side of his fabric. The tip snagged luxuriously in a square between his wide threads. The Sorting Hat let the tip of the sword linger there a moment, stretching the sensitive threads, even letting them tear ever so slightly with the pressure. The Sorting Hat adjusted himself to let the sword slip back out into his gaping cavity.
The blade tickled the conical interior of the hat, making the very strings that composed him shudder with arousal. The Sorting hat rotated himself, allowing the blade to slide delicately along his rim, each fiber in turn brushing the dangerous edge before being massaged by the cool metal underside.
The Sorting Hat trembled as the sword moved unexpectedly deeper. As it pushed into the pointed tip, the Sorting Hat could feel himself stiffen from the floppy cloth he had been before to an erect triangle, kept rigid by his own excitement as well as the support of the sturdy sword itself. The Sorting Hat panted low and heavily, opening his large woven lips to let out an extended moan of pleasure. Without him even thinking about it, his voice transitioned to music—and the second, secret song he had been working on came pouring effortlessly forth. He sang in a breathy voice, the verses punctuated by quick, uncontrollable gasps.
Young wizard heads don’t satisfy;
I need a lengthy sword.
With every sorting ritual
I feel like I’ve been whored.
I dream of you, my shining gem,
I wait here for your love.
I know that only your fine blade
Fits in me like a glove.
Your silver’s tantalizing strokes
Are slippery as grease,
And I only grow to my full size
When you slide in my crease.
You’ve been to every inch of me,
My every sew and weave,
And nothing fills my emptiness
Quite like you fill my sleeve.
Enter me, you lusty blade
And roam each seam and stitch,
‘Cause if you’re good I’ll call your name,
My zesty xiphoid bitch.
The furry scalps of children are
No match for your sword, Godric.
What else on Earth could loosen me
Like a huge metallic dick?
I searched for an eternity
For flame to light my fuse.
Then it appeared in ruby red:
I knew which House to choose…
The Sorting Hat paused his tune to clench his mouth shut, simultaneously closing his brim around the hilt of the sword. Gradually, the handle slid in, each of its smooth grooves rubbing against the Sorting Hat’s rough burlap. The brim drew tighter still around the handle’s final groove at the same time the tip of the blade began to strain against the tip of the hat. “Gryffindor…Gryffindor…GRYFFINDOR!” the Sorting Hat screamed. In one motion the end of the handle slipped inside the hat and the end of the blade ripped through the top. The Sorting Hat spurted a long ivory thread which unraveled all over Dumbledore’s desktop.
At that instant the headmaster himself walked into the room and beheld the mess before him. Picking up the Sorting Hat and setting the Sword of Gryffindor aside, he examined the fresh tear in the hat’s fabric side. “I guess we’ll have to patch you up again,” he said. “No wonder you look so beat up.”