Can Snape lust for Whormoine

The Great Hall at Hogwarts was buzzing like a hive of overly caffeinated bees. First years milled about nervously, staring up at the enchanted ceiling, which mirrored the stormy sky outside. It was the sort of weather that made everyone glad to be inside—except for Ron Weasley, who was convinced he’d seen his owl, Errol, flying backwards in the wind.

"Bet he crashes into the Owlery again," Ron muttered to Harry, who was too busy staring at the Sorting Hat to respond. The frayed old hat sat on a stool at the front of the hall, looking like it had just been rescued from a thrift store fire.

“It’s alive, right?” Whormione whispered, her face pale. “I mean, it sings, but—do we have to touch it? What if it bites?”

Ron snorted. “What’s it gonna do? Chew your hair? Relax, it’s just a hat.”

Whormione shot him a withering glare. “Some of us *care* about hygiene, Ronald.”

Before Ron could respond with a snarky comeback that would inevitably involve earwax, Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a list of names. Her stern face was even more intimidating than usual, as if she could smell a prank brewing somewhere in the castle.

“Quiet, please!” she barked. The hall fell silent instantly.

The Sorting Hat twitched, its brim forming what could generously be called a mouth. Then, in a raspy voice that sounded like it had been gargling gravel for a century, it began its song.

**"Oh, I’m the Hat who knows it all,

Where you should go within these walls.

Perhaps you’ll brave where lions tread,

Or find your home with snakes instead…"**

The hat droned on, rhyming about each house with increasingly questionable lyricism. Harry tuned it out halfway through and glanced at the staff table. There, he saw the greasy-haired Professor Snape glaring at the Sorting Hat like it owed him money. His robes billowed even while he sat still, which Harry found deeply unsettling.

“Why does he look like that?” Harry whispered to Ron.

“Who, Snape? Dunno,” Ron replied. “Mum says he’s got a thing for gloom. Maybe he collects it.”

“Shh!” Whormione hissed, clearly more invested in the Sorting process than either of them.

McGonagall began calling names, and one by one, the first years were sorted. The hat took longer on some students than others, muttering to itself about their potential.

Finally, it was Whormione Gagger’s turn.

She approached the stool with the determination of someone marching to their own execution. As the hat was lowered onto her head, she stiffened.

“Ah, a clever one,” the hat mused in her ear. “You’d do well in Ravenclaw… but no, I see a fierce loyalty in you. Ambition, too, but tempered by something warmer. Yes, better be… *Gryffindor!*”

The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers. Whormione looked relieved as she made her way to the table, where the older students were clapping and welcoming her.

Next came Ron, who barely had time to sit down before the hat yelled, “Gryffindor!” as if it couldn’t be bothered to deliberate.

“Guess I was born for this,” Ron said, grinning as he plopped down next to Hermione.

Harry’s turn was last, and he was acutely aware of all the eyes on him. The hat deliberated over him the longest, murmuring about greatness and choices and something about Slytherin. But Harry insisted on Gryffindor, and the hat eventually relented.

As Harry took his seat, the festivities began. Plates magically filled with food, and the students eagerly tucked in. Whormione, who was nervously dissecting her mashed potatoes, suddenly noticed Professor Snape looking in her direction. His expression was inscrutable, but Whormione swore she caught a flicker of... something.

“Why is he staring at me?” she muttered to Ron and Harry.

“Who, Snape?” Ron said through a mouthful of chicken. “Probably wondering if you used conditioner. He doesn’t look like he’s seen it in years.”

Whormione wasn’t laughing. Snape’s eyes lingered for just a second too long before he turned his attention back to the staff table. Something about his gaze sent a shiver down her spine—not fear, exactly, but a strange, uncomfortable awareness.

And thus, the first day at Hogwarts began. Little did Whormione know, the Sorting Hat wasn’t the only thing sorting things out tonight. Somewhere deep in the shadows of the Great Hall, Professor Snape was feeling something he hadn’t felt in years: intrigue.