September 1, 1866
Protego wouldn't say that he was nervous exactly. It wasn't as though he didn't have a general idea of what to expect. But still. It was a bit strange standing in front of the whole school, waiting to be sorted. He kept eyeing the Sorting Hat, each time it was placed on another student's head, and for whatever reason his eyes kept being drawn to the "mouth" that opened up and called out whatever house the student was in. Like now, as he thought this, it was calling out "GRYFFINDOR!" for Jennings, Stephen and the kid was scuttling off toward the Gryffindor table.
Protego tapped his foot impatiently while he waited his turn. Finally Fianto was called, and Protego was nearly bursting with nervous energy. His twin could have been under the hat for a second or two hours, it didn't matter, it would have felt the same.
Finally, finally, it was his own turn. Protego tripped his way to the stool on feet that seemed to have forgotten how to work, and shoved the hat onto his head.
Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was the budding salesman inside of him. Maybe it was a combination of the two. But if the Sorting Hat said anything to him first, Protego didn't hear, because he was just thinking at it, You know what you could use? Some new thread. And he may have been thinking that he had some in his trunk, and the next thing he knew...
"SLYTHERIN!"
Oh. Well, all right.
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Protego appears perpetually twenty-eight.
