As the Sorting ceremony trudged on like a knight in rusty armor—clunky, slow, and guaranteed to make someone fall asleep—a series of new students crossed the threshold into Hogwarts househood. Some with grace, some with dread, and some with the enthusiasm of a caffeinated squirrel.
But Harry Potter wasn't watching. Not really. Not when the chaos in his head made the rest of the Hall seem like background music.
"Finnegan, Seamus!" Professor McGonagall announced, sounding like she was already done with all of their nonsense. Her tartan robe flared as she stepped back, eyes twitching only slightly from Sorting fatigue.
Seamus walked up to the stool like he owned the castle. No, scratch that—like he was the castle and it was lucky to have him.
"Oh this is gonna be good," Catpool's voice purred into Harry's mind like a buzzsaw dipped in whiskey and snark. "Irish Firecracker incoming. I can practically smell the future explosions."
"I give him a week before something goes boom," Harry muttered, lips twitching into a smirk.
"Boom? Boom?" Jim screeched telepathically in full Jim Carrey mode, voice bouncing like a trampoline. "My boy Seamus is radiating that 'I mixed fireworks with shampoo just to see what would happen' energy! I am living for it!"
The Sorting Hat barely touched Seamus's head before shouting, "GRYFFINDOR!"
Seamus leapt off the stool like he'd just won the Triwizard Tournament. "YEAH, BABY!" he shouted, finger-gunning at random tables, including Slytherin, who looked mildly offended just by his existence.
"I don't know whether to be impressed or terrified," Ron said, staring after him.
"Both," Hermione deadpanned.
"I'm calling it now," Harry added, leaning toward Ron. "Gryffindor just got its own leprechaun mascot. Seamus 'Snap-Crackle-Boom' Finnegan."
"Oh, he's definitely gonna try to set the drapes on fire before Halloween," Catpool added. "Five galleons says he blames Peeves."
Jim hummed. "Or a flobberworm. I once blamed a flobberworm for a four-alarm chili incident. Good times."
McGonagall, now visibly clinging to sanity, barely waited for Seamus to stop high-fiving every second-year before calling the next name. "Goyle, Gregory."
The room dropped into that kind of hush usually reserved for surprise quiz announcements or dementors. Goyle stomped forward, the air vibrating with what could only be described as 'unearned confidence meets dairy-induced regret.'
"Ffffff—"
The fart noise rang out like a cursed trumpet from the seventh circle of digestive hell.
Ron's eyes went wide. "Did he just—?"
"Oh, no no no," Harry said, barely able to breathe from laughter. "That wasn't Goyle. That was Jim."
Jim's voice slithered into all their minds like a slippery soap opera villain. "And for my next number… 'Ode to the Undercarriage.'" He made the noise again, twice as long this time.
"Ladies and gents, presenting: Goyle the Flatulent!" Catpool shouted. "Coming to a lavatory near you!"
Neville was redder than the Gryffindor banner. "I think… I think I just died."
"You wish you were dead," Hermione muttered, burying her face. "This is social suicide by proximity."
More fart sounds followed with every wiggle of Goyle's confused, hunched frame.
McGonagall stared at him like she wanted to turn him into a throw pillow.
"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat finally barked, probably to escape the smell.
Goyle slunk off the stool, head held high-ish, though the fart soundtrack continued as he walked. Jim made sure of that.
"You know what they say," Harry quipped, "He who dealt it... still got Sorted."
"Honestly, it's impressive," Susan Bones added, blinking. "He's gonna be in Hogwarts legend for that."
"More like Hogwarts gas-tronomy," Jim crowed.
Catpool coughed into the mental connection. "Harry, I've got a name for the Slytherin version of The Fat Lady. You ready? The Gassy Gentleman."
The laughter echoed across houses like someone cast a Sonorus spell on the hilarity.
And then McGonagall, channeling every ounce of willpower she possessed (which, for the record, could probably shatter granite), said with iron-clad dignity, "Hermione Granger."
The room froze.
Harry blinked. "Oh boy."
Jim whispered reverently. "We're entering sacred ground. Like if the library had a wand and punched you for bad grammar."
Hermione strode forward with the purpose and poise of someone who had spent the last ten years preparing for this exact moment. She sat on the stool, spine straight, chin high.
Catpool whistled. "Whoa. That's the face of a girl who's got her entire future planned in bullet points and subcategories. I'm not saying she could run the school—"
"—but she could run the school," Harry finished.
As the Sorting Hat touched her head, it immediately twitched.
"Oho!" it cried. "Very clever… very clever indeed. Plenty of brain. And courage. And ambition! And oh dear, so many opinions."
"Oh no, it talks back," Hermione whispered under her breath.
"You would do well in Ravenclaw… or Slytherin… but you've got a fire in you. A drive. I see great things. I see—"
"Just pick already," she muttered, cheeks pink.
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat yelled.
She exhaled and practically leapt off the stool, darting toward her new table. The applause was thunderous, though not quite as loud as the subtle rumble of Goyle still emitting mysterious sound effects across the room.
"Yup," Jim said solemnly, "She's going to be running this castle by Halloween."
"Yeah," Catpool added. "Also, I'd die for her."
"She'll probably make you wish you were dead if you get in her way," Ron said, watching her sit beside them.
"Perfect," Harry said with a grin. "Welcome to the chaos, Hermione."
And somewhere at the high table, Dumbledore clapped enthusiastically, accidentally knocking over a pitcher of pumpkin juice. "Did someone say banana hats?"
McGonagall didn't even look anymore.
"Just… just sit down, Albus."
—
"Greengrass, Daphne," Professor McGonagall called crisply, sounding like a woman who'd just barely survived the last act of a particularly chaotic circus. A hush rippled across the Great Hall like a dramatic cloak swish.
From the group of waiting first-years, Daphne Greengrass rose with the elegance of a swan and the attitude of someone who already had three modeling contracts and her own perfume line. Her platinum-blonde hair caught the candlelight just right, and she walked like the floor owed her money.
"Incoming goddess," Catpool whispered in Harry's head, sounding like a very horny, very caffeinated fox. "I swear if she flips her hair in slow motion, I'm gonna need a cold shower and therapy."
"Ladies, gents, ghosts, and things lurking under the Ravenclaw table," Jim announced in his usual over-the-top stage voice. "Prepare yourselves for the arrival of Daphne 'Too Cool for this Plane of Existence' Greengrass. Eleven going on intergalactic icon."
"You are ridiculous," Hermione muttered under her breath.
"Thank you, I moisturize," Jim said with a smug grin in Harry's mind-palace, striking a pose that only someone played by Jim Carrey could pull off.
"How is he louder in my head than Ron is in real life?" Susan Bones asked, blinking.
"Oi!" Ron said, halfway through a mouthful of treacle tart.
Daphne glided to the Sorting Hat like she'd practiced on a marble runway. She sat with poise, crossed her ankles, and gave the ancient hat a raised eyebrow that could've assassinated lesser accessories.
The Sorting Hat didn't even twitch.
Inside the Hat:
"Ah, Miss Greengrass," it said, sounding vaguely amused. "Confident. Clever. Ambitious in a 'CEO by puberty' kind of way."
"Spare me the monologue," Daphne thought. "I don't need a TED Talk, just the house."
"Ooh, she's feisty," Jim purred in mental surround sound. "Sharp as a tack in stilettos."
"You again?" Daphne sighed. "Why are you in my head?"
"Because fate is a sitcom, and I'm the laugh track," Jim said.
"You're the laugh and the restraining order," Catpool chimed in. "Hey, blondie, congrats on being the only girl here who could probably stab me with her cheekbones and I'd say thank you."
"Put her in Slytherin before these two start a musical number," Harry muttered aloud.
"Too late!" Jim shouted. "Ohhhh she's cool like December, slick like oil, she'll rule this school with poise and toil—"
"SLYTHERIN!" the Sorting Hat barked, effectively yeeting Jim's chorus into the void.
Daphne rose like she'd just dropped the mic, flipped her hair in defiance of gravity, and strode toward the Slytherin table as though she'd been born on green silk.
"Queen. Energy," Jim sighed. "I would write sonnets if I weren't so distractible and... imaginary."
"Imaginary and insufferable," Hermione muttered.
"Don't be jealous, Granger," Jim said sweetly. "You're more of a Warrior Poet vibe."
Draco Malfoy, who had been perfecting his sneer all evening, actually choked on his own saliva when Daphne passed by him.
Pansy Parkinson gave Daphne a death glare worthy of a soap opera villain.
Blaise Zabini blinked slowly and said, "Welp. That just made Slytherin five percent hotter."
"Is it weird that I'm scared and impressed?" Neville whispered.
"Yes," said Ron. "Also, I think I saw that painting of the duelist blush when she walked by."
Up at the staff table, Hagrid beamed proudly. "Good batch this year, eh, Professor Dumbledore?"
Dumbledore, who had been attempting to pour pumpkin juice into his ear for reasons no one fully understood, looked up and said, "Did someone say muffins?"
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. Again.
"She's going to be trouble," Harry said, eyes twinkling.
"The good kind," Jim echoed. "The kind that leads to epic pranks, hallway standoffs, and at least six awkward teen love triangles."
"And at least one accidental explosion," Catpool added. "Also, side note: dibs on narrating her eventual biopic."
"You're not real," Daphne said to the voice in her head.
"Neither is tax justice," Catpool replied. "Now go rule your House, Ice Queen."
And with that, Daphne Greengrass claimed her place at the Slytherin table like a boss, leaving behind a trail of envy, admiration, and hormonal confusion.
Her Sorting wasn't just complete.
It was fabulous.
—
"Longbottom, Neville!" Professor McGonagall's voice cracked across the Great Hall like a thunderclap wrapped in tartan, the kind of voice that made you want to sit up straight, confess your sins, and maybe knit her a thank-you sweater. Capital letters practically hovered around her words.
Neville stood up like he'd just been sentenced to trial by combat and his opponent was a Hungarian Horntail. He clutched Trevor, his toad, like a lifeline. Or a meat shield. Honestly, same difference.
"Poor bloke looks like he's about to walk the plank," Ron muttered under his breath.
"Correction," Jim intoned in Harry's brain with full Morgan Freeman gravitas, which was impressive considering he sounded like Jim Carrey doing an impression of Morgan Freeman. "He walks not to his doom, but to his destiny... or maybe to faceplant city. It's a 50/50, really."
"Ten Sickles says he eats floor," Catpool added telepathically, his voice like someone had given sarcasm a megaphone and a mouthful of tequila. "Twenty if he screams like a banshee in heat."
Neville didn't scream. But he did trip.
Face. First.
Trevor flew like a fat little missile and belly-flopped straight into someone's goblet of pumpkin juice. Which honestly deserved a slow clap. Nearly Headless Nick provided.
Hermione's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh no!"
Susan Bones—aka the closest thing Hogwarts had to a sunshine-powered support group—whispered, "Should we... do something?"
"Emotionally? Yes," Tracey Davis replied with a bored drawl that said she'd already planned Neville's obituary. "Physically? It's too late. He's gone full gravity."
"Ladies and gentlewitches," Jim bellowed inside Harry's head like he was hosting the Triwizard Olympics, "after a stunning nose-dive entry, Mr. Neville 'Oops' Longbottom rises again!"
Neville crawled onto the stool like it was made of lava. McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on his head like she was bracing for detonation.
Inside the Hat:
"Hmm," the Sorting Hat hummed like it was taste-testing his soul. "Interesting... timid, full of fear... but beneath that, something unexpected. Grit. Fire. Potential."
"I-I want Hufflepuff," Neville thought, clutching at hope. "I'm not brave. Gran says—"
"Gran says, Gran says," Catpool mocked in his usual Rated-R-for-Ridiculous tone, elbowing his way into Neville's mind. "Listen here, Froggy McFearface, you've got more raw courage in your pinky toe than most Death Eaters have in their whole fashionably cloaked bodies."
Jim, now wearing a heroic sash that read "DESTINY COACH #1," materialized next to a vision of Neville's nervous system. "You're not afraid, kid. You're just under construction. We're all fixer-uppers in this economy."
"I'm not like them," Neville whispered. "Harry, Ron, Hermione... they're real Gryffindors."
"Nev," Harry's voice cut in, cool and confident. "You're braver than me, mate. You just haven't had your big moment yet. But it's coming. And when it does? The world's not gonna know what hit it."
The Hat gave a knowing chuckle. "Yes... yes, I see it now. Better be—"
"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat roared, sounding more like a lion getting back from a long vacation.
Neville flinched like he'd been hexed and staggered off the stool. He didn't so much walk to the Gryffindor table as he did orbit it in a confused panic spiral. Eventually, he collapsed beside Ron, his cheeks redder than a Weasley family reunion.
Hannah Abbott passed him a crumpled napkin for Trevor. "You were so brave," she said gently, like a kindergarten teacher complimenting a squirrel for trying to do taxes.
Susan Bones smiled sweetly. "That landing was at least a six out of ten."
Catpool snorted. "More like a 69 out of 420. Am I right? Heh. Kid's gonna grow a spine so big it'll have its own zip code."
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked.
Neville nodded shakily. "Think... so?"
Harry raised his goblet. "Welcome to Gryffindor. We specialize in bad decisions and questionable life expectancy."
Jim did a full interpretive dance in Harry's mind. "Gryffindor Squad, baby! Now accepting awkward heroes, discount wizards, and one incredibly hot know-it-all."
Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn't help smiling. "You'll do fine, Neville. Just don't let the hat eat your self-esteem."
"Also," added Tracey, flipping her hair, "next time duck. Gravity's a bitch."
Daphne Greengrass, observing from the Slytherin table like a disinterested cat, murmured to Pansy, "Is it weird that I kind of admire him now?"
Pansy scoffed. "Please. That was a slow-motion train wreck. An adorable one, but still."
Up at the staff table, Dumbledore clapped enthusiastically, eyes twinkling in seventeen unrelated directions. He tried to eat his fork.
"Another fine Gryffindor!" he announced to no one in particular. "Did I ever tell you about the time I arm-wrestled a Romanian mountain troll?"
McGonagall sighed, adjusting her spectacles like they were the only things keeping her sanity intact. Hagrid leaned over and whispered, "He's havin' a good day, at least."
And down in the heart of the Gryffindor table, a new legend was already forming.
One Neville Longbottom. Awkward. Brave. Toad-assisted.
The House of Chaos had claimed another hero.
And the world? Wasn't ready.
Not even a little.
—
Professor McGonagall, calm as a glacier and just as judgmental, lifted the next name from the scroll. Her sharp voice rang out like a courtroom verdict:
"Malfoy, Draco."
The Great Hall stilled. Even the ghosts leaned in like they were watching the first act of a Shakespearean tragedy.
Draco strutted up to the stool like it was a runway in Milan and he was modeling this year's latest line in Pureblood Arrogance. Platinum-blond hair? Check. Superior smirk? Check. Daddy-issues confidence? Triple check.
Ron leaned over to Harry and whispered, "Slimy little ferret, that one."
Harry smirked. "Not for long."
Because right on cue, Jim piped into Harry's brain like a caffeinated game show host with a god complex.
"Ohhh, baby, it's time. Permission to prank the pompous peacock?"
"Jim," Harry sighed. **"Don't overdo it."
"Too late. I've already lit the lava."
And then Jim did what Jim does best. He hijacked the Sorting Hat.
Inside Draco's Brain: Welcome to Literal Hell
Draco had barely made butt-to-hat contact before the world went dark. Like, blackout dark. Silent. Until it wasn't.
He opened his eyes to a sky dripping blood-red. Rivers of lava burbled nearby like angry soup. Screams echoed like a Spotify playlist curated by Voldemort.
"Nope," Draco whispered. "NOPE NOPE NOPE."
A deep, booming voice—like Morgan Freeman doing voiceover for a horror movie—shook the sky:
"WELCOME, DRACO MALFOY... TO HELLLLLL!"
Draco jumped like someone had just poked his Gucci robes with a cattle prod.
From the infernal mists emerged Jim—decked out in a red zoot suit, flaming hair, sunglasses, and the kind of grin that made therapy seem mandatory.
"Hiya, sport! Jim here! And this... is your eternal orientation!"
Beside him, Catpool materialized, dressed like Lucifer cosplaying as a Vegas magician, complete with sequined horns, a bedazzled pitchfork, and nothing else but a Speedo that said "Purrgatory".
"WHAT. IS. HAPPENING?!" Draco screeched.
"Oh, the usual," Catpool said, spinning the pitchfork. "Fire. Brimstone. Daddy issues. And welcome to your own personal Hell, Drakey-poo! Say hi to your bunkmates: Oily Crabbe and Sweaty Goyle. Forever."
"NOOOOOO!"
Jim handed Draco a brochure titled "So You Died: 10 Steps to Enjoying Infernal Eternity".
"Don't worry, Draco. Here in Hell, we only punish the wicked. And also the pretentious. Oh! Fun fact: In your Hell, you're a Hufflepuff."
Draco fell to his knees. "TAKE ME BACK! I'LL JOIN DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY! I'LL MARRY A WEASLEY! I SWEAR!"
"Too late, Blondie," Catpool purred. "This ain't a fever dream. It's a fever nightmare with an X-rating."
Then the floor opened under Draco's feet.
Back in Reality: Hail to the Trauma King
The Sorting Hat screamed, "SLYTHERIN!" with the tone of someone who'd just been through ten therapy sessions and two exorcisms.
Draco tore off the Hat like it was on fire (which, to be fair, might've been a possibility) and stumbled toward the Slytherin table like he had just been dropkicked by destiny.
Face: pale. Hands: shaking. Soul: broken.
Ron blinked. "Looks like he saw a ghost."
Neville nodded. "Or something worse. Like his future."
Susan Bones leaned over, eyebrows raised. "Is he... crying?"
Hermione clutched her book tighter. "Oh no. Jim got to him, didn't he?"
Jim telepathically answered, *"Just a teensy bit of eternal damnation. For character development."
Catpool chimed in telepathically, *"Also, the oil was coconut-scented. You're welcome."
Harry rubbed his temples. "Guys, you broke him."
Jim: *"Fix him? Ha! I'm not a miracle worker, Harry. I'm just an ancient chaos monkey wearing drama as cologne."
Catpool: *"And I'm just the sexy comic relief. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to air out my tail."
As Draco sat next to Daphne Greengrass, still hyperventilating, she gave him a look that screamed, "What fresh hell happened to you?"
Pansy leaned over. "Are you okay, Draco?"
Draco stared at his hands like they were covered in sin. "I think... I think I need a priest."
Meanwhile, Dumbledore leaned toward McGonagall, giggling softly.
"Did anyone else see the river of cheese? No? Just me?"
McGonagall sighed. "Yes, Headmaster. The cheese is lovely. Now, please keep your beard out of the pumpkin juice."
Hagrid whispered to Harry, "Yeh alright, 'Arry?"
"Yeah," Harry said, watching Draco twitch. "I think this year might actually be fun."
Jim, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, high-fived Catpool.
"Slytherin," Harry muttered, "now with more therapy bills."
—
The Sorting Hat and the Sparkly Doom of Pansy Parkinson
Professor McGonagall adjusted her glasses like she was preparing to duel a Dementor in court robes. Her gaze scanned the parchment with the kind of judgment that could freeze lava.
"Parkinson, Pansy."
Cue dramatic thunderclap (that no one else heard except Harry, because Jim added it for effect). Pansy strutted forward with the kind of pureblood arrogance that screamed, "My father donates to the school, peasant." She walked like the floor owed her money, nose tilted high enough to detect clouds.
Ron groaned. "Another snake in the making. Bet she and Ferret already practiced their synchronized sneering."
Hermione arched an eyebrow. "And I bet they share a hair gel sponsor."
Jim's voice slithered into Harry's mind like a glitter-covered Dementor with a Broadway degree.
"Sequel time, baby! You know the rules: go bigger, go weirder, go Hell-tier fabulous!"
Catpool burst in, psychically screaming like a disco ball on fire.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and magical non-binaries! It's time for... Underworld Illusions 2: Daddy's Lil' Death Eater!"
Harry: Not again.
Catpool: "Oh yes again, Sunshine Sparkles! We're going full Drag Me To Hell—literally—with extra glitter and emotional baggage."
Pansy perched on the stool, already posing like she was about to host a talk show titled Pureblood & Proud. The Sorting Hat hadn't even touched her head before it sighed like it knew what was coming.
And then—contact.
Inside Pansy's Mind: Welcome to Hell, The Reboot
The sky turned a Pepto Bismol shade of pink. Lava flowed in glittery streams. The air smelled like brimstone and designer perfume.
On a bedazzled obsidian throne sat Jim—dressed in a rhinestone-studded tuxedo with a neon feather boa and a martini glass filled with what was probably liquid shame.
"PANSYYYYY! Darling, it's been a while. Welcome to the Hot Mess Express! Population: you."
Catpool—dressed like a backup dancer from Moulin Rouge—cartwheeled into frame, tutu flaring, wielding a flaming hair curler like it was a holy relic.
"Say it with me, sugarpop: Hell is other people. But YOU? You ARE the other people."
Pansy blinked. "What in Salazar's silk pajamas is this?"
"Correct!" Jim clapped. "Hell. Deluxe. For the emotionally constipated, the drama-addicted, and the purebloods with a victim complex!"
A mirror appeared in front of her. In it stood... Pansy. But extra. She looked like a Dementor who had overdosed on Hot Topic clearance glitter. Her eyeliner was winged sharp enough to stab someone's soul.
A name tag sparkled: "Pansy: Minion 3rd Class. Buffs Pitchforks, Not Egos."
Behind her? Endless pitchforks with engraved labels:
"Lucius's Midlife Crisis"
"Bellatrix's Hair Comb"
"Tommy Riddle's Emotional Support Stick"
Catpool leaned in. "You'll be polishing all of 'em, cupcake. With demon spit."
Jim stepped forward dramatically. "Now, now, Pans. I see potential. Sparkly, villainous potential. But you've got to stop being a stereotype. Even Draco's doing character development now."
Pansy snarled. "I want to speak to your manager."
Jim beamed. "Sweetheart, you are the manager. Of your own damnation!"
Back in the Great Hall
The Sorting Hat's voice boomed like it had PTSD.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Pansy yanked it off like it burned her and tottered toward the Slytherin table, eyes wide like someone had just shown her a muggle cafeteria menu.
She dropped beside Draco, who looked like he'd seen things. Dark things. Pitchfork things.
She whispered, "Did you go to Hell too?"
Draco didn't blink. "They made me sing show tunes. With choreography."
Across the Hall, Harry was biting the inside of his cheek so hard, it was going to leave a scar. Ron looked baffled.
"What's with them? They look like they just walked out of a cursed karaoke bar."
Harry shrugged. "You ever see Mean Girls meets The Exorcist?"
Hermione frowned. "Harry, are you okay? You're smiling way too much."
Jim, telepathically: "It's the serotonin boost from dragging another brat through pink inferno."
Catpool: "Three cheers for traumatizing the morally ambiguous teens! Let's add jazz hands next time!"
Harry: "You guys need hobbies."
Jim: "We have one. It's called Character Development Via Supernatural Torture!"
Neville poked his head in. "Um... was Pansy... crying glitter?"
Susan Bones nodded. "Definitely glitter. And possibly internalized shame."
Hannah Abbott giggled nervously. "At least she looked fabulous?"
Daphne Greengrass—looking like she wanted a refund on her entire House—muttered to Tracey Davis, "I told you we should've sat near the end of the table."
Tracey, who was clearly considering transferring to Durmstrang, just groaned. "I can't survive seven years of this."
At the staff table, Dumbledore had just poured orange juice into his tea, then tried to eat his spoon. McGonagall quietly rotated her eyeballs into the astral plane.
Hagrid leaned over to her. "Yeh think he's okay?"
She sipped her pumpkin juice like it was firewhisky. "That depends on your definition of 'okay,' Hagrid."
The Sorting rolled on. And Harry? He just smiled, shook his head, and whispered under his breath.
"Two down. Nott and Zabini, you're next. Hell has glitter, and it's coming for you."
—
Professor McGonagall cleared her throat like a librarian about to smite someone for dog-earing a book. Her eyes swept the Great Hall with the kind of authority that could make grown men sit straighter. "Potter, Harry."
The room went dead silent. You could hear a feather drop. Or maybe a Slytherin fainting.
Every head turned. First years craned their necks. Upperclassmen squinted like they were trying to decode the face of a living legend. Whispers buzzed like bees hopped up on Red Bull.
"That's him!" "He doesn't look that special…" "Why is he smirking like that?"
Harry Potter strolled toward the Sorting Hat like he'd walked red carpets and lava pits. Which, to be fair, he kind of had. His messy black hair caught the candlelight like it had product in it (spoiler: it didn't), and his green eyes glinted with the sort of confidence that said: I could out-prank Zeus while blindfolded.
Monkey King vibes? Check. Trickster blood? Activated. Moon goddess energy? Sparkling.
Jim, aka Riyu Jingu Bang, appeared inside Harry's head dressed like a magician crashing a Broadway show. Tux, cane, sparkly hat—the works.
"All right, boss man," Jim grinned. "We thinking flaming monkeys, interpretive dance, or straight-up mythological mic drop?"
Catpool, lounging in a floating hammock made entirely of banana peels and poor life choices, blew a raspberry.
"Just drop a disco ball and throw in a dramatic monkey screech, you walking backstory. I'm bored already. Also, side note—if this hat tries to read your mind, I'm showing it that thing you Googled once when you were twelve."
Harry (internally): "Classy chaos. Loki-level. And for gods' sakes, keep your mouths shut when we get to the Hat."
Catpool (telepathically): "You say that like it's a real possibility. I'm literally made of bad decisions and glitter."
Harry plopped onto the stool with the flair of someone who once rode a thundercloud to a war council.
The Sorting Hat didn't even land fully before it gasped.
"Oh. Oh, dear gods."
Harry (mentally): "Hey, Hat. Sup."
"You're not just a Potter… you're a full-blown myth cocktail! Trickster blood, moonlight magic, a demigod aura so strong it's giving me a migraine… Is that a monkey spirit chewing on your aura?"
Jim waved. Catpool blew it a kiss and licked a lollipop shaped like the Sorting Hat itself. Somehow.
"I can't even—what house could possibly contain you? You're like four student rebellions waiting to happen."
And then reality cracked.
Literally.
The ceiling split like a cosmic curtain. Thunder boomed. A golden staff spiraled down from the rafters, surrounded by flame, mist, and what suspiciously sounded like dubstep. It slapped into Harry's palm with a satisfying shoomf.
His eyes lit up with silver fire. A stardust crown flickered above his head like it was buffering. A spectral dragon did the worm midair across the Great Hall.
Peeves screamed like a fangirl.
Jim telepathically popped a party popper. "BOOM, BABY!"
Catpool cackled. "It's raining monkeys, hallelujah! I knew puberty would be magical for you, you chaos cupcake."
The Hat groaned.
"I… I give up. You're not a student. You're an existential crisis in a hoodie. But if I must choose—"
It paused dramatically.
Then screamed: "GRYFFINCLAWSLYTHERPUFF!"
—and passed out cold.
The Hall? Chaos.
Screams. Laughter. Professors choking on tea. A Hufflepuff fainted. Draco Malfoy looked like someone had slapped him with a thesaurus.
Dumbledore, who had definitely once tried to mail a teacup to Jupiter, just twinkled. "As expected."
Harry stood. Twirled the staff like a baton. Took a theatrical bow.
The Gryffindor bench slid over by itself, making space. Furniture feared him.
Ron stared like he'd just seen a god eat pudding. "Mate… what was that?"
Harry: "First impressions."
Hermione, already scribbling furiously: "Technically, that's impossible. The Hat only chooses one house! Or two, in extreme cases. But four? That breaks centuries of—"
Neville whispered, "Do we all get magic staffs? Asking for a friend."
At the staff table:
Snape sneered. "Potter."
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. "Merlin help us all."
Hagrid beamed. "Knew he was special, I did!"
Up in the metaphysical rafters:
Jim wiped a fake tear. "Our little overlord's first act of school-based divine nonsense. I'm so proud I could combust."
Catpool: "Next stop: dorm room upgrade. We're talkin' banana-scented hammocks, enchanted speakers, and a slide made of pure disrespect."
Harry looked up, winked at the ceiling, and dropped the mic—er, staff—into his lap.
Hogwarts didn't know it yet.
But chaos?
Chaos had just enrolled.
—
Near the Bifrost—Asgard's version of a VIP skybox with rainbow lighting and the best cosmic Wi-Fi in the Nine Realms—Heimdall stood sentinel, golden eyes locked on a swirling vision above the rainbow bridge.
The Sorting Hat had barely touched Harry Potter's head before the entire Great Hall at Hogwarts spontaneously exploded into glitter dragons. Literal glitter. Literal dragons. All glittery. It was either magic or someone had let Brunhilde bake cookies again.
Heimdall, towering and stoic with the patience of a thousand years and a voice that made mountains sit down and shut up, tilted his head.
"He sits. The hat quivers... and—by the All-Mother's bread pudding—it's raining glitter dragons."
Loki, dressed in his finest green and gold Asgardian dramatics, leaned in with a proud glint in his eyes that screamed That's my chaos gremlin.
"That's my boy," Loki said smugly, arms crossed over his chest like a villain about to monologue.
Next to him stood Artemis, a goddess with moonlight in her hair, eternal wisdom in her eyes, and a face that could freeze monsters mid-roar. She tilted her head, unimpressed. "He inherited the flair from you. The restraint? That's clearly mine."
Loki snorted. "You once turned the moon into a projectile during a sparring match."
Apollo, lounging like the world's hottest roadie on a chaise conjured from sunlight, kicked his feet up and tossed an apple in the air. "To be fair, I did that too once. But only to win a poker game against Dionysus."
Frigga, Asgard's ultimate grandma and chaos-whisperer, held a mug of conjured cocoa like it was a sacred relic. "Look at him. That posture. That aura. Trickster confidence with divine chaos alignment. I'm so proud I could bake something unnecessarily complicated."
Thor let out a booming laugh, dual-wielding mugs of mead like the party god he almost was. "I LIKE HIM. Can he summon lightning yet? Can I teach him to fly into battle while yelling about JUSTICE and HAMMERS?"
Loki arched a brow. "You give that child a hammer, and he'll enchant it to call him boss. Then turn it into a glitter cannon."
Sif folded her arms and grinned. "And he'd still look cooler doing it than Thor."
"Excuse you?" Thor raised his mugs. "I'm very fly-into-battleable!"
Volstagg elbowed Hogun, still chewing on roast boar. "If the boy brings snacks next time he visits, I vote we make him our official team mascot. He's already better dressed than Fandral."
Fandral, smoothing his cravat, replied, "I'm wounded, sir. Though I must admit—the lad does have panache. That was a ten out of ten entrance. Bellissimo."
Brunhilde cracked her knuckles. With a voice like gravel and the attitude of a bouncer at Valhalla's rowdiest tavern, she growled, "That glitter dragon move? Stole it from my duel with the Wyrm of Vanaheim in 1042. He even did the eyebrow flick."
Phoebe, bow in hand and death glare active, narrowed her eyes. "Why are the mortals even looking at him like that? They don't get it. They don't deserve him."
Zoe, next to her with her signature I-Hate-Boys face fully engaged, added, "That ferret-haired Slytherin just rolled his eyes at him. I volunteer to introduce him to my arrows."
Heimdall actually chuckled. "Easy, Huntresses. The ferret lives—for now."
Apollo leaned toward Loki, giving him a sly grin. "Soooo... when do I get to give him his first sun-chariot ride? Or his first musical duel? I've already written his theme song. It's got three key changes and a kazoo solo."
Artemis squinted. "If you give him a kazoo, you're walking back to Olympus barefoot."
Loki's smile faltered just enough to show the truth beneath the snark. "He's walking a path none of us predicted. And he's doing it without fear."
Thor clinked mugs with himself. "AND making it look awesome!"
At that moment, Harry turned and looked directly at the viewing portal. He winked. Gave a peace sign. Then casually caught an exploding pudding like it was just another Tuesday.
Heimdall's eyes glinted. "He saw me."
Frigga beamed. "He knows."
Loki wiped suspiciously shiny eyes. "You'd better keep watching, Heimdall. This isn't just a Sorting. This is the day Hogwarts met its Monkey King."
Brunhilde, checking her vambraces with a grin that promised chaos: "And the day every entitled brat in green learned that nobody messes with our kid."
Zoe and Phoebe, in eerie harmony: "Facts."
Apollo conjured sunglasses out of pure dramatic necessity. "I'm making t-shirts. Also: next time he visits, I'm bringing my haiku journal. We're gonna bond. It's gonna be epic."
Sif, with a rare, soft smile: "He's going to shake that school to its foundations."
Heimdall's voice dropped to a reverent rumble. "Brace yourselves. Harry Potter—Harry Lokison—has entered the game. Reality is already glitching."
---
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