The Sorting Ceremony continued after Harry's cosmic lightshow, but let's be real—everything afterward felt like switching from a Marvel finale to watching someone fold socks. No thunder. No glowing staff. No celestial monkeys doing synchronized backflips. Just... normal Sorting. Welcome to mediocrity, population: everyone else.
Then Professor McGonagall, the only woman capable of killing with a glare sharper than a basilisk fang, cleared her throat. The students tensed like someone had just muttered "Voldemort" during a funeral.
"Weasley, Ronald."
At the Gryffindor table, Harry leaned forward with a grin that could curdle milk. "Oh, this is gonna be good," he murmured.
Fred and George perked up like kids who'd just spotted Santa sneaking into the liquor cabinet.
"Showtime," Fred whispered.
"Let the ginger games begin," George added.
In the metaphorical (and disturbingly active) rafters of Harry's mind, Jim—aka Riyu Jingu Bang, weapon of the Monkey King Extraordinaire, and certified chaos gremlin—materialized in a rhinestone tuxedo, polishing his opera glasses with all the gravitas of an Oscar-nominated maniac.
"Ohohoho! A Weasley enters the fray," Jim said, his voice dialed to eleven. "Red hair, hand-me-down robes, trauma you can smell from here—this one's got FLAVOR."
Beside him, lounging in a banana-shaped floatie wearing nothing but heart-print boxers and sunglasses, was Catpool. Picture Deadpool. Now picture Deadpool spliced with a deranged Cheshire Cat, and force-fed five energy drinks.
"Ten galleons says the hat tries to bail," Catpool said, licking a candy cane suggestively. "Also, I'm not saying the twins tampered with the Sorting Hat, but I am saying they fed it Bertie Bott's beans labeled 'volatile' and whispered 'YOLO' into its ear."
Ron stepped up to the stool like a condemned man. He looked like he wanted to melt into his hand-me-down shoes. The moment the Sorting Hat touched his head—BOOM.
The thing LEVITATED.
"WELCOME, CHOSEN GINGER!" the Hat roared, voice booming with demonic glee. Its eyes flared green. Smoke burst from its seams. Somewhere, a choir screamed in Latin.
"MOTHER OF MERLIN!" Neville shouted, ducking under the table.
Hermione dropped her quill. "That is not regulation procedure!"
"ROUND ONE: RONALD VS. DESTINY," an announcer's voice bellowed from above. Probably Jim, because of course it was.
Jim clutched a tub of spectral popcorn. "Boss battle initiated! Weakness: stage fright. Strengths: unpredictable bowel control!"
"He's getting flashbanged by fate and all he wanted was a sandwich," Harry said.
Catpool gasped theatrically. "He's like if Ed Sheeran and a wet napkin had a baby! I love him!"
The Sorting Hat began to chant, smoke swirling like a metal concert:
"You seek valor… but hide your doubts. You hunger for greatness… and also pie. You have the courage of a lion— But the attention span of a kneazle on sugar."
Ron blinked from under the brim. "...Did it just roast me?"
Suddenly, red and gold fireworks exploded from the ceiling. A Gryffindor lion formed from light roared above them—then slapped on sunglasses and started doing the Macarena.
"GRYFFINDORRRRRRRRRRRR!" the Hat screamed, before exploding into a burst of glitter and confetti.
Left behind: a smaller hat underneath. A bowler cap. With racing stripes.
Ron wobbled off the stool like a stunned deer. "Did I get Sorted or possessed?"
Fred and George whooped.
"That," Fred said, "was a prototype spell."
"We call it The Epic Sort-Down," George added. "Patent pending."
"Ilvermorny tried to buy it with maple syrup and a moose. We declined," Fred said.
Harry gave Ron a slow clap. "Congratulations. You survived your first public humiliation. Hogwarts tradition. You're one banana cannon away from full membership."
In his head, Jim held up a sign that read: Gryffindor Initiation: 9.5/10, would traumatize again.
Catpool tossed roses into the telepathic void. "I now pronounce you Weasley the Weird. Go forth and cause mild panic."
Hermione scribbled madly in her notes. "Did anyone else hear the hat psychoanalyze his cravings? That breaks at least seven magical laws."
Neville peeked out from under the table. "Do the rest of us get fireworks? Or, uh, minor concussions?"
Professor McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose, mumbling something in Scottish that might have been a curse or a prayer.
Snape muttered, "I despise children."
Hagrid wiped a tear. "Knew he was special, I did."
Susan Bones leaned toward Hannah Abbott, wide-eyed. "Is it always gonna be like this?"
"It is now," Hannah whispered.
Daphne Greengrass arched a brow. "Well. Hogwarts just got... interesting."
Tracey Davis snorted. "And people say we're dramatic."
Draco Malfoy tried to pretend he wasn't rattled, but the way his eye twitched said otherwise.
Pansy leaned over. "Ten sickles says the next person wets themselves on that stool."
"Shut up, Parkinson."
Up at the head table, Dumbledore clapped slowly, eyes twinkling madly in sixteen different directions.
"Ah yes, the prophecy of the red one," he said. "Did I ever tell you about the time I dated a banshee?"
McGonagall stiffened. "Albus, that was your mirror."
"So it was mutual," Dumbledore murmured, satisfied.
Harry just leaned back, twirled his staff under the table like a baton, and grinned.
In the chaotic circus that was his mind, Jim and Catpool somersaulted across imaginary trapezes while a monkey juggled bananas dipped in glitter.
"My boy," Jim said, voice thick with fatherly pride and questionable sanity, "our reign of nonsense has begun."
"Hogwarts," Catpool declared, standing on a conjured soapbox and striking a pose, "prepare your butts. Chaos has officially enrolled."
And Harry? He couldn't wait.
—
The Sorting Hat was still twitching on the stool, like it was recovering from an intense post-explosive trauma, a bit like how Harry felt after listening to Fred and George's latest prank gone wrong. As the last name was called, the entire Great Hall held its breath.
"Zabini, Blaise," came the announcement.
Blaise strolled toward the stool, the embodiment of "Don't talk to me unless you're holding something valuable or you're someone I can use for my own gain." He had that cool, "I'm too good for this place" energy—like a black-and-white photo of a lion wearing sunglasses.
He sat with the casual grace of someone who had way too much swag to care. His posture was impeccable. The Sorting Hat barely touched his head before it yelled out in the most dramatic fashion:
"SLYTHERIN!"
A round of applause erupted from the Slytherin table, polite but with an edge of "Yes, he's one of ours" as Blaise slid into his seat, looking like he was too good for even the food on his plate.
Harry leaned back in his seat, his arms draped over the edge like he owned the whole table. He couldn't help it. He was Harry Potter, Master of the Savage Burn. With a grin that said, "I've already outdone all of you, and we haven't even started the feast," he whispered to Ron, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Not bad. Still not sure if the hat's been possessed by a chaos spirit or if it just really wanted to audition for America's Got Talent."
Ron blinked, looking at him like Harry had just quoted an ancient prophecy. "Mate, it exploded. There were fireworks—actual fireworks—and a lion doing the Macarena. It's like the Sorting Hat has gone completely off the rails."
Harry gave Ron a sidelong glance and smirked. "Right? The lion was definitely a 10 out of 10. But a 7 for execution. It didn't floss."
Jim's voice shot through Harry's mind like a laser beam of pure, unhinged joy. "Oh-ho, bingo. 9.7 for the lion, but minus points for lack of flossing. The kids love that move, Harry. I bet it's a global phenomenon at Hogwarts now."
Catpool's telepathic voice piped in, slurring just enough to make it obvious that he was probably sipping from a bottomless firewhisky flask somewhere in Harry's subconscious. "I gotta say, that was better than the time I enchanted Malfoy's pumpkin juice to give him a really bad day. I had to scrub out 'Ponytail' from his hair with an entire jar of hair gel, but honestly? Worth it."
Draco, who was sitting across from them, sneezed suddenly, nearly knocking over a goblet.
"Bless you," Pansy Parkinson, who was too busy making judgmental faces at half the table, muttered. "Try not to catch feelings. Or humility."
Tracey Davis, who was seated next to Daphne Greengrass, leaned over. "I give it three days before Zabini's going full smolder mode and challenges someone to a duel."
Daphne smirked, twirling her butter knife between her fingers with the precision of a lion sharpening its claws. "Three days? You're generous. I say it'll be three hours before he's tangled in a plotline more twisted than his hair gel."
At the staff table, Professor McGonagall, who had been standing like a queen on a chessboard, finally sighed and adjusted her spectacles. She looked ready to tap out. Like, really tap out. Someone get the poor woman a nice cup of tea before she explodes.
But before she could give in to the inevitable stress of being around so many chaotic teens (Harry among them, obviously), Dumbledore rose from his seat with a dramatic flair that would've made even a Broadway star cringe.
He stood there, staring out at the students as if he'd just realized that he was, in fact, the headmaster of a school and not some whimsical wizard on a journey to find his lost pair of socks.
Dumbledore's robes today were electric purple, covered in embroidered carrots that twinkled like stars in the night sky, which probably meant something important. Or not. It was hard to say. He'd probably forgotten why he wore them at all.
"Ah," Dumbledore said, his voice distant as though trying to remember which page of the book he was supposed to be on. "Before we dive into the banquet, I have a few words to say."
He paused dramatically, holding up one finger like he had just revealed the world's greatest secret.
"First: Bumfluff."
There was a beat. A pause. A ripple of confusion.
"Second: Pumpernickel."
That one got a few head tilts.
"Third: Pineapplepants."
The entire hall fell silent. Then Hermione, ever the eager scholar, started scribbling furiously in her notebook. "Bumfluff, pumpernickel, pineapplepants. It's gotta be a code, right? A prophecy? An ancient riddle??"
Fred, leaning toward George, grinned. "Ten Galleons says the next word is 'toenail.'"
"Deal," George replied without hesitation.
"Finally," Dumbledore announced, smiling benignly as a beetle crawled out of his beard and parachuted dramatically onto the floor. "I would like to welcome our first-years. May you find friends, knowledge, and only mild bodily harm within these walls."
Hagrid, who was sitting next to Dumbledore, clapped heartily, his deep voice rumbling through the hall. "Aye, that's the spirit!"
Meanwhile, Snape, who looked like he had just bitten into something sourer than a lemon dipped in vinegar, muttered under his breath, "Lawsuits. Liability. Incompetence. Just... save me, Merlin."
Dumbledore spread his arms wide, his eyes twinkling more intensely than ever, as if challenging the entire hall to question whether or not he was still in full control of his faculties. "Let the feast… BEGIN!"
And with a thunderous poof, the tables were suddenly laden with food that made Harry's stomach growl like a dragon on its lunch break. Roast beef, turkey legs the size of broomsticks, mashed potatoes piled so high they looked like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, pumpkin pasties, and a suspiciously large bowl of jellybeans labeled "Not the vomit ones, we swear."
Harry, feeling slightly less bad about his own chaotic existence, leaned back with his cosmic staff beneath the table, making sure to look as unbothered as possible. His thoughts, as always, were a bit out there, but he figured if anyone could deal with it, it was him.
Jim popped in. "Boom, baby! Feast time! You've brought chaos, style, and—let's not forget—the lion's choreography. Plus, the jellybeans! Who doesn't love a game of Russian roulette with candy?!"
Catpool chimed in. "You think this is wild, Harry? Wait 'til the whipped cream hydra I just unleashed in the kitchens. That thing's got a tongue for mischief. And I mean that literally."
Harry lifted his goblet of pumpkin juice with a flourish. "To chaos. To friends. And, oh yeah, to being the weirdest, most wonderfully unhinged first year Hogwarts has ever seen."
Jim, in his usual over-the-top fashion, gave a telepathic thumbs up. "You nailed it, kiddo. Buckle up, it's going to be a wild year. Hogwarts? Pfft, they don't even know what's coming."
And so, the year began. A year full of explosions, chaos, and, most importantly, way too much magical mayhem.
But hey, what else was new?
—
The feast was in full swing, and Hogwarts' Great Hall was doing its best impression of a magical Las Vegas buffet run by caffeinated pixies. Between the floating candles, the bewitched ceiling thunderclouds, and a suspiciously melodic clatter of plates (which may or may not have been singing), the scene had all the subtlety of a disco-themed tornado.
Harry Potter, Monkey King-in-training, son of Loki and Artemis, wielder of the cosmic chaos stick (also known as Jim), was twirling a turkey leg like it was a microphone in a supernatural karaoke battle.
"So," Harry said, mid-spin, his grin equal parts innocent and I'm-about-to-break-something-expensive, "why do the mashed potatoes taste like Christmas and slightly illegal enchantment? I'm getting cinnamon, nutmeg... and the distinct aftertaste of black market Yule magic."
Neville, cheeks puffed with mashed potatoes and gravitas, gave a reverent nod. "I think I saw God in the gravy. Either that, or Dobby slipped something into the butter again."
Hermione, doing her best impression of a Rational Human Surrounded by Goblins, poked suspiciously at a bowl of jellybeans. "You know what shouldn't be a spiritual journey? Bertie Bott's 'Lying Liars Who Lie' jellybeans."
She popped one into her mouth. Then gagged.
"SOAP. Why is it always soap when I pick blue?!"
Catpool's voice snickered inside Harry's head, all fourth-wall shattering chaos and maximum R-rating. "Because fate is a raging dumpster fire and I'm the raccoon roasting marshmallows on top. Also, the blue ones? Totally shampoo. You just licked a Head & Shoulders commercial, Princess Granger."
Harry grinned. "Catpool says you taste like product placement."
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it counted as cardio. "Tell Catpool to go choke on his own tail."
Catpool: *"Already did. Tasted like regret and sexy danger."
At the Slytherin table, Daphne Greengrass, looking like she was posing for a moody fashion shoot, delicately sipped her pumpkin juice. Beside her, Tracey Davis sniffed hers like she was reviewing a high-end perfume.
"Ah yes," Tracey said thoughtfully. "Notes of emotional repression, self-loathing, and Professor Snape's disappointed sighs."
Daphne raised an eyebrow at Blaise Zabini, who was giving the roast goose the same look an art critic gives a toddler's macaroni sculpture.
"Too common for your precious palate, Your Highness?" she asked sweetly.
"The plating lacks any culinary vision," Blaise replied, lifting a fork like it was a judge's gavel. "Where's the foie gras? The sous-vide? The edible existential crisis?"
Tracey deadpanned, "We're eleven, Blaise."
Back at Gryffindor, Ron had entered full food-beast mode, with chicken grease decorating his face like war paint.
"Fred and George told me first year they saw a sign that said 'Definitely Not a Trap,' and guess what? It was a trap. With bagpipes."
"Angry bagpipes," Hermione corrected. "That chased them for two corridors."
"True story," Jim chimed in telepathically, sounding like Jim Carrey on a Red Bull high. *"I was there. The bagpipes were sentient. Named one Harold. He was a diva."
"Oh yeah," Catpool added, *"Harold still sends me hate mail. In the form of musical notes. Literally."
Harry leaned back, cosmic staff propped beside him, the wood humming with smug contentment like it had just delivered a punchline.
"We're all going to die in the most glitter-covered, jellybean-poisoned, bagpipe-haunted way possible," he declared cheerfully.
"Finally!" Jim whooped. *"Someone gets it! Cue the confetti cannon!"
BOOM.
A confetti cannon actually went off. Somewhere. Possibly from under the Hufflepuff table.
Susan Bones, fork raised like a pitchfork, glared through the sparkle rain.
"I WILL FIGHT ANYONE WHO TOUCHES MY TREACLE TART."
Hannah Abbott, spoon stuck in her hair from the explosion, nodded serenely. "She's nice until dessert. Then she becomes a sugar-fueled Valkyrie."
Harry raised his goblet toward Susan. "To the Valkyrie of Tarts."
Susan: "Damn right."
Suddenly, thunder cracked above, and the enchanted ceiling went from moody ambiance to DEFCON 1.
Then came the scream.
"OH BLOODY HELL!" Peeves exploded through the air, soaked in whipped cream and... were those jellyfish tentacles?
"THE CREAM HYDRA AWAKENS! FLEE, MORTALS!"
Most students ducked under tables. Ron yelled, "Not again!"
McGonagall facepalmed so hard it echoed. Snape didn't flinch.
Dumbledore, eyes glazed in cheerful senility (or divine madness—jury's still out), calmly spooned pumpkin pie into his beard.
"Ah, dessert," he muttered to no one in particular. "Once, I was a kumquat."
Harry tapped his staff. Jim giggled. Catpool cackled.
"To chaos," Harry toasted.
Everyone clinked glasses.
Hermione sighed. "To chaos indeed."
"And to whatever the hell just crawled out of the custard," Jim added, *"which I'm 73% sure is now sentient and writing poetry."
*"Roses are red, sugar is gritty, If you eat me alive, You'll get real sh--"
"CATPOOL!"*
"--surely surprised," Catpool finished innocently.
Hogwarts: where the mashed potatoes might be plotting something and chaos wasn't a visitor.
It lived here. And Harry? He was its favorite roommate.
—
The feast had only just calmed down from Peeves' whipped-cream rampage—Susan Bones was still extracting jellyfish from her braids like it was an average Monday—when the temperature in the Great Hall dropped faster than Draco Malfoy's ego after getting dunked on by Hermione in Charms.
Then they floated in.
Literally.
Glowing like they were dipped in moonlight and mild regret, the House Ghosts glided through the walls with all the nonchalance of British royalty crashing a birthday party.
The Gryffindors gasped. The Ravenclaws blinked with scientific curiosity. The Slytherins raised skeptical eyebrows, probably judging their fashion choices. And the Hufflepuffs? They waved.
Harry—First-Year, Monkey King, Demigod son of Loki and Artemis, and current MVP of Chaos—stared, halfway through a sip of pumpkin juice. "Okay. Either Hogwarts has a ghost infestation, or I just got haunted by four Victorian ice cubes."
Jim the Staff—a golden rod of sass and unfiltered commentary with a taste for dramatics—piped in telepathically, sounding like Shakespeare got stuck in a blender with Jim Carrey: "Nay, mine liege of sarcasm! These ghostly beings are but the echoing footnotes of yore! A walking, talking footnote, if you will!"
Catpool—the feline-shaped creation of Harry's insanity, who spoke exclusively in Rated R and 4th-wall-breaks—snorted in Harry's brain. "Translation: Welcome to Ghostwarts. Where the school spirit is literal. Also, do ghosts poop? Asking for a friend."
Ron, already halfway behind Harry's chair like a nervous Weasley crab in corduroy robes, whispered, "Harry. Mate. That one's a monk."
Hermione's eyes sparkled like someone had handed her the final draft of Hogwarts: A History. "That's the Fat Friar! He's Hufflepuff's House Ghost! Each House gets one!"
Across the hall, Susan Bones waved at the Friar like they were brunch buddies. "Hi! Big fan of your wholesome chonk energy!"
Tracey Davis, arms crossed like a Slytherin Wednesday Addams, muttered, "Don't ask about the Bloody Baron. Just… don't."
And then, with all the dramatic flair of an understudy who's waited five centuries for this moment, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington arrived. Or, as Hogwarts lore mockingly named him: Nearly Headless Nick.
He swept through the air with the elegance of a ghostly peacock, collar puffed out like a haunted soufflé. "Ah, the noble First-Years! Wide-eyed! Full of hope! And tragically unaware of the rules of posthumous etiquette."
Harry blinked. "You're see-through."
Sir Nicholas beamed with ghostly pride. "Indeed! And yet, somehow more transparent than the Ministry's budget."
Neville squeaked. "Your head—it's—"
"—Nearly!" Sir Nick said, striking a pose like a spectral Shakespeare. "Nearly headless. Not quite gone. Not quite whole. A tragedy in forty-five chops."
Catpool, mental claws twitching with excitement, chimed in: "Story time! Please let it involve treachery, dental work, and at least one sexy goose with a vendetta."
Nick cleared his throat—or the ghostly equivalent—and launched into his Tale of Woe with all the gravity of a one-man haunted theatre company:
"In the year of Our Lady 1492, I, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, Knight of the Realm, noble of Queen Elizabeth's court, and enthusiast of enchanted orthodontics, committed the crime most foul: the accidental over-enlargement of a lady's canine teeth.
They were meant to sparkle. They grew. She bit her lapdog. Thrice.
'Off with his head!' they cried.
But oh! The executioner was hungover and tragically underqualified. He swung once. Missed slightly. He swung again. Glanced off a mole. He swung forty-five times before I finally floated free of mortal complaint—except that one final flap of flesh that refused to let go. And thus! Nearly Headless Nick!"
He dramatically twisted his neck. His head dangled by a shred of ghostly tissue like a Halloween prop animated by Shakespearean regret.
Hermione gagged quietly.
Ron dropped his pie.
Neville looked fascinated and mildly inspired.
Fred Weasley elbowed George. "Ten galleons says Sir Nick was into the biting thing."
George nodded sagely. "Kinky ghost vibes. Respect."
Jim boomed in full opera voice inside Harry's brain: "Alas! Poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio—he owed me five galleons and never paid up, the cheap git!"
Harry groaned. "Jim, you're a sentient stick with delusions of grandeur."
"Says the chaos-born demigod with a talking cat in his cranium and abandonment issues stronger than Snape's conditioner," Jim replied.
Catpool added, "Hey! I'm not just a talking cat—I'm a fully certified, morally bankrupt mental health crisis! With claws!"
"Also," Catpool continued, "can someone tell me if ghosts can eat popcorn? Because I'm this close to haunting the concession stand. And by concession stand, I mean the Hufflepuff pantry."
"You're not even dead!" Harry hissed.
"Yet!" Catpool chirped. "But I've seen your life, monkey boy. We're one Tuesday away from dying by magical vending machine!"
Sir Nicholas bowed once more. "And thus, dear children of chaos, concludes the tale of my tragic not-quite-demise. Should you require ghostly gossip, historical scandal, or opinions on the Bloody Baron's dry-cleaning habits—I remain at your service."
He floated off, muttering about guillotines and betrayal, while Peeves streaked by juggling flaming sausages and shrieking, "PUDDING OR DOOM! PUDDING OR DOOM!"
Harry took a long sip of juice and stared at the ceiling. "So. Ghosts. Actual ghosts."
Hermione, still pale, nodded. "And a castle with more backstory than the entire MCU."
Ron muttered, "I just want to eat my pie without hearing about neck flaps."
Neville beamed. "Best dinner ever."
Jim sniffed. "Needs more decapitation."
Catpool howled, "SOMEONE GET ME A DAMN OUIJA BOARD—I WANNA SEXT SNAPE THROUGH THE SPIRIT REALM!"
Harry lifted his goblet. "To undead roommates and emotionally unstable hallucinations."
Around the hall, ghostly voices echoed, haunting and weirdly polite:
"Welcome to Hogwarts."
Cue dramatic thunder. Because of course.
—
Just as Ron Weasley reached for a particularly juicy chicken leg, Dumbledore clapped his hands.
The food vanished. Gone. Kaput. Vamoosed like it owed Ron money.
"BUT I WAS GOING IN FOR THIRDS!" Ron's anguished wail echoed across the Great Hall like a mourner at a treacle tart funeral.
Hermione dabbed her mouth primly. "Ron, you've already had two plates. That's not dinner—that's a structural engineering project."
Ron stared at his empty plate, betrayed and broken. "Hermione… I was still hungry. My stomach's doing the Wailing Widow impression."
Harry leaned over, smirking. "The real tragedy of magic—vanishing food."
"Like a Snitch in a room full of Nifflers," Jim piped in telepathically, voice pure chaos and Jim Carrey-level energy. "Gone, baby, gone! And I didn't even get my complimentary drumstick bouquet!"
"This is a hate crime," Catpool added, voice purring with indignation in Harry's head. "I demand justice. Or a banana split with rum. Or rum with a banana split. Actually, just rum. Or bananas. I'm flexible. But not like that, Harry. Stop picturing it. You absolute menace."
Catpool dramatically flopped onto Harry's lap like a diva in a telenovela, napkin fluttering over his heart. "He didn't even get to finish his treacle tart. This is a culinary war crime. Somebody call Gordon Ramsay."
At the staff table, Dumbledore stood. And smiled.
Now, when most people smile, it means "I'm happy." When Dumbledore smiled, it usually meant one of three things: a) he just remembered the meaning of life; b) he'd mistaken someone's cat for his footstool again; or c) he'd forgotten pants.
Today's smile? All three.
The Hall quieted. Heads turned. A hush fell, broken only by a fart from the direction of the Slytherin table (Draco looked proud).
Dumbledore cleared his throat with a noise like a kazoo caught in a wind tunnel.
"AHEM! Just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered," he announced grandly. "I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."
He paused, peered down at a crumpled napkin in his hand, turned it upside down, then licked it thoughtfully.
Professor McGonagall leaned in, whispering from the corner of her mouth like a stage director correcting an actor mid-performance. "Albus… that's a napkin."
Dumbledore blinked at it. "Ah! That explains why it doesn't taste like pudding. Thank you, Minerva. I keep confusing parchment and poultry these days."
No one batted an eye.
The younger students giggled. The older ones smiled nervously. Harry stiffened.
"Dad really did a number on him," he muttered.
Jim's voice snorted through his brain. "Number? Try a whole Sudoku of madness. That man's brain is tap dancing in a fishbowl."
"I like him," Catpool chimed in. "He's like Gandalf, if Gandalf lost a bet and became your weird uncle who lives in a tree and smells like plums."
"First-years should note," Dumbledore continued, still holding the napkin like it was the Holy Grail, "that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. Unless, of course, you're accompanied by a sarcastic centaur, a rabid unicorn, or Hagrid with a crossbow."
"Albus…" McGonagall said again, more firmly.
"Ah, yes! Just forbidden then. Very dangerous. Full of nasties. Spiders, thestrals, sentient taxes…"
Nervous chuckles spread through the Hall. Hermione bit her lip. Neville whimpered softly. Fred and George gave each other a thumbs up.
"Second," Dumbledore continued, "Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors… unless it's to summon existential dread. In which case, points for originality."
Filch stood up, squinting. "I DIDN'T SAY THAT."
Dumbledore ignored him.
"Thirdly, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death or have their eyebrows singed off by a three-headed—well. You'll see."
Ron gulped audibly.
"I'm getting the feeling we're not in Kansas anymore," Catpool whispered.
Dumbledore tilted his head toward the enchanted ceiling.
"The fish know. Oh, they always know."
Harry turned to Hermione. "Okay. Dementia, definitely. Possibly magical dementia. Like normal dementia, but with more glitter."
Hermione looked torn between pity and alarm. "Someone should really talk to Madam Pomfrey."
"Someone should really talk to a therapist," Jim quipped. "Preferably one who specializes in wizard-head trauma."
"Now," Dumbledore said with the cheery enthusiasm of a man announcing karaoke night at a funeral, "before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!"
He gave his wand a flick. A golden ribbon flew out and twisted itself into giant floating words.
The students began singing—each to their own favorite tune.
Some were singing Beyoncé. Some sang dirges like they were at a wizarding funeral. One kid near the Hufflepuff table started beatboxing.
Harry? Harry belted the lyrics to the tune of "Highway to Hell."
Fred and George went with "Barbie Girl."
Neville was humming "Twinkle, Twinkle" while trying not to cry.
Catpool sang his own version in Harry's head:
"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, oh sweet Hogwarts, where the food disappears, and sanity's a corpse—"
Dumbledore conducted like a mad maestro, eyes closed, swaying, humming something suspiciously like Bohemian Rhapsody.
When the last note faded (and Draco was still dramatically holding the final "Hooooooooooogwarts" like he was auditioning for Wizard Idol), Dumbledore sighed.
"Ah, music. A magic beyond all we do here. And possibly a gateway to the sock dimension. But that's a tale for next year."
He sat down with a thunk, poured custard into his goblet, and sipped it like wine.
"Yup," Harry muttered. "Definitely dementia."
Ron wiped a single tear from his eye. "I just miss the food."
Fred and George leaned over from the Gryffindor table.
"We're gonna find a way into the kitchens."
"And liberate the pudding."
"Like magical Robin Hoods."
"And sticky-fingered heroes."
As the prefects rose to lead the first-years away, Dumbledore began whispering intently to his hat.
"It knows my secrets, Minerva. Don't trust the brim."
McGonagall closed her eyes. "Oh, Albus…"
Meanwhile, Catpool whispered to Harry:
"I'm just saying, we should probably install some cameras. This man's one pineapple short of a fruit salad."
Jim added: "And we're the ones stuck in the sitcom."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!