── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ── HADRIEN P.O.V ── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
The author of this book is pretty arrogant… and he looks at the rest of magic like it's a children's game. Why the hell would you put that in a school book for kids? I don't get it. But whatever.
What I do understand perfectly is that some illustrations are a crystal-clear warning: "don't get creative." I definitely don't want to end up with an extra limb… or something worse.
The train finally stops and the sun is already going down. I snap the book shut with a satisfying thunk and stuff it back into my things. Everyone else stands up too, ready to get off, when the compartment door opens.
An older student looks at us like he's seen a thousand identical faces today and says:
"Don't worry about your things or your pets. Hogwarts staff will collect them and deliver them straight to your dorms. Now follow the older students, please."
Lovely. "Carry nothing." The wizarding world has its moments.
We get off the train without drama, swallowed by a tide of robes. A few meters away another older student shouts:
"First-years, gather here and wait! Gamekeeper Hagrid will guide you."
And he heads off with the older students toward some carriages in the distance.
All the first-years stay clustered together, talking quietly and meeting each other. Hermione decides this is the perfect moment to reorganize my life: she grabs my hand and drags me away from Parvati, Padma, and Neville, straight toward Harry… and a redhead who is definitely Ron.
"Harry," I greet him.
Harry returns the greeting. Hermione switches into Official Introduction Mode.
"Hadrien, this is Ron," she says.
"Hadrien Granger," I introduce myself, holding out my hand.
"Ronald Weasley," he replies.
Hermione, without missing a beat, adds:
"I ran into them by chance while I was going compartment to compartment looking for Neville's toad."
Ron opens his mouth (maybe to ask about the toad), looks at Harry, and decides it's not his problem.
The introductions don't last long because Hagrid shows up. Huge, with his beard all messy and a smile that disarms you, he waves at us with a hand the size of a shovel. Around me I hear the classic murmurs: "he's a giant," "is that a professor?" and several badly disguised "ohh."
Hagrid doesn't even blink. He lets out a rough little chuckle, lifts his lantern like this is the most normal thing in the world, and says:
"Right then. Follow me, and don't wander off too far, yeah?"
And we start walking like ducklings after mama duck.
The path goes downhill, narrows, and suddenly there's no station and no train. Just wet grass, mud, and a huge lake that appears in front of us like it's been waiting.
On the shore there are little boats with no oars, just a lantern hanging in the center. Hagrid raises his voice and points:
"Kids, four to a boat max."
He starts sorting groups with the calm of someone who could lift a boat with one hand if he couldn't be bothered to use two.
Hermione grabs my arm so I don't get lost, and that already defines our group. Next to us a blonde girl shows up with contained excitement on her face and eyes like saucers, about to explode into questions or screams.
"Lavender Brown," she blurts out fast, like she's afraid someone will steal her turn.
"Hadrien Granger," I reply.
There are little boats with no oars along the shore, each with a lantern hanging in the middle. Hagrid raises his voice—more organizer than sergeant—and points:
"Four to a boat, max. These little boats are sturdy, but they don't work miracles."
"Dean Thomas," a boy says as he steps up to our group.
Hagrid points at us.
"Sit yourselves down and stay put," Hagrid warns from the shore as he helps another group. "No funny business. I'm not going fishing for students tonight."
We climb in. The boat barely shifts when I step, but it doesn't sink. Hermione sits right by the edge, staring at the water like she's trying to measure its depth through sheer willpower. Lavender settles on the other side, trying to look calm and failing in the most adorable way. Dean ends up in the middle, stiff, hands on his knees. I sit in the back, looking toward the bow.
"Don't stand up," Hagrid warns from the shore, helping another group. "And no funny business."
The boat starts moving on its own. No push, no motor, nothing. It glides smoothly, like it's quietly making fun of us.
Dean leans forward a little and whispers:
"This… moves by itself?"
"Yes," Hermione says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "It's enchanted."
"Obviously," I repeat, because today everything is "obviously."
Dean swallows. "This is… weird."
We drift across the lake. We hear voices from other boats, nervous laughter, a few "careful!", and water tapping against wood. In the distance the castle grows, lit windows like yellow dots. I'm not getting poetic: it looks imposing, and that's that.
Dean keeps watching the water… and then his face changes. He leans in, stretches out a finger, and points.
"What's that?" he asks, fear he's trying to hide—but can't.
Hermione and Lavender look.
"What?" Hermione says, frowning.
"I don't see anything," Lavender adds.
Dean straightens up fast.
"That! I saw a shadow. Dark. It moved under the water."
I look where he's pointing. The water is black and doesn't reflect well; anything big down there looks like a threat.
"Oh," I say with total calm. "That's the giant squid that lives in this lake."
Dean stares at me like I just told him there's a dragon in the kitchen.
"GIANT SQUID?" he repeats, way too loud.
"Yeah," I confirm. "A book says it drags the boats with the loudest students down into the depths."
Hermione turns her head with a face that says, don't make things up. Lavender freezes, processing word by word; Dean clamps a hand over his mouth. Wide eyes. Pale face. Like he's praying to every saint he knows.
I keep a straight face with discipline that deserves a medal.
Hermione lowers her voice.
"Hadrien."
"What?" I whisper back. "I said 'a book says.'"
"It doesn't say that."
"Are you sure?" I ask with the most criminal innocence I can manage.
Lavender whispers, looking at the water again,
"Is there really a… giant squid?"
"Yes," I say. "That part is real."
Dean makes a muffled choking sound behind his hand, like his soul tried to escape and changed its mind.
Hermione sighs and turns to Dean with her most serious tone, the one she uses to save the world.
"Dean, he's joking. The… dragging boats part."
Dean looks at her.
"Joking?"
"Yes," she says, flat.
I nod too, angel face.
"Joking," I confirm. "The giant squid exists, but it doesn't do… that."
Dean lowers his hand slowly. Still pale.
"Ah. Right. Right. Perfect."
He pauses for half a beat.
"So what does it do, then?"
Hermione opens her mouth to answer "it lives in the lake," but Lavender jumps in, trying to recover some dignity.
"Probably nothing. It just… is there."
"Exactly," I say. "It's there. It lives. It swims. Squid things."
Dean looks at the water again, less shaking, less panic, but still scared.
"If we sink, I'm blaming you."
"Fair," I reply. "That's fair."
The boat reaches the dock. The others do too. We climb out. Dean first, at a speed I didn't know he had. Lavender second, calmer. Hermione nudges my shoulder lightly.
"You're a disaster."
"Thanks," I say, satisfied. "I do what I can for the team."
We climb the path up to the castle. Up close it looks even more absurd: stone everywhere, towers everywhere, and a main door that looks built for giants. It's huge.
Hagrid leads us inside calmly, lighting the way with his lantern. The interior is cold and ancient. We pass wall crests, suits of armor lined up like guards who took their job way too seriously, and portraits that move just enough to remind you this isn't a normal school.
We reach another double door deeper in. Hagrid stops, motions for us to stay together, and knocks softly.
We wait.
The door opens and a stern older woman appears with a straight posture and hawk eyes. Tall, thin, emerald-green robes, hair in a neat bun, and square glasses that scream "strict teacher." Minerva McGonagall, no doubt.
She scans us one by one, like she's taking attendance without a list.
"Is that everyone?" she asks, dry.
"Yes, Professor," Hagrid answers… meekly. He almost sounds like a different Hagrid.
"Excellent. I'll take it from here. Thank you, Hagrid."
Hagrid nods, turns, and leaves.
McGonagall turns to us.
"Welcome to Hogwarts. Before you enter, understand one thing. Hogwarts is divided into four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin."
"During your time here, your house will be like your family. You will earn points for good work… and lose them for breaking rules. At the end of the year, the house with the most points wins the House Cup."
Some people murmur. Others swallow hard. I see Hermione straighten up like she's already competing.
"In a few minutes, each of you will be assigned to a house," she continues. "The Sorting is important. Remember: you will be in that house for your entire school life."
Hermione lifts her hand a little… then stops herself, because McGonagall's look doesn't need words.
"The ceremony is held in front of the entire school," she adds. "So behave. When I call you, you will enter in order."
She pauses briefly, scans us again.
"Prepare yourselves. And wait here."
McGonagall opens the doors to the Great Hall and disappears inside, leaving us in a huge room (because nothing in this place is normal-sized).
Lavender whispers nervously,
"In front of the whole school…?"
Dean scratches the back of his neck. Ron looks like someone fed him dirt. Harry doesn't look as shaken… but he's stiff as a board.
And then, from the back of the group, a thin, irritating voice tries to sound important: "So it was true, what they said on the train…"
He pushes through like the corridor is a red carpet. Two boys follow him like preschool bodyguards.
Great. I don't even have to see him to know who it is.
Draco Malfoy. Blond, pale, with a "the world owes me" face. He fixes his uniform, stands up with ridiculous dignity, and plants himself like Hogwarts owes him taxes.
Are you royalty or what? Stupid question, but that's not the point. He's eleven or twelve and he already walks like that.
"Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts," he says, stepping in front of Harry and using a stair so he's taller.
There are whispers of recognition. Some people crane their necks. Others go still like a celebrity just walked in. Harry holds his ground, but you can tell he hates being the center of attention.
Malfoy points at his two satellites. "This is Crabbe and this is Goyle." (A.N.: Get it? Because they're two big round objects and— Okay, I should stop.)
They do their job: exist a lot, intimidate, and think very little.
"And I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
Ron lets out a little snort next to Harry. Malfoy snaps his head around like lightning. "You think my name is funny?"
The smile he puts on is begging for an educational slap.
"I don't have to ask yours. That face… those hand-me-down clothes…" He looks Ron up and down with disgust. "You must be a Weasley."
Ron drops his gaze, red with embarrassment and rage, jaw trembling. Harry frowns, offended on his behalf.
Malfoy turns back to Harry like Ron is a noisy piece of furniture. "You'll find that some families are better than others, Potter. Don't mix with the wrong sort."
He flicks his eyes at Ron for the finishing touch and looks back at Harry. "I can help you."
He offers his hand, sure the world works in his favor by default.
Harry doesn't move. "I already know who the wrong sort is," he says, looking him in the eye.
I almost laugh out loud.
Footsteps echo closer. McGonagall returns.
She stops right behind Malfoy and taps his shoulder sharply with a rolled-up paper. Not hard. Just enough. The look she gives him could freeze hell.
Malfoy decides to vanish fast. Smart. For the first time in his life, apparently.
McGonagall watches him go for a second, then turns to us. "It's time. Follow me."
I spot Neville in a corner, looking relieved… and Trevor is back on his shoulder. Either someone found him or the little beast chose to show up. Magic and toads—who understands.
We line up as best we can and follow McGonagall.
The Great Hall doors open on their own.
And we walk into a massive hall, beautiful in every way. The ceiling looks like a perfect starry night, like someone stole the sky and pinned it up there. Floating candles, torches on the walls, four long tables packed with students watching us enter.
At the front, on a raised table, are the professors. And of course Hagrid is already there too, sitting in a chair that clearly wasn't designed for someone like him. No idea how he got there before us if he didn't come through the same door. Magic or secret passages, I guess.
And in the center, impossible to ignore, is the most powerful wizard in Britain, the most respected by some and the most hated and "darkest" on the planet according to certain internet people from my previous life. Albus Many-Names Dumbledore. With the longest, grayest beard I've ever seen, half-moon glasses, and that calm smile that makes you feel like he already knows how this story ends.
We move fast enough not to fall too far behind McGonagall. We step up onto the platform, and there it is, on a low, plain stool: the artifact that gives me the most morbid curiosity all night.
The Sorting Hat.
It's a pointy hat, ancient, patched with every color imaginable. The fabric looks worn, dirty from centuries of use, and there's a wide tear near the brim that is very clearly a mouth. It's wrinkled, crooked, and it looks… alive. Like it's staring at all of us with a smirk before it starts talking.
McGonagall unrolls what I thought was a rolled-up newspaper. It's actually a long, yellowed parchment. The student list, obviously.
"I will call each of you by name," she says loud and clear so the whole hall can hear. "You will come forward, sit on the stool, and I will place the hat on your head. It will decide which house you belong to."
Hermione nudges me with her shoulder.
"How are you always right in the dumbest possible way?!" she hisses, silently screaming just for me.
"Because I was a wizard in my previous life, obviously I think like one," I brag under my breath, side-eyeing her with my hands clasped behind my back.
Honestly, Hermione, you should be used to me somehow knowing almost everything by now.
"Tch," she clicks her tongue, pure frustration.
"Abbott, Hannah!"
A nervous little blonde girl goes up. She sits. McGonagall puts the hat on her. Two seconds later the hat shouts:
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
The yellow table erupts in cheers and applause. Hannah walks down smiling like she just won a prize.
Everyone around me jumps a little at the hat talking. I see Hermione's eyes go cartoon-wide, mouth fully open. Yeah… sorry, Hermione, but I'm cheating, I think, amused.
I feel a sharp stare on the back of my neck. I turn and Padma is looking at me like she wants to shoot lasers out of her eyes. I wink and look forward again.
"Bones, Susan!"
Another blonde, more confident. Up, sits—
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
More applause from the yellow table.
"Boot, Terry!"
Dark-haired boy. Up.
"RAVENCLAW!"
The blue table applauds with academic elegance.
"Brown, Lavender!"
Lavender practically bounces up. She sits.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The red table explodes in cheers and clapping. Lavender walks down flushed with excitement.
"Finnigan, Seamus!"
Seamus walks like he's headed to the gallows. (A.N.: No, that word isn't about ducks.)
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Another wave of cheering from the red table. Seamus comes down with a shaky smile.
"Granger, Hadrien!"
My name. Shit, it's my turn.
I walk up calmly and sit. I've got a full view of the hall, and everyone—especially Hermione—looks hyper-focused on me.
They put the hat on my head, and I hear it… speaking in my mind.
[Well, well… what a peculiar mind. Twelve years old, with qualities this defined.]
The hat speaks out loud, in a deep, serious voice so the whole hall hears: "Twelve years old, with qualities this defined…"
I want to ask how it works, whether it reads my memories like Legilimency, but it seems to get ahead of my thoughts and answers.
[Ah, yes. A curious mind, hungry for knowledge. And no, I cannot see your memories. You definitely have Ravenclaw in you, but you are also loyal, kind-hearted, and powerfully ambitious. You do not lack courage… you are quite complicated, hmm.]
Out loud the hat continues, slow and thoughtful: "Ravenclaw… but also loyal, kind-hearted, and powerfully ambitious…"
[If you don't read my memories, how do you know those things you're seeing in my head?] I ask.
[I do not read your memories, but I can probe your character, your personality, and your surface thoughts. That is how my makers made me.]
That makes more sense, I think. Nobody would want to put an artifact on their head that knows absolutely everything about them—or their kids.
The hat murmurs out loud again, almost like it's reflecting:
"Nobody would want an artifact that knows everything…"
I hear someone laugh somewhere in the hall.
[Can I choose my house?] I ask.
[Of course. I take preferences into account,] it replies.
[I want Gryffindor,] I say, with conviction.
[Yes… yes… perhaps what is best for you is…]
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouts, and the lions roar with applause. They lift the hat off my head and I head to the table; they make room, clap my back, mess up my hair, and I focus on the Sorting again.
"Granger, Hermione!"
She looks nervous, stiff as a statue. She sits, McGonagall puts the hat on her, and a couple of minutes pass that—for her—probably feel like a full lifetime.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Hermione smiles like she just remembered how to breathe and walks to our table. I make room at my side and half-hug her while people clap and whistle. She tries to look dignified… and fails, because her eyes are shining. Good.
The list continues.
"Bulstrode, Millicent!"
A pretty sturdy girl—not in a bad way, but her arm is thicker than mine at this age—walks up confidently, like the stool owes her respect.
"SLYTHERIN!"
She steps down without looking at anyone and goes straight to the green table.
"Crabbe, Vincent!"
A satellite goes up, broad shoulders, face that says, "I don't want to be here, but I got dragged anyway." Looks like his favorite expression is "blank."
The hat barely settles.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Crabbe walks down like he got assigned a chair, not a house, and goes back to his people.
"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!"
A perfectly normal-looking boy with effortlessly attractive features and a sharp jawline that feels like it was approved by a committee. He sits with a weird calm for a first-year.
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
The yellow table welcomes him like they already know him. Justin walks down smiling, with an air of "okay, that wasn't so bad."
"Goldstein, Anthony!"
A dark-haired boy with an alert gaze goes up carefully. He looks attentive, like he's memorizing the entire hall.
"RAVENCLAW!"
The blue table applauds in that "good, another member of the people-who-read-too-much club" way.
"Goyle, Gregory!"
Malfoy's other satellite appears. Bigger than most, hard face, same "I came bundled with Crabbe" vibe.
The hat decides fast.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Goyle comes down clumsily and returns to his orbit.
"Longbottom, Neville!"
He walks up very nervously, eyes on the floor. Don't worry, Neville. I get it. People staring makes you uncomfortable even when they aren't doing anything.
He sits like the stool might bite him. The hat hesitates a little… or it feels like it does to Neville.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The red table erupts. Neville blinks like he isn't sure he heard right, then hurries down. When he reaches us, I give him a small nod and a quick smile that says, see. He sits, still red-faced.
"Macmillan, Ernie!"
A boy goes up with the posture of "I already have an opinion on everything," the kind of kid who looks like he practiced speaking formally in the mirror. He straightens his uniform before sitting, because of course.
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
Ernie walks down satisfied, like it was exactly what he expected.
"Malfoy, Draco!"
The drama queen. He walks up like he's stepping onto a stage. McGonagall puts the hat on him, and the hat barely touches his head when—
"SLYTHERIN!"
He comes down with a victorious smile like he won a war, not a school lottery.
"Nott, Theodore!"
This kid won the genetic lottery: square jaw, sharp eyes, a "I don't need anyone" face and a "and I don't want you either" posture. I haven't seen him talk much to anyone.
The hat takes a second.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Nott walks down without looking at the tables, straight to green, like he had that path mapped out already.
"Parkinson, Pansy!"
Pansy steps up with her chin high, trying not to show she's nervous too. She's pretty, honestly: small nose, a very round face, and that short bowl-shaped haircut… (A.N.: Alerta do flequilo). And yet in the original work they treat her like she's ugly, calling her "pug face" and worse. Because they're kids, and sometimes kids are cruel as a sport.
The hat doesn't make her suffer.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Pansy walks down delighted, like the house just gave her invisible armor.
"Patil, Padma!"
Expected. She walks up calmly, sits without drama, and the hat decides with the same calm.
"RAVENCLAW!"
Padma walks down like nothing. Perfect. Also expected.
"Patil, Parvati!"
Parvati goes up with a small smile like this is exciting and she's trying not to scream.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Parvati comes down happy, searching with her eyes, and when she reaches the red table I lift my hand in a quick greeting. She answers with two thumbs up and a grin from ear to ear.
"Thomas, Dean!"
Dean goes up with that Londoner vibe we already saw at the lake: "okay, this is weird, but I'm going to take it like a man." He sits, the hat shifts a little—
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Dean walks down looking relieved.
"Weasley, Ronald!"
Ron sits, and the hat doesn't take ten seconds.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Ron comes down with a mix of pride and "please let this be over, I'm already hungry" and collapses at the red table next to Harry.
"Zabini, Blaise!"
A dark-skinned boy with an elegant bearing, perfect posture, and calm eyes walks up like this is an expensive formality. He doesn't smile, doesn't shake, doesn't look impressed by anything. That's either a personality or a mask—who knows.
The hat thinks for a moment.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Zabini walks down unhurried and goes to green like he knows exactly where he fits.
Dumbledore stays seated in his "chair." He doesn't stand. He doesn't put on a show. He just waits for the murmur to drop to an acceptable level.
He taps his crystal goblet lightly with a spoon.
And instantly, the hall complies with the request for silence and attention.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," he says, in a warm voice that still reaches the farthest table. "I'm pleased to see you here."
He pauses briefly.
"For those who do not know me," he adds, casually, "I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts."
He says it like he's introducing himself at a neighborhood meeting. Like he isn't, literally, a name that makes people sit up straighter and ask for autographs.
"And before dinner, allow me to introduce the staff of Hogwarts."
He turns his head slightly to indicate the professors.
"Our Deputy Headmistress, Transfiguration professor, and Head of Gryffindor: Professor McGonagall."
McGonagall stands with that severe elegance that seems built into her bones. Applause and whistles burst first from the red table, then the rest follows. She nods once and sits. Done.
"Head of Slytherin and Potions Master: Professor Snape."
A man with black hair and black robes stands like someone reminded him of an unpleasant obligation. Applause… more restrained, mostly from Slytherin. Snape doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. He just looks like everyone owes him an apology and sits.
"Head of Hufflepuff and Herbology professor: Professor Sprout."
A kind-looking woman stands and gives a small gesture, like she's a bit embarrassed. The applause sounds warm, sincere.
"Head of Ravenclaw and Charms professor: Professor Flitwick."
A very short man stands and offers a charming, almost cheerful greeting. The blue table applauds with academic pride. I swear I can hear Hermione breathe louder.
Dumbledore continues, same official tone, not dragging it out.
"Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts: Professor Quirrell."
A man in a turban stands timidly and sits back down quickly.
"History of Magic: Professor Binns. Astronomy: Professor Sinistra. Flying: Madam Hooch."
"And for upper-year electives: Arithmancy with Professor Vector, Ancient Runes with Professor Babbling, Muggle Studies with Professor Burbage, and Care of Magical Creatures with Professor Kettleburn."
"And of course," Dumbledore adds, turning his head slightly, "the gamekeeper of Hogwarts: Mr. Hagrid."
Hagrid, in a chair that is clearly having an existential crisis, stands as best he can. The applause is louder than I expected. There's nervous laughter, but also immediate fondness: it's impossible to look at him and not think, okay, this man could carry me like a backpack if I get lost.
Hagrid grins, red as a tomato, and sits carefully so he doesn't destroy the table.
Dumbledore folds his hands.
"Now, a few notices."
He lifts his gaze and scans the hall calmly, like he's taking attendance.
"First: the Forbidden Forest is… forbidden," he says, plain and simple. "No student is to enter it under any circumstances."
Great. Tell kids something is forbidden so they'll do it anyway. A+ in reverse psychology, Headmaster.
Dumbledore continues, same pace.
"Second: this year Mr. Filch—our caretaker—has asked me to remind you that certain items are not permitted in the school. Any prohibited item will be confiscated."
As he says it, his eyes slide with a nearly playful lightness toward the Gryffindor table… right where two redheaded twins are sitting with more energy than common sense.
He doesn't say their names. He doesn't need to.
They look at each other, snicker, and give each other a "subtle" elbow—subtle in the way you can see from the moon.
Dumbledore faces forward again.
"Third: access to the corridor on the third floor on the right-hand side is strictly forbidden… unless you wish to die a most painful death."
He says it in a deep, serious voice. No smile. No sparkle. Just a fact.
Great, part two. Seriously, how many kids are going to hear "certain death" and think, "I need to check what's in there"?
And then, like he changed channels with a finger, Dumbledore's expression softens. The shadow goes away. That gentle calm returns.
He smiles.
"And now," he says with practical cheer, "before we eat, a few words."
Pause.
And, with absolute seriousness, he announces:
"Mipsy. Tilly. Rook."
Half a second of silence.
And then… the table explodes. Figuratively, obviously.
Platters appear out of nowhere like someone flipped the world upside down and the food fell exactly where it belonged: steaming roasts, golden chicken, potatoes in every possible form, shepherd's pie, sausages, gravy, warm bread, butter, vegetables, tarts, puddings, desserts that look like they contain enough sugar to resurrect the dead.
There are also dishes I don't recognize right away and others I do: things loaded with spices, rice, sauces, flatbread, curry, empanadas from somewhere, and a couple of trays that smell so good I feel personally insulted for having lived a life without them.
Ron stares at the table like he just saw God in person and the gates of heaven.
Hermione, for the first time all night, doesn't have a question. Just big eyes. And a very specific expression of "okay, this is too much, and I love it."
The feast begins and, of course, everyone lunges like they haven't eaten in weeks.
Hermione serves herself with her usual discipline: a bit of chicken, salad… and for dessert, a lemon tart. Neat, logical, efficient. If a war ever depends on choosing a plate well, we win.
Ron, on the other hand, acts like his family feeds their kids on thoughts and hope. He grabs two chicken legs—one in each hand—and alternates bites like he's racing the clock.
Fucking caveman, do you have no manners?
Harry serves himself. His plate becomes an organized mountain: a bit of everything that catches his eye. At least he chews like a person with manners.
I see several students giving Ron a "seriously?" look, and a couple of girls at the table making faces of disgust without even trying to hide it. Sorry, Ron, but your worst enemy is you.
Me, happy as can be, I go straight for what looks like Indian food. I'm not sure what it is, but it's spicy like someone dumped every spice on the planet into one pot. Learn something, you damn English. I also grab some empanadas—how I've missed them—and a juicy piece of meat that should be illegal in a school.
Then I try the juice.
Pumpkin.
My mood is completely ruined.
We eat, we talk, and everything becomes… more normal than it should be for a castle with floating candles. At some point the Weasley twins show up—yes, the twins Ron mentioned with pride and resignation at the same time—come over to mess with Ron like it's a family duty, and talk to Harry for a while. When they go back, I keep chatting with Hermione, Harry, and Ron. Parvati joins, and Lavender too.
Almost all the first-years jump when a head appears in the middle of the table.
Me too.
Fucking shitty ghosts.
Ahem.
I mean: damn ghosts.
The head passes through the tablecloth like it's fog and stays floating there, smiling smugly, like it just won a contest called "scare the new kids."
"Good evening," it says in a deep, delighted voice. "Welcome, welcome!"
And then, like that's the official signal, more start appearing. First a transparent hand out of nowhere, then an arm, then a torso… and suddenly the Gryffindor table has extra guests, floating between plates like they paid for their seats.
Ron stops chewing.
His mouth is open.
Hermione freezes too, but for different reasons: she's having a tiny heart attack.
Dean looks at the ghosts like he's seen Jesus himself.
"Is this… normal?" Dean whispers, in a voice that doesn't belong to him.
"At Hogwarts," I say, swallowing, "'normal' is a rarer concept than 'weird.'"
One of the ghosts is a chubby friar, laughing, with such a friendly grin you almost forget he doesn't have feet. Another is a tall man with a refined mustache, floating with the elegance of someone who still thinks he's in a ballroom. Farther down, a pirate-looking guy appears with a dramatic rattle of chains and an unnecessary "ARR!" like he's being paid by the drama.
And then there's him.
A ghost in old armor, noble posture, and a feather in his hat that moves with a pride that should not exist in someone without a body. He drifts in front of us and inclines his head.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he says. "I am Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington… but here, everyone knows me as Nearly Headless Nick."
Hermione reacts instantly.
"Nearly headless?" she asks, unable to stop herself. "Why 'nearly'?"
Ron swallows like that question is a death trap.
"Hermione…" he murmurs. "Don't ask that."
Of course I'm already looking at the ghost with morbid curiosity, like he's a science experiment.
"No, no, wait," I say, stepping in. "I want to know too. Why do they call you that?"
Nick sighs with offended dignity.
"Because," he says, like it's obvious, "they failed to finish the job."
And before Hermione can ask "how," Nick smiles.
"Permit me a demonstration."
Nick brings both hands to his neck and makes a casual gesture, like he's adjusting a scarf.
And then his head tilts.
It opens.
It doesn't fall all the way off.
It hangs to one side, held by the tiniest strip of spectral "skin," like a badly closed lid.
Hermione goes rigid.
Lavender makes a face that says, I'm going to throw up.
Parvati lets out a small, high sound that isn't a scream but also isn't human.
Dean…
Dean loses all color. His face does that specific expression of "my spirit left my body, took a lap around the corridor, and is deciding whether to come back."
Ron clamps a hand over his mouth.
"By Morgana!" he blurts, then remembers he's in a crowded hall and lowers his voice. "That's disgusting!"
Nick straightens his head with a slow, proud movement, like he just performed a parlor trick.
"You see?" he says, satisfied. "Nearly."
I laugh. I can't help it.
"Great practical example," I say, with a tiny, totally unnecessary clap. "Very educational. A+ for trauma."
Hermione shoots me a look, but she can't speak yet because she's still processing the existence of… this.
Nick looks at us with a mix of pride and resignation.
"I apologize if my… condition… unsettles you," he says with melodrama that fits a dead man perfectly. "But it is important to keep tradition alive."
"It's very alive," Dean mutters, hollow-voiced. "Too alive."
The chubby friar laughs loudly.
"Oh, don't worry, little ones!" he says, floating closer with big friendly energy. "You'll get used to it! I'm the Fat Friar, by the way. And if you need help… or comfort… or someone who won't show you their neck for sport, I'm here."
Ron looks at him with instant gratitude.
"Thanks," he says.
The elegant mustached man clears his throat, offended by the noise.
"Manners, please," he says in a thin voice. "This is a feast."
Hermione finally finds her voice again.
"Do you… live here?" she asks, and there's more fascination than fear in her tone. "I mean… do you stay in the castle all the time?"
Nick nods.
"The ghosts of Hogwarts remain here," he explains. "We have… roles. We accompany our houses, guide the students, preserve history…"
"And scare people," I add.
Nick smiles like that's a virtue.
"And scare people," he agrees. "When necessary."
Ron nods toward the noisy one, still pale.
"And the loud one? The one with the chains?"
The answer is a crash: the pirate ghost sweeps through the table like he owns the place.
"I AM THE BLOODY BARON!" someone yells from another table, and several people laugh.
Nick clears his throat, dignified.
"That is not the Bloody Baron," he says, flat. "That is the ghost of Peeves, and—"
The Fat Friar interrupts, laughing.
"Nick, Peeves isn't a ghost. He's… Peeves."
"Then what is he?" Hermione asks, eyes bright, like she just found a new obsession.
Nick opens his mouth.
Closes it.
"A disgrace," he says at last.
I nod.
"That sounds like an official category."
Dean rubs his face with both hands.
"I just wanted to… eat and sleep," he says.
Ron looks at him.
"Welcome to Hogwarts."
And Nick, like nothing happened, floats away with his dignity intact, ready to traumatize more children with his defective neck. Hermione watches him go with the face of someone already writing a mental essay titled: "Phenomenology of Death: Direct Observation of Spectral Entities and Their Social Interaction."
Me? I go back to my plate.
I end up eating half a chocolate cake because, honestly, I have zero self-control when something looks that delicious.
When nobody can eat anymore, the food vanishes from the tables. Ron stares at where his "personal heaven" was with the same sadness as a kid whose TV just got turned off.
Dumbledore stands.
"I hope you are all satisfied and happy," he says with a smile and that grandfatherly chuckle that makes you forget he was talking about painful deaths a minute ago. "Now, if you would be so kind, prefects: please guide the first-years to their dormitories."
Our Gryffindor prefect stands. Percy Weasley. The same Percy Ron warned us about at dinner—the one with a broomstick up his backside—and… yeah. Ron wasn't exaggerating.
Percy clears his throat and raises his voice.
"First-years, I am Percy Weasley, Gryffindor prefect," he says like he's announcing a law in Parliament. "Now form a line and follow me to the Gryffindor common room. No pushing. No running. And please, do not touch anything that moves."
Beside him stands an older girl with the same prefect badge. Tall, straight posture, dark brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail. A thin scar crosses her left eyebrow, barely visible.
"Imogen Fairfax," she says, calm, with a soft smile. "Gryffindor prefect."
We leave the Great Hall and walk through corridors packed with portraits… alive. And I mean A LOT, because here even the frame judges you.
We reach the moving stairs.
"Stay close to me, stay close to me. Don't wander off and keep very close," Percy says, raising his voice like the castle fines you for breathing out of formation.
WE GET IT, LOUDSPEAKER WITH LEGS. YOU DON'T HAVE TO REPEAT IT EVERY TEN STEPS.
Imogen walks beside us with the calm of someone who has watched three whole years of students try to die on the stairs.
"Percy," she says, low, no drama. "They're children. Not a military unit."
Percy doesn't blink.
"Precisely why they must follow instructions."
Imogen makes a gentle hand motion, like she's pushing the panic level down.
"Just stay together," she translates into Human for the group. "And if the stairs move, hold the handrail. That's it."
We go up the moving stairs and, honestly, it's a little scary. Some people grip hard when the stairs shift, like the staircase might decide on a whim that today is a great day to kill us. Dean's face says he's about to faint.
Imogen sees it too. She steps closer without rushing him.
"Thomas," she says quietly. "Breathe. Don't look down. Look at me and keep walking."
Dean blinks like someone finally gave him a sensible instruction. He nods, pale, but he obeys.
I don't even want to imagine how he'll do when he sees Flying class.
Hermione grabs my sleeve tightly in silence, staring at everything with that focused "if I memorize it, it won't be as scary" look. Imogen passes her and gives her a quick approving glance, like: good. That's the attitude.
After more corridors and more doors, we finally stop in front of a painting.
The Fat Lady.
"The password," she asks simply, fanning herself like she doesn't have a whole line of students waiting for her judgment.
Percy clears his throat, important.
"Caput Draconis," he says.
The painting swings open like a door and we go in.
"The common room is… pretty common," I tell Hermione.
Yes, I said it. Clap, damn it. (A.N.: XD).
"Oh God…" she says, sighs hard, and facepalms.
Imogen hears us and one corner of her mouth twitches—barely. A tiny "I'd like to laugh, but I'm a prefect."
I shrug and keep walking. There are sofas everywhere, bookshelves here and there, a huge fireplace, and nearby a spiral staircase that climbs like it's daring you to get lost for sport.
Percy plants himself by the stairs and points with bureaucratic seriousness.
"Left leads to the boys' dormitory. Right, to the girls'," he says. "Boys are forbidden from entering the girls' dormitory. Don't try it: the stairs are enchanted to stop you."
Imogen adds, like she's talking to creatures she has to love and correct at the same time:
"I'll be keeping an eye on you, boys… and girls."
Percy pauses, scanning us like he's counting future delinquents.
"You will share a room. Your belongings and pets have already been delivered. Your beds are marked with your names," Percy continues, breathing like he just delivered a lecture. "And remember: curfew is one hour before midnight. If a professor finds you outside the common room, there will be punishment… and loss of points for the house."
Silence.
"Understood?" Percy asks.
We nod. All of us. Fast. For social survival.
Imogen leans slightly toward the group, lowering the tension.
"If anyone gets turned around tomorrow, don't wander alone," she says. "Come back here. Or find a prefect. Getting lost once isn't the end of the world."
Percy goes for the final hit, because of course he's still not done.
"Breakfast is available from 8:30 to 9:00. Since you do not yet know the castle, wake up early tomorrow. I will guide you to the Great Hall; memorize the route. And if you get lost, you may ask the portraits."
Imogen exhales and softens it with one last line.
"Sleep. Seriously. Tomorrow's a long day."
Percy gives us one final satisfied prefect look.
"Good night."
And they leave, with us standing there… officially loose in the castle. More or less.
"Good night, Mione. Lavender. Parvati," I say to each of them.
They say goodbye and head up to their dorms. I go straight to find mine.
I walk into what I assume is our dormitory. It's pretty big: six beds, spaced far enough apart, each with folding curtains for privacy. Thank God—because I do not want to wake up at night and see someone relieving stress, if you know what I mean.
Everything is in Gryffindor colors. Two tall windows for air and a view from the tower. Our trunks are already there, like Percy promised, with our names.
I go to my bed, set my trunk down, and start digging for my pajamas. Behind me, the others trickle in.
Harry comes in first, quiet, looking at the room like he expects a wall to talk to him.
Ron comes in next, exhaustion stuck to his face… but with enough energy to talk anyway.
Seamus and Dean come together. Neville comes last, clutching Trevor like a lucky charm.
"Er… hi," Dean says, scratching his neck, eyeing the curtains. "This… this is better than my room at home."
"Yeah," Seamus says, looking at the ceiling. "Much better than mine. And mine isn't bad, but… this is a castle."
Ron snorts and points at a random bed.
"I'm taking that one."
Dean looks at him.
"Why that one? And it already has an owner—look at the tag. It says Seamus."
"Because, and we can swap," Ron says.
Seamus laughs, tired… but he agrees.
Harry stares at the bed closest to the window, not moving yet.
Neville tries to chat with the others, but doesn't say much.
Dean looks at Neville and then at the toad still on his shoulder.
"Does your mate always stay there?" he asks, trying to sound casual.
Neville turns red instantly, but nods.
"Y-yeah."
Seamus raises an eyebrow, amused.
"What's his name?"
"Trevor," Neville answers.
"Good name," Ron declares, like he's got official authority over amphibians.
Harry lets out a tiny smile.
I keep looking for my pajamas without really joining in. Not because I'm rude—my social battery is just flashing red.
"I'm Seamus Finnigan," Seamus finally says, like he remembered introductions exist.
"Dean Thomas," Dean adds.
Ron jerks his thumb at himself, like we already know.
"Ron Weasley."
Neville swallows.
"Neville Longbottom."
Harry hesitates a second before speaking, like the name is heavy.
"Harry. Harry Potter."
There's an awkward half-second of silence, because the name does that. Ron looks away like he doesn't care, but you can tell he's proud to be friends with Harry. Seamus tries to act normal. Neville goes stiff. Dean doesn't seem to understand what's happening, but he doesn't ask—yet.
I glance up and say just enough to make it clear we're not building an altar.
"Hadrien Granger."
Done.
Dean nods, along with Seamus.
"Well…" Seamus says, looking at his bed. "Guess tomorrow we get lost in the castle."
"Don't say that," Neville mutters quickly.
Seamus spreads his hands.
"It was a joke."
"A bad one," Ron says, yawning, and starts opening his trunk like he was trained to do it in the dark.
I pull out my pajamas, lay them on the bed, and start setting up the basics. Harry is putting his clothes away carefully, like he doesn't want to make noise. Dean is already smiling at the curtains, relieved. Seamus sits on his bed and pulls off his shoes like they weigh a thousand pounds. Neville puts Trevor into a tank next to his bed.
"S-so… nobody steps on him," Neville says, more to himself than to us.
Ron looks at him.
"Who's going to step on a toad?"
Seamus lifts a finger.
"I might."
Ron shoots him a look.
"You couldn't step on an idea, Seamus."
Dean laughs under his breath. Neville does too, but guiltily.
I finish arranging my things, pull out my analog alarm clock, and stare at it like it's a war relic.
Let's see if this piece of crap even works here.
I set it on the bedside table. I turn to the room for a second.
"Sorry about the noise tomorrow. I'm setting it for seven."
Ron waves a hand vaguely.
"Set it for whatever time you want. I'll wake up anyway. Or I won't."
Seamus flops onto his back.
"I wake up with trauma."
Dean snorts, amused.
"I wake up with…" He looks around, not finishing the sentence. "…with this."
Harry, from his bed, says something very quietly, almost inaudible.
"Good night."
"Good night," Ron answers immediately.
Neville repeats, timid.
"Good night."
"Good night," Dean says.
Seamus raises two fingers in a lazy salute.
"Night."
I turn off the lamp inside my four walls, pull the curtain closed, and get into bed.
I set the alarm for 07:00 AM.
I close my eyes.
── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ── ── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──
7,732 words.
For my English readers: some of the author's notes (A.N.) I drop throughout the chapter are Spanish memes or jokes, and yeah—some of them don't survive the trip into English. Sorry. It's not poetry; it's just collateral damage.
For example, the "ducks" comment comes from a dumb wordplay thing: in Spanish there's the word "patíbulo" (which means "gallows," where people get executed). It sounds a bit like "pato" ("duck"), so the joke is pretending "patíbulo" has something to do with ducks, like it's a "duck lobby." It's a sound-based joke, not a logic-based one… and you can't really recreate it in English without forcing it.
The "Alerta do flequilo" line is basically a dumb meme-y way of saying "ignore this person's take." It's poking fun at the bob haircut with bangs (the "bob + fringe" look) because, in some Spanish-speaking internet spaces, there's a stereotype that the most extreme / unhinged "activist" types always have that haircut and then say ridiculous things.
It's not meant as a serious statement about feminism—it's just a lowbrow internet joke built on a local stereotype, and I'm using it to mock the vibe, not to make a real argument.
This chapter was suffering. I had to invent a damn OC to fill in the story because J.K. Rowling NEVER MENTIONS THE PREFECT'S NAME. She just tells you she "exists."
AHG. I want to kill myself (in-game).
Oh, and if anyone knows a FREE AI that can generate character images, tell me in the comments. I literally don't know a single one. That way I can give you a mental image for some characters without losing a whole hour scrolling Pinterest like an addict.
And in case I forgot to say it somewhere (I'm losing my mind): Hadrien's pairings will be Luna Lovegood and Hermione Granger, in that order, and NO ONE ELSE. I'll probably start developing those relationships in third or fourth year.
Just a heads-up: if I don't post next week, it's because I'm not in the mood. I also have an exam this week and I'll be tense until it's over.
AND I AM CLARIFYING RIGHT HERE AND NOW: ALL CHARACTERS IN THIS WORK ARE FICTIONAL AND, IN THIS WORK, ALL OF THEM ARE OVER (18+). 😉 😉