"Welcome to Hogwarts,"
Professor McGonagall said,
"The Start-of-Term Banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony, because, for the duration of your time at Hogwarts, your house will be something like your family..."
Professor McGonagall explained the four houses and the House Cup, and as she left, she reminded the first-years:
"In a few minutes, the Sorting Ceremony will take place in front of the whole school. I suggest you smarten yourselves up a bit while you're waiting."
Her gaze lingered on Sean for a moment, the sternness softening just a fraction.
It suits him...
"The Sorting Ceremony—Merlin's beard, I heard it involves wrestling a dragon!"
A black-haired first-year whispered shakily to his friend nearby.
"Wh-what?! Us, wrestling a dragon?!"
The blond girl beside him looked on the verge of tears,
"No, please! I only know Lumos."
Her words sparked instant chaos among the first-years.
"A dragon?! Adult or hatchling?!"
"Anthony, why be so precise right now! I'd say even a baby dragon could barbecue us in one go!"
"We're doomed!"
The first-years lapped up the rumor like it was gospel—clearly, their families had primed them well for it.
Amid the chorus of groans,
Sean kept his nose buried in Magical Theory.
It was the only book he'd carried with him.
Magic didn't follow logic or obey rules like conservation of mass,
but it had existed for so long that even if wizards were all thick as two short planks, they must have pieced together some patterns by now.
Out of all the two-Galleon tomes on the first-year list, this one stuck with him the most.
Every branch of magic—whether Charms, Transfiguration, or Potions—
found some explanation in its pages.
Sean reckoned it was the most underrated book on the list.
He was on his third read-through now, each pass yielding fresh insights.
[Magic is innate to the witch or wizard.
The strength of one's magic depends on their emotions or mental fortitude, but most wizards can't consciously control their magic on their own, so they require incantations and wands to guide it, allowing magic to be directed purposefully toward an end.]
Sean got that, easy.
Harry was a prime example.
Before he'd learned a scrap of proper magic, he could levitate himself up a chimney or vanish glass,
but only when his emotions boiled over—and even then, he had no clue how to steer it.
With a wand and the right incantations, though,
wizards could harness their magic to a tee.
After two months of digging into it, Sean was starting to buy into an old theory from his past life:
the wizards in the Harry Potter world were bloodline mages, their power stemming from some hereditary knack for spellcasting.
Sean read on:
[One truth about learning magic is to master as many spells as possible, including plenty of ancient ones—the more you know, the more you can do; another is that once you've got a spell down, you must practice it relentlessly. There's a world of difference between a polished cast and a rusty one; but to truly unleash a spell's full potential, you'll need sufficient mental strength besides.]
What a crisp, no-nonsense rundown.
No wonder Adalbert Waffling had the brass to call his book Magical Theory—
the title alone put it on par with past-life tomes like Theoretical Mathematics or Introductory Physics.
Those had stolen plenty of joy from Sean, sucking the life out like Dementors.
Cram one read, wave goodbye to fun.
"I'm starting to believe you."
Hermione's face was a bit pale; the first-years' chatter was too ghastly, and their eager echoes made it all too convincing.
For someone just dipping her toes into the wizarding world, it was unnerving.
Then she glanced at Sean beside her, utterly oblivious, still lost in his book.
...
"We could ask Sean—he doesn't look scared a bit."
Shivering, Justin recalled the riding tests at Eton—
maybe wizards had to slay dragons? Was it some noble tradition?
Wizards,
terrifying.
"Sean, sorry to interrupt, but..."
Justin's plea for help hadn't finished when the Great Hall doors boomed open.
The Sorting Ceremony had begun.
Sean pulled himself from Magical Theory,
and while the Sorting Hat was still up on the stool, he mulled over his target house.
After all, the Hat seemed to heed a student's wishes.
Gryffindor?
No, absolutely not.
His top priority was landing that scholarship—
top marks across the board meant benchmarking against Hermione or Percy.
In the books, they'd both caught flak from within Gryffindor for it.
Hermione, in first year, just shone in class and pointed out classmates' slip-ups, and she ended up crying in the loo from the backlash.
Most Gryffindors carried this vibe of "I won't be shown up, no matter my level"—
brave adventurers, sure, but they often lashed out at others.
Like during the Chamber of Secrets business, when rumors had them shunning and sidelining Harry.
Slytherin?
Sean had zero interest in the backstabbing games; he'd rather grind Wingardium Leviosa up to a silent-cast level in that time.
Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff both seemed solid options.
But Sean leaned toward Hufflepuff—
dorms a stone's throw from free grub in the kitchens? Wicked.
Hufflepuff: all warmth and unity, no infighting—just a solid front to the world.
Even J.K. Rowling had said she wished all kids were Hufflepuffs.
Picture it: cozy fireplaces, a kitchen right at your doorstep, and a Head of House who might chew you out for a scrap gone wrong but still sneak you a tub of coconut ice cream.
Sean wanted to belt out:
*We come from the earth, we cherish the wild, we honor the green, we're just and steadfast, tough and true to our word, unflinching in peril—
—we are Hufflepuff!*
"Harry Potter!"
In the center of the hall,
Professor McGonagall's call hushed the buzz considerably.
Sean heard the whispers ripple around: "It's him," "The real Harry Potter."
Harry scurried up, plonked the battered Hat on his head, and the hall fell pin-drop silent, all eyes on the wait—
which stretched four, five minutes.
Sean had mentally looped through the Sorting Hat's song twice.
"Gryffindor!"
The verdict at last.
Gryffindors went wild with joy.
"Potter!"
"We've got Potter!"
Sean could hear it from across the room.
Soon—
"Sean Greene!"