"Welco to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall announced.
"The Start-of-Term Feast is about to begin, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you'll need to be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a crucial ceremony because your House will be like your family while you're at Hogwarts…"
She explained the four Houses and the House Cup, and as she turned to leave, she added, "The Sorting Ceremony will take place in front of the entire school in just a few minutes. I suggest you use this ti to tidy yourselves up and look sharp."
Her gaze lingered on Sean for a mont, her usual sternness softening briefly.
It rather suits him…
"The Sorting Ceremony? Oh rlin, I heard we have to fight a dragon!" a dark-haired young wizard whispered shakily to his friend.
"What?! Us, fight a dragon?!" The blonde witch beside him looked on the verge of tears. "No way! I've only learned Lumos!"
Their words sparked a wave of panic among the first-years.
"A dragon? An adult one or a juvenile?!" one asked.
"Anthony, why are you being so specific right now?" another snapped. "Even a baby dragon could roast us with one puff!"
"We're dood!" another wailed.
The rumor spread like wildfire, clearly fueled by tales from their families. Amid the groans and nervous chatter, Sean stayed focused, nose buried in Magical Theory. It was the only book he carried with him.
Magic didn't follow logic or rules like the conservation of matter, but it had existed for so long that even the most dim-witted wizards must have uncovered so patterns. Among the books costing two Galleons, Magical Theory stood out to Sean. It offered insights into every branch of magic—Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, you na it. He considered it the most underrated book on the first-year reading list.
This was his third read-through, and each ti, he gleaned sothing new.
[Magical power is innate to wizards. Its strength depends on a wizard's emotions or ntal fortitude. However, most wizards cannot consciously control their magic without the guidance of spells and a wand, which allow them to channel their power purposefully.]
Sean nodded to himself. Harry Potter was a perfect example. Before learning magic, he'd teleported onto a chimney and vanished glass, but only when emotionally charged—and he had no control over it. With a wand and proper spells, though, wizards could harness their magic with precision.
After two months of study, Sean was starting to agree with a theory from his past life: Hogwarts wizards were likely "bloodline" wizards, their power tied to so inherited magical trait.
He kept reading:
[One truth of learning magic is to master as many spells as possible, including ancient ones—the more spells you know, the more you can do. Another truth is that mastering a spell requires constant practice. The difference between a proficient caster and a novice is vast. However, to unleash a spell's full potential, you need sufficient ntal strength.]
What a clear, concise explanation. No wonder the author, Adalbert Waffling, had the audacity to title it Magical Theory. It was like the wizarding equivalent of Theoretical Mathematics or Fundantals of Physics—books that, in his past life, had sucked the joy out of Sean like Dentors. One read-through, and happiness vanished.
"I'm starting to believe you," Hermione said, her face pale. The other first-years' talk of dragons was terrifying, and their animated back-and-forth made it sound all too real, unsettling the Muggle-born witch. Yet Sean, sitting beside her, seed oblivious, engrossed in his book.
"Maybe we should ask Sean," Justin said, trembling as he recalled an old equestrian test from Eton. "He doesn't seem scared at all. Maybe wizards do have to fight dragons? Like so kind of noble tradition?"
Wizards. So terrifying.
"Sean, sorry to interrupt, but—" Justin began, but before he could finish, the Great Hall's doors swung open with a boom.
The Sorting Ceremony had begun.
Sean snapped out of his Magical Theory trance. While the "iron hat king" (the Sorting Hat) still sat on its stool, he started pondering his House preference. The Sorting Hat, after all, seed to consider a student's wishes.
Gryffindor? Nope, not for him.
His top priority was earning a scholarship, which ant getting Outstandings in all subjects. His role models? Hermione and Percy Weasley. But in the books, both faced pushback in Gryffindor. Hermione, just for being a know-it-all and correcting others in first year, was ostracized to the point of crying in a bathroom. Gryffindors had a streak of "I don't care about my skill level, I won't stay in anyone's shadow" bravado. They were brave adventurers, sure, but they could hurt others in the process. Look at the Chamber of Secrets—rumors turned them against Harry in a heartbeat.
Slytherin? No way. Sean had no patience for scheming and politics. In the ti it took to play those gas, he could've practiced Wingardium Leviosa to silent-casting level.
That left Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Both seed solid, but Sean leaned toward Hufflepuff.
Free food just steps from the dorm? Aweso. Hufflepuff was warm, tight-knit, never turning on its own but fiercely united against outsiders. Even J.K. Rowling herself said she'd want every kid to be a Hufflepuff. Picture it: a cozy fireplace, a kitchen right by the common room, and a Head of House who'd scold you for getting into a fight but still slip you a box of coconut ice cream on the sly.
Sean could only shout in his heart: We co from the forest, we hold love in our hearts, we're loyal to nature, we're steadfast and true, we're tough and honest, we fear no hardship—We are Hufflepuff!
"Harry Potter!"
Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the Great Hall, quieting the buzz. Whispers of "It's him," "It's really him," and "Harry Potter" rippled through the first-years.
Harry dashed forward, plopping the tattered Sorting Hat onto his head. The hall fell silent, waiting. And waiting. Four, maybe five minutes passed—Sean was halfway through ntally singing the Sorting Hat's song for the second ti.
"Gryffindor!" the Hat finally declared.
The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers. "Potter!" "We've got Potter!" Their shouts carried across the hall.
And then—
"Sean Green!"
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