"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said, in a stern yet motherly way, it was something that commanded discipline but with love. A type of authority that people like Miss Anna could never even dream to achieve without threat of violence,"The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will each be sorted into your house."
Her eyes washed over the young boys and girls, she couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia herself, reminiscent of the first time she herself stood in the line among the others nervously shuffling in place. She smiled, small and barely noticeable but she did before regaining a calm and serious composure. "The Sorting is an incredibly important ceremony, Your house will be akin to your family during your time here at Hogwarts..."
She explained the four houses, their values and ideologies as well as the House Cup, before she turned to leave. She looked over her shoulder and added simply:
"In a few minutes, the Sorting will take place in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you use the time to compose yourselves. Smart and alert, if you please."
Her gaze lingered on Sheen for just a moment. The severity in her gaze softened — almost imperceptibly.
These new clothes suited him so much better...
She nodded. A small proud smile on her face as she turned around, swiftly making her exit.
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"The Sorting — oh no, I heard we have to fight a dragon!"
A dark-haired boy announced this to the group around him, voice pitched somewhere between terror and certainty.
"What?! We have to fight a dragon?"
A small blonde girl beside him looked on the verge of tears.
"I've only learned Lumos! I can't fight a dragon with Lumos!"
This spread through the assembled first-years with immediate and devastating effect.
"A dragon?!" A voice sounded out before the boy paused for a while "Full-grown or juvenile?!"
"Anthony, what the hell are you talking about? Could you take a juvenile?!"
"...no-"
"Then why even ask for?"
"Hey i am just saying, it would be more fair to have a juvenile against kids like us right?" Sheen had to admit, it was a rather interesting conversation.
"We're done for!"
The rumour had clearly been planted by an older sibling over the summer, and it had taken root beautifully. A chorus of dread rose from the group.
Amid the collective despair, Sheen continued reading The Theory of Magic.
It was the only book he had brought with him sadly.
Magic, he had concluded, not only didn't care for physics, it spit right in its mouth while Physics was left saying thank you like the sick little freak it was.
Hmm? No he didn't like physics, why do you ask?
Moving on... Magic did not bother with conservation of energy or any of the other rules that governed the laws of the universe according to physics. But it had existed for a very long time — and even wizards, thick as they sometimes were, ought to have accumulated some understanding of how it worked by now.
Among the first-year reading list, all of it priced at two Galleons or more, this was the book that had left the deepest impression on him. Charms, Transfiguration, Potions — every branch of magic could find some foothold in its pages. Sheen suspected it was the most underestimated book on the list.
He was on his third read-through. Each time, he found something new.
[ Magic is inherent to the witch or wizard themselves.
Its strength is governed by emotion and force of will, but most witches and wizards cannot channel it directly. This is why spells and wands are necessary — they provide the means by which magical energy can be consciously directed toward a purpose. ]
Sheen understood this instinctively.
Harry was the clearest example. Before he had any formal training, he managed to transport himself from the ground to a rooftop, and to vanish a pane of glass — but these incidents only happened during moments of heightened emotional stress, and with no understanding of what he was doing or how to repeat it. So they give him a wand and teach him the words, and that same energy became something he could actually use.
After two months of study, Sheen had come to agree with a theory he'd encountered in his previous life: that the wizards of Harry's world were, in essence, bloodline practitioners — their power rooted in something carried within the blood itself. Muggle born wizards? Squibs existed, which means It wouldn't be farfetched to consider there were multiple generations without magic before the genes reawakened
He read on.
[ The first absolute truth about learning magic is this: The more spells the better, learn every spell you can, including the ancient ones. The more magic you command, the more you can accomplish.
A second absolute truth: once a spell is learned, it must be practiced until it becomes second nature. The gap between a polished casting and a clumsy one is considerable.
A third absolute truth: even a well-learned spell will not reach its full potential without a sufficient reservoir of will behind it. ]
Remarkably concise,Shee nin thought. No wonder the author, Adalbert Waffling, had the confidence to call his book The Theory of Magic. It had the same energy as a Muggle textbook titled Principles of Mathematics or Fundamentals of Physics — the sort of book that announced its own importance from the cover.
He knew those books well. In his previous life, they had drained him of considerable joy — like Dementors in hardback form.
One thorough read, and happiness: gone.
--------------------------
"I'm starting to believe them," Hermione said, her face a shade paler than usual.
The collective anxiety of the first-years had a momentum of its own — the way they all confirmed each other's fears made it feel terribly plausible, even to someone who knew better. Hermione, still new to all of this, felt the unease settle in her chest.
She glanced at Sheen beside her. He appeared entirely unaffected, still reading.
"Should we ask Sheen? He doesn't look frightened at all."
Justin, who was trembling slightly, thought of the equestrian trials at Eton. Perhaps defeating a dragon was simply a wizarding tradition. A rite of passage. A matter of honour.
Wizards, he decided, were terrifying.
"Sheen, I'm sorry to interrupt, but—"
Justin's appeal for help went unfinished.
With a resonant boom, the doors to the Great Hall swung open.
The Sorting had begun.
Sheen set The Theory of Magic aside and turned his attention to the Sorting Hat, still perched on its stool at the front of the hall.
He had a little time. He might as well think.
The Hat, from what he understood, gave weight to the student's own wishes. So — which house did he actually want?
Gryffindor?
No. Absolutely not.
His first priority was the scholarship, which meant academic excellence — his benchmark was somewhere between Hermione and Percy Weasley. And in the original story, both of them had faced resistance from within Gryffindor itself.
Hermione, in first year, had done nothing more than answer questions in class and occasionally point out where her classmates had gone wrong, though the tone could have used some work — and that had been enough to drive her into a bathroom in tears.
Gryffindors, broadly speaking, carried a particular conviction that whatever their actual ability, they would not be outshone without a fight. Brave adventurers, certainly. But they had a habit of hurting the people around them. The Chamber of Secrets alone showed what happened when rumour got into the common room — Harry isolated, Harry shunned, by his own housemates.
Slytherin?
Sheen had no interest in that kind of politics. The time he'd spend watching his back could be better spent drilling the Levitation Charm up to standard.
That left Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Both reasonable.
But Hufflepuff was where his instincts pointed.
The common room was steps away from the kitchens. Free food, available at all hours. That alone was nearly enough.
And beyond that — Hufflepuff looked after its own. No internal warfare, no pecking order. When they turned outward it was with unity, not spite. J.K. Rowling herself had once said she hoped all children would be Hufflepuffs.
Think about it: warm fireplaces. A kitchen at the front door. A Head of House who would absolutely shout at you for getting into a fight outside — and then quietly leave a box of coconut ice cream outside your dormitory the next morning.
Sheen felt something rise in his chest that could only be described as a rallying cry:
We come from the earth. We carry warmth for all. We are loyal to what is true. We are fair, we are steadfast, we are honest, we do not flinch —
— We are Hufflepuff!
"Harry Potter!"
The name landed in the centre of the Great Hall like a stone in still water. The noise dropped away almost instantly. All around Sheen, first-years were murmuring to each other — it's him, that's really him, Harry Potter — in the particular hushed register of people who cannot quite believe what they're seeing.
Harry walked forward and pulled the battered old Hat down over his head. The hall fell silent.
The Hat deliberated.
Four minutes. Five. Sheen's internal rendition of the Sorting Hat's song had reached its second chorus.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor table erupted.
"POTTER!"
"We've got Potter!"
Sheen could hear it clearly from across the hall. The sorting continued until Shortly after —
"Sheen Green!"
(End of Chapter)