Common Rooms

I was warmly welcomed as I took my seat among my fellow Gryffindors. Names were being called one after another, some vanishing from my memory as quickly as they were spoken. That was until a particular name caught my attention.

"Davies, Roger."

A plump boy with slightly longer hair strutted forward, exuding an air of arrogance as if he had already judged everyone in the room unworthy of his presence.

"Yep, definitely a Ravenclaw," I muttered just loud enough to draw a few curious glances.

Sure enough, the Sorting Hat barely took a moment before shouting, "Ravenclaw!" The Ravenclaw table erupted into cheers, clearly pleased with their latest addition.

Then came a name that every die-hard Harry Potter fan would recognize.

"Diggory, Cedric."

Ah, yes. A great name, belonging to a great man—one whose noble heart and dazzling smile were sacrificed at the altar of the Boy Who Lived's character development. As he walked forward, I couldn't help but compare him to his movie counterpart: cheerful, tall for his age, bright grey eyes, and dark hair.

"No wonder he's a badger," I murmured absentmindedly.

A voice beside me chimed in, "You sure?"

I turned to find a stocky, freckled boy with muscular arms and—of course—red hair. The Weasley genes were unmistakable.

'A Weasley, huh? Charles Weasley, probably,' I thought, sizing him up.

"Yeah, I could bet on it," I said with unwavering confidence.

"Let's see."

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Sorting Hat bellowed.

I smirked, turning to the red-haired boy beside me.

"Not bad, firstie," he said, sounding genuinely impressed.

"Thanks, Mr. Weasley."

That caught him off guard. His eyebrows shot up. "You know me?"

"Not exactly," I admitted, pointing at the two identical troublemakers at the first years queue. "I met them. You look just like them. And if that wasn't enough, well… the Weasley hair is a dead giveaway."

He chuckled. "Impressive. Fortunately—or unfortunately—I am related to them. I'm Charles Weasley, sixth-year prefect and part of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you as well, Mr. Weasley. I am Maximus Ashborn."

From there, our conversation flowed effortlessly—or rather, I fired off questions, and he patiently answered them like an older brother indulging an overly curious sibling. Meanwhile, the Sorting continued, students being placed in their respective houses.

Then, a name rang through the hall.

"Johnson, Angelina."

I glanced at Charlie, the second-eldest Weasley present, and smirked. "Get ready to welcome another housemate."

He raised an eyebrow. "That girl?"

"Yup."

"I disagree. She looks like an Eagle."

"Maybe. But I'm still betting on her being a Lion."

The Sorting Hat took its time, considering, before finally declaring: "GRYFFINDOR!"

I grinned triumphantly as Angelina strutted over to our table, welcomed by cheers and applause. Charlie, meanwhile, was staring at me as if I had just walked out of Hogwarts: A History as Merlin reincarnated.

Next, Professor McGonagall called out, "Jordan, Lee."

I nudged Charlie again. "Wanna make a real bet?"

"On what?" he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

"The next guy will also be our housemate."

Charlie studied Lee Jordan for a moment before smirking. "Alright, I'll take it. What are the stakes?"

"You win, you get a Galleon. I win, I get to ask a favor—within reasonable limits, of course." I made sure to phrase it in a way that subtly poked at the well-known Weasley appreciation for gold.

His eyes narrowed before he let out a chuckle. "You know what? I'll take that. The guy looks like the textbook definition of 'And Hufflepuff took the rest.'"

The moment the Sorting Hat touched Lee's head, it bellowed, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Charlie groaned while I grinned like the Kneazle who caught the canary.

"Fine, you win, Ashborn. But remember—reasonable limits."

"Obviously."

With that, the Sorting continued. Names came and went, students were sorted, applause followed, and soon enough, we reached the letter P.

Then, the Great Hall fell into absolute silence as Professor McGonagall called out:

"Potter, Jasmine."

And in that moment, the entire school collectively lost its mind.

"Potter?"

"As in The Boy-Who-Lived?"

"Henry Potter had a sibling?!"

The whispers spread like wildfire, heads turning, gasps echoing through the hall. Even the Sorting Hat seemed to pause, as if reconsidering its existence.

Charlie, beside me, let out a low whistle. "Well, this just got interesting."

And honestly? I couldn't have agreed more.

I noticed that Jasmine was doing her best to keep her expression neutral, but after watching her for nearly seven hours, I could tell—there was a faint shadow of unhappiness clinging to her.

"Idiots," I muttered under my breath as realization struck me.

It was basic common sense: you don't judge a person by someone else's reputation. But these goddamned sheep didn't have the decency to know when to keep their mouths shut. Absolute morons, I thought, glaring at the whispering crowd.

Jasmine made her way to the podium, placed the Sorting Hat on her head… and then—nothing.

Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then another. The Sorting Hat was taking its time, far longer than usual. Most students were sorted within thirty seconds, but she had been sitting there for nearly five minutes.

"Great! Another Hatstall."

"Hatstall?" I turned to Charlie.

"A term we use for students who take an unusually long time to get sorted," he explained. "You were a Hatstall too, you know."

That was news to me. "How long did I take?"

"Twelve minutes. On the dot."

"That long?"

"Yep." He popped the p with a grin, clearly amused.

Before I could ask more, our conversation was interrupted by the thunderous declaration of the Sorting Hat:

"RAVENCLAW!"

The Gryffindor table erupted in surprised murmurs, while the Ravenclaws cheered enthusiastically. Even the professors reacted.

Professor Flitwick was practically vibrating with joy, clapping excitedly. Professor Snape remained unreadable, his expression as neutral as ever. And Headmaster Dumbledore? He clapped politely—front to back, as if just fulfilling a social obligation.

Jasmine, now adorned in blue-and-bronze robes, joined the Ravenclaw table. From the looks of it, she was immediately bombarded with questions, though she seemed to be deflecting them like a seasoned duelist.

Charlie let out a low whistle. "Well, didn't see that coming."

But I did. After all, I had talked to her before. No need to tell everyone that, though.

Then came Rosier, Travers, Warrington, and Yaxley—each one marching straight to the Slytherin table as if it were their birthright. And with that, the Sorting was finally over.

At last, Dumbledore rose from his seat, his twinkling eyes sweeping over the students. With a small smile, he addressed us all.

"I have a lot to say… but that can wait. Right now, I have only four words: LET THE FEAST COMMENCE!"

And just like that, the once-empty golden plates before us were suddenly overflowing with food.

It was a feast in every sense of the word. My eyes danced across the table, taking in the sheer variety: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon, steak, joints of meat, steak and kidney pie, boiled potatoes, roasted potatoes, mashed potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, rich gravy, ketchup, and more dishes than I could count.

For a moment, I just looked at it all, feasting with my eyes before I even picked up a fork.

Then, with the patience of someone who valued decorum, I carefully selected what I liked and ate with proper manners—a habit ingrained in me, not just out of preference, but because some things should never be abandoned. Unfortunately, that sentiment wasn't shared by everyone around me.

Across the hall, students from all houses were eating like they had been starved for weeks. Some were shoveling food into their mouths with both hands, others were talking with their mouths full, and a few seemed on the verge of outright battling over drumsticks. Absolute pigs.

I chose to ignore the chaos. Instead, once I had eaten my fill, I reached for dessert. A dark chocolate ice cream caught my eye, and I savored each bite slowly, enjoying the smooth, rich flavor.

As I took a sip of the sweet juice served in my goblet, my gaze drifted across the hall—only to meet Jasmine's.

She was watching me, her expression unreadable.

Without breaking eye contact, I raised my goblet in a silent toast, offering her a small smile.

She hesitated for just a second before reciprocating the gesture, lifting her own glass in return.

A silent understanding passed between us.

And then, we both took a sip.

A few minutes later, with every student and teacher now well-fed and content, Headmaster Albus-Four-Names-Dumbledore rose from his seat and clapped his hands, drawing the hall's attention effortlessly.

"Now that we have been fed, I have a few start-of-term notices to share."

The chatter died down as everyone turned to listen.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

I caught a few glances exchanged at the Gryffindor table—clearly, this rule had been broken more times than anyone cared to admit.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors."

A collective groan rippled through the hall. That particular rule was about as useful as a broken elevator on the hottest day of the year or as popular as a potion gone wrong. 

"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch."

This bit sparked some excitement, especially at the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables. No doubt, rivalries were already brewing.

But then, Dumbledore's next announcement took everyone by surprise.

"And finally, please welcome the newest addition to the Hogwarts faculty: Ex-Indonesian Auror, Professor Chris Lordwin, your new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

Every head in the hall turned toward the newest professor.

I followed their gaze—and found myself staring at a man who was… painfully, almost absurdly normal.

Seriously, he looked like the very definition of normal. Not eccentric like Dumbledore, not greasy like Snape, not stern like McGonagall. Just—average.

Even with an entire hall full of eyes on him, he gave no reaction. No nod, no smile, not even the faintest flicker of emotion. It was almost as if he wasn't really there.

Or maybe… maybe that was what set him apart.

The fact that he had no presence at all.

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. At this time the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed.

And headmaster with a little wand flick raised a golden ribbon in air, as he continued with enthusiasm

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"

And the school bellowed:

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,

Teach us something please,

Whether we be old and bald

Or young with scabby knees,

Our heads could do with filling

With some interesting stuff,

For now they're bare and full of air,

Dead flied and bits of fluff,

So teach us things worth knowing,

Bring back what we've forgot,

Just do your best, we'll do the rest,

And learn until our brains all rot."

"Ah, music," said the Headmaster, dramatically wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now—bedtime. Off you trot!"

And just like that, he swept out of the Great Hall, the rest of the teachers following in his wake.

I gave Jasmine a silent wave, which she returned—but unfortunately, our brief exchange was noticed by a group of hungry hyenas masquerading as curious Gryffindor first-years. Their eager expressions screamed fresh gossip as if they had just stumbled upon the easiest prey in the jungle.

Unfortunately for them, I happen to be one of the slipperiest people they will ever have the misfortune of interrogating. Questions? I could either deflect them or fire off a witty remark. And if both failed? Well… there's always the option of putting the fear of God into people. And let's be real, fear of fire works just as well.

Before anyone could start their inquisition, a voice cut through the buzz of the first-years.

"May I have your attention, first years?"

Snapping out of my thoughts, I turned to see Charles Weasley standing before us, looking every bit the responsible sixth-year prefect.

"I am Charles Weasley, a sixth-year prefect. Please form a line—we'll be heading to the Gryffindor dormitories now."

Like obedient little sheep, we fell in line and followed him through the winding corridors of the castle, finally arriving at Gryffindor Tower.

Standing in front of the entrance was a portrait of a rather plump woman in a flowing white gown.

Charles turned to face us, waiting until he had everyone's attention before he continued.

"This," he declared dramatically, gesturing toward a rather plump-looking portrait, "is the Fat Lady. Behind her lies the Gryffindor common room. Only Gryffindors are allowed entry, and you must provide the correct password to get in. Revealing this entrance to non-Gryffindors is strictly forbidden. Unless, of course, you enjoy being haunted by an angry house ghost or facing the wrath of Professor McGonagall—neither of which, I assure you, is pleasant."

We all nodded solemnly, as if we'd just been entrusted with the fate of the wizarding world.

"The password changes every three weeks," Charles continued. "But don't panic— passwords are always posted on the notice board inside the common room. The current password is Fairy Lights."

He turned toward the Fat Lady and, with the kind of reverence usually reserved for summoning ancient spirits, softly said, "Fairy Lights."

"Fairy Lights it is, dear," the Fat Lady sang, and with a dramatic swing, the portrait swung forward to reveal a round hole in the wall. One by one, we climbed through, emerging into the Gryffindor common room.

It was grand. The room was bathed in deep shades of red, filled with plush armchairs that practically begged you to sink into them, and warm wooden tables scattered about. The fireplace, though currently unlit, stood as a proud centerpiece, no doubt waiting for the first chilly night to come alive. A massive bulletin board covered one wall, cluttered with posters of all kinds—reminders of upcoming Quidditch tryouts, notices about lost wands, and at least one flyer advertising a "Mysterious Bag of Bertie Bott's Beans: 2 Sickles, No Refunds."

Charles stood with a look of immense pride, his chest puffed up as if he personally designed the common room himself. He allowed us a moment to take in the grandeur before dramatically clearing his throat—a move that successfully redirected all eyes back to him.

"Impressive, isn't it?" he said with a grin. "This, ladies and gentlemen, will be your home away from home. When you're not in class, this is where you'll be—studying, relaxing, or plotting ways to avoid Snape's next quiz."

He gestured toward the two spiral staircases. "On the left, you'll find the boys' dormitory. On the right, the girls'. Each dormitory is divided by year, and your rooms have already been assigned. Your trunks and belongings have been transported to your beds, so go on, have a look around and get settled in."

He clapped his hands together, signaling the official end of his tour. "That's it from me. If you have any questions, feel free to ask someone in the common room—preferably someone who looks friendly and not like they've just pulled an all-nighter writing a Potions essay."

With that, he stretched his arms in an exaggerated yawn. "Alright, then. Everyone, good night!"

I made my way to the dormitory, only to discover that I had been placed in the same room as Lee Jordan, Fred Weasley, and George Weasley.

For all the good things that had happened to me that day, I sometimes couldn't help but curse fate for its twisted sense of humor. Sharing a room with Fred and George Weasley? That was like willingly locking yourself in a room with two hyperactive pixies—except these pixies had wands and an endless supply of prank ideas.

With a sigh, I checked my belongings, half-expecting to find that my socks had been turned into singing toads. Fortunately, everything was in place. Once everyone had settled in, I cleared my throat dramatically.

"Ahem! Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?"

Four heads swiveled toward me, some more interested than others.

"I believe we need some ground rules for this room," I declared, hands clasped behind my back like a stern professor. "After all, nobody wants to be rudely awakened by an impromptu explosion or—God forbid—a tarantula in their bed." My eyes flickered meaningfully toward Fred and George, who had the audacity to look innocent.

Seeing nods of agreement, I promptly scribbled down some essential rules on a parchment:

1. No breaking into another's belongings without permission.

2. Respect each other's privacy.

3. No disturbing anyone while they're asleep.

4. Keep the room reasonably clean (yes, this includes removing socks from under the bed).

5. Keep voices low between 9:00 PM and 6:00 AM.

Once written, each of us signed it with an air of solemnity—though I noticed Fred signed his name with a suspiciously large flourish, as if already plotting ways to break every rule. The parchment was then ceremoniously pasted on the wall, where it would either serve as a respected guideline or a future source of mockery.

Feeling satisfied, I settled down with a book, intending to enjoy a quiet evening. But, of course, fate had other plans.

Fred sauntered over, his grin wide. "Fancy a trip downstairs? Bit of fun before bed?"

I politely declined. "Tempting, but I'll pass."

Raising an eyebrow, he shrugged. "Suit yourself." And with that, he disappeared, likely off to orchestrate some midnight mischief.

Turning back to my book, I took out my wand and muttered, "Tempus." The glowing numbers appeared in the air—9:48 PM. Plenty of time. I continued reading about runes until 10:30, then spent the next half-hour practicing Occlumency exercises to keep my mind sharp.

Since I planned to explore the castle tomorrow, I decided to wake up early. With that in mind, I changed into my nightwear, arranged my bed, and drifted off into the realm of dreams—hoping that, by some miracle, my roommates wouldn't decide to turn my pillow into a whoopee cushion overnight.