CHAPTER 15

As we approached the far table on the podium, the small man perked up and regarded me with interest.

"Minerva," he said, "this is young Mr. Granger, I presume?"

"Exactly, Filius," McGonagall nodded, then turned to me. "Sit somewhere nearby for now—at any table. The other students will arrive soon. You'll be the last to undergo the Sorting Ceremony."

"Alright, Professor."

I settled on a bench at the nearest table and began to wait. A few minutes later, the teachers started gathering and taking their seats at the staff table I'd been led to.

"Mr. Granger," a familiar voice said from behind, and turning, I saw the Headmaster.

"Hello, Headmaster."

Dumbledore smiled through his beard, the light glinting intricately off his half-moon glasses.

"How do you like Hogwarts' Great Hall?"

I glanced around, taking in the illusion of a dark, cloudy sky on the ceiling. With a wave of his hand, Dumbledore conjured a multitude of burning candles that floated above the tables.

"Interesting charms on the ceiling, sir."

"Very… evocative, yes," the Headmaster nodded. "Well, the students are approaching. I suppose I should take my place too."

Dumbledore ascended to the staff table and settled into a grand, throne-like chair. Soon, all the seats there were occupied. The teachers were a colorful bunch—ranging from stern and dour to cheerful and upbeat. There was even a massive, shaggy man with a wild beard—likely some kind of half-breed.

Barely two minutes later, students of varying ages streamed into the hall. Some were damp, disheveled, listless, pale, and shaken, though they quickly regained their composure. Each wore a school uniform with robes lined in house colors. They sat at tables according to those colors—I'd taken a spot behind the blue-lined ones. Ravenclaw, if Hogwarts: A History was accurate.

Quickly pulling my robe from my backpack, I slipped it on and turned to face the table, blending in. They paid me little heed, chattering among themselves. From their conversations, it emerged that Dementors had boarded the train, leaving many unwell—this undead has a deeply pernicious effect.

For about ten minutes, the hall hummed quietly with voices. Then the doors swung open again, and Professor McGonagall led a small crowd of first-years inside. They looked rough—lost and rattled—but soon perked up, gazing at the enchanting ceiling charms.

McGonagall guided them to the podium, where a stool was set up with the Sorting Hat placed atop it. The Hat seemed to animate, its folds forming a semblance of a face that promptly launched into an off-key song.

After this peculiar performance, Professor McGonagall unfurled a parchment and began reading the first-years' names alphabetically. Each called student stepped forward from the group, sat on the stool facing the staff table, and had the Hat placed on their head. The Hat either shouted a house name immediately or pondered briefly before declaring its choice, after which it was removed, and the student joined their house table.

As I observed, the distribution seemed fairly even, though Gryffindor edged out slightly with more students. Hmm, Hermione's a Gryffindor.

McGonagall didn't leave after the first-years were sorted. Then Dumbledore rose from his seat and approached the lectern, adorned with a golden, animated owl with spread wings and a pair of candlesticks.

"Before concluding the Sorting Ceremony, I'd like to say a few words," the Headmaster began. "To start, today marks the first time we welcome not only first-years as students but another young individual as well. Two years ago, due to health issues, he couldn't join the first-year class with his peers and was undergoing treatment. This year, to our collective joy, he'll be able to join our friendly community."

Dumbledore nodded, and McGonagall looked at me, calling out firmly as she had with the others, "Granger, Hector."

I stood and strode briskly to the stool, pivoted sharply—flipping the hem of my robe—and sat. The Hat was placed on my head at once. Silence. More silence. A faint mental scan brushed my mind—not probing memories, but assessing personality.

"How interesting, yes…" the Hat's voice echoed around me.

It seemed to be a mental transmission.

"…And where should I place you?"

"I don't know, dear Hat," I responded mentally to this curious artifact. "I wasn't prepared for that question, and I've no personal preferences. My sister's in Gryffindor, if that helps."

"Determined and goal-oriented, I see. You, young man, would shine in Ravenclaw—I sense you could be quite extraordinary. Hufflepuff would welcome your diligence with open arms."

"You don't need a house to show certain traits. It's just a choice."

"Well, in that case…"

"HUFFLEPUFF!" the Hat bellowed across the hall.

The gnome within me rejoiced. If the books were true, a friendly crew, hard work, and dungeon life awaited. If only someone would supply ale and meat. What nonsense is swirling in my head?

"Hogwarts is one family," Professor McGonagall's words—quoted by the first-years—echoed as we headed to the Hufflepuff common room after the feast ended. Despite the joy of admission, the children couldn't ignore the news that Azkaban's Dementors would guard the school. Their unease was purely emotional, while mine stemmed from book knowledge and the feel of their magic. Yes, I walked with the first-years, but to be fair, Hufflepuff moved as one crowd—noisy behind a façade of friendliness, their smiles and chatter masking real worry and fear in their eyes.

I hadn't been bombarded with questions yet, though I'd been welcomed easily enough at the feast table—neither overly cautious nor excessively warm. The prefect, Cedric Diggory, was a tall, brown-haired boy with untamed hair and a polite smile that seemed glued on. On the way to the common room, he shared tidbits about the castle's gloomy stone corridors—the best routes to the Great Hall, and where and when you could navigate from the main tower with its moving staircases.

"And here," Cedric pointed to a large still-life painting, "is the Hogwarts kitchen. To get in, you need to tickle this painted pear."

He gestured but didn't act.

"The entrance to our common room is very close."

Sure enough, ten meters later, we turned a corner and faced a stack of large wooden barrels piled horizontally. They were massive—big enough for an adult to crawl through with a slight stoop.

"Here's the entrance."

Though older students who obviously knew the way were with us, they stood aside, waiting for Cedric to show the newcomers. He tapped one barrel in a precise rhythm, and the bottom of another swung open like a door.

"Here. Follow the sequence exactly. Come in," the prefect said, waving toward the passage with a smile.

The Hufflepuff common room hit me with a wave of familiarity. A low, domed ceiling with slightly slanting walls, shelves brimming with potted plants, creamy yellow hues, and abundant wooden trim—it wasn't quite dungeon-level; high, round windows revealed grass growing near the castle walls. It felt like a basement or dugout—call it what you will. Plush sofas and armchairs, stout wooden tables, a grand fireplace, and… round doors again, hiding passages to the girls' and boys' dormitories. These weren't dwarven halls—this was a hobbit hole!