CHAPTER 18

Hufflepuff stood out with a certain herd mentality—in a good way, of course. It felt more united than the other houses. These conclusions emerged from subtle cues: the way they exchanged glances, sat together, or smiled. You'd only notice if you looked closely; otherwise, they were just familiar faces sharing common topics and interests.

Ravenclaw was a house of eccentrics. They distinguished themselves subtly—personalizing their uniforms within dress code limits: a stitched detail here, unique shoes, rolled-up sleeves, an extra frill, or a homemade bracelet. They were obvious loners too—keeping their distance, respecting personal space, often watching videos or earnestly discussing what was clearly magic, judging by their hand gestures, even at breakfast.

Gryffindor was an explosive mix of everyone. Truly everyone—from prim, haughty types eating breakfast and surveying the scene, to disheveled troublemakers with wild grins and restless energy. You could find any personality here, but a longer look revealed a shared trait despite the variety: an immediate, slightly aggressive reaction to provocation—or what I'd call an irritant.

Slytherin was a breeding ground for kids with aristocratic pretensions. Not that they all acted like royalty, but across my memory fragments, I'd encountered the "upper caste"—or those who fancied themselves part of it. Let's be honest: the elf boasted a far-from-humble lineage, as did a couple of wizards. It was clear—whether from upbringing or parental scolding like "Do as your house elders do"—they carried that air.

It all looked absurdly amusing together, and now I understood why Dumbledore smiled from the staff table, gazing over everyone. I'm sure he wore that smile constantly—except when it'd be out of place.

I spotted Hermione too, barreling toward her house table like an unstoppable hurricane. She wolfed down food—ignoring everyone—then bolted, leaving only a glimpse of her unruly chestnut hair.

"You're Hector, right?" A blonde my age—clearly a classmate—sat across from us, joined by a slightly plump redhead.

"Exactly. You?"

"Oh, really," the redhead blushed. "Susan Bones."

"Hannah Abbott."

"Very nice," I said, though honestly, not entirely. Redheads aren't my thing, and Hannah's smile felt… toxic? Sincere, yet like she'd scrawled something rude on your forehead and was awaiting the crowd's reaction. Everyone's got quirks, I suppose.

"Our classmates—yours too," Justin nodded at them.

I couldn't help studying his features. With his lush dark hair parted impeccably and an oval, slightly elongated face, he resembled a movie-rich villain—his suspicious expression only amplifying the vibe. Quite the crew we had here.

"Why didn't you start with us in first year?" Hannah pressed.

"I was sick—since birth. But don't worry; I'm fine now."

"Got it, got it," she nodded.

"You've eaten, haven't you?" Ernie interjected, visibly irked—reason unclear. "Let's go, or we'll be late for Potions."

"Oh, by the way!" Susan chimed in as we rose. "Noticed everyone's got Potions at the same time now?"

We left the Great Hall, heading in a direction the others knew. Justin pulled the schedule parchment from his bag and scrutinized it.

"True enough. So, we get to witness the endless Gryffindor-Slytherin bickering? What joy," he dripped with sarcasm.

"Bickering?"

"Oh, Hector, you don't know," Hannah, walking beside me, jumped in as we reached the main tower with its moving staircases. "The feud between those two houses is practically a tradition here."

Navigating the student throng, we descended deftly—apparently into the dungeons—where torches and fire bowls cast splendid, diffused light, unlike the dim evening of my arrival.

"Upper years say it's usually a quiet conflict," the blonde continued. "But our year has a few who've turned it into an open, active showdown with all their might."

"Really?" I couldn't resist the obvious question. "No magical scuffles at school before them?"

"Of course there were," Zacharias squeezed between us. "Something's always happening—the hospital wing's never empty. Personal spats are one thing—a crowd might brawl somewhere until a professor intervenes—but house rivalry over tie colors? That's another."

"Got it."

"That's why we stick together," Hannah added. "Our house isn't hostile to anyone, but you never know who'll get a 'brilliant' idea."

"Or set a trap," Justin chimed in.

"Or just mock us," Ernie Macmillan—silent till now—shrugged.

"Has that happened? And fighting back?"

"That's what we do," Zacharias shrugged. "Not us personally, thank Merlin—we've dodged that trouble so far, and I hope it stays that way. But if one of us gets picked on, the whole house feels it, and the seniors sort it out eventually. That said…"

Judging by the crowd of our year-mates from all houses milling around a classroom, we'd reached our destination.

"…Slytherins cause the trickiest, most insulting issues. Gryffindors dish out the toughest but easiest-to-counter stuff," Zacharias nodded at two groups with scarlet and green robe linings. "Ravens don't bother anyone—they couldn't care less."

We quietly joined the others, exchanging polite nods with some.

"Oh Merlin, a Dementor!" a blond in Slytherin green shrieked, recoiling from a bespectacled, disheveled brunette.

The bespectacled boy spun around—no Dementors, of course. The move sparked raucous laughter from the Slytherins and indignation from the Gryffindors.

"What was that scream, Potter?" the blond smirked, flanked by two hulking boys giggling obsequiously. "Mummy, mummy, no-o-o!"

"Shut it, Malfoy!" a redhead—obviously Potter's friend—snarled, instantly rubbing me the wrong way. Redheads, ugh.

Justin nudged me lightly, catching my attention, and I tilted my head toward him.

"Draco Malfoy," he whispered. "Heir and only son of the Malfoy family—rich, influential pure-bloods. Cocky, cowardly, brash. Word is, he's the unofficial Slytherin leader. The redhead's Ron Weasley, Gryffindor—sixth son of a poor pure-blood family. Hotheaded, dim, rude, lazy, jealous. Most call him Potter's leech under a friendship guise, but maybe they're genuine mates. Ernie told you about Potter already."

"Such detailed intel? You're supposedly Muggle-born," I murmured back, still watching the spat.

"My dad taught me to analyze and compile quick profiles."

"Yeah," Zacharias wedged in again, "but you still suck at the first part."

"True enough—what can I say? You're no pro either."

"Hmm… Finch-Fletchley… Finch-Fletchley," I murmured, trying to recall where I'd recently heard that name. The thought nearly crystallized, but Hermione's arrival cut it short.

"Enough already," my sister snapped, tugging the lanky redhead by the sleeve—he glared at Malfoy like a bull at a red flag.

"What, Potter," Malfoy taunted, "hiding behind a Mudblood?"

Nothing new under the sun. Whatever the world, whatever the magic, people stay people. Even elves share a similar psychology—just with shifted values. If there's a pure-blood divide, it'll be flaunted. Another distinction? Discrimination follows. For an elf, dwarf, or many fragments, blood ties matter—but force isn't our way.