From Cupboard to Chaos

Hufflepuff for the win!

If there's one thing I learned immediately upon arriving at Hogwarts, it's that I might actually be allergic to normalcy.

We were herded into the Great Hall, which, by the way, looked like someone took my cupboard-daydreams and cranked them up to eleven. The ceiling was enchanted to look like the night sky, complete with twinkling stars, and the tables stretched on forever. My brain was already halfway to imagining myself flying up there on a broomstick, chasing comets, when Professor McGonagall snapped me back to reality by announcing the Sorting.

Cue a parade of first years stepping up to the front, where a tattered old hat decided their entire personality with one loud word. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, Hufflepuff—it was like an aggressive BuzzFeed quiz but without the fun "Which type of sandwich are you?" questions.

When it was finally my turn, I had to force my feet to move forward because, let's be honest, the idea of a hat reading my mind was mildly terrifying.

The second the Sorting Hat landed on my head, it started muttering, "Oh my, this is an interesting one..."

"Uh, hi?" I thought at it, because what else do you say to a hat?

"You're brave, Potter," it said. "But not reckless. You'd much rather imagine winning a duel than actually pick up the sword."

"Well, swords are sharp, so..."

"And clever, too, though your brain is all over the place. I'd wager you've spent more time building castles in your mind than paying attention to the world around you."

"Excuse me, those castles are very detailed, thank you."

The Hat chuckled. "And loyal. Fiercely loyal. You'd protect anyone in need, even if it meant putting yourself at risk. Hufflepuff, then!"

I barely had time to process before it shouted the word aloud.

HUFFLEPUFF.

The table on the far right erupted in cheers, and I stumbled over, vaguely aware that most of the hall was now whispering. As I sat down, a boy with round glasses grinned at me.

"Hi, I'm Ernie Macmillan," he said, shaking my hand like we were meeting at a business luncheon. "Welcome to Hufflepuff."

"Thanks," I mumbled, still trying to wrap my head around everything. My brain was already floating off somewhere else, picturing what kind of secret passages this place might have or whether the food here was enchanted to taste like dreams.

I was shaken out of my thoughts by a girl with curly blonde hair practically shouting in my ear. "I'm Hannah Abbott! You're Harry Potter, right? Like the Harry Potter?"

"Um, yeah, last I checked."

"That's so cool! I heard you defeated a Dark Lord as a baby. Like, a baby! You weren't even potty-trained!"

"Thanks for the reminder," I muttered, while the rest of the table burst out laughing.

As the feast went on, I realized something: Hufflepuff was absolutely nothing like the Dursleys. These kids weren't perfect or polished or even particularly organized, but they were warm and loud and funny in a way that made me feel like I'd just stepped into a room full of old friends.

Ernie kept asking me if I needed help with my classes. Susan Bones told me all about her pet rabbit, which I imagined as some kind of tiny magical sidekick (she later clarified it was just a normal rabbit, but I'm sticking with my version). And Hannah? Well, she mostly talked about cake.

By the time we made it to the dorms—cozy little rooms filled with yellow curtains and overstuffed armchairs—I was feeling something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Hope.

The next morning, reality hit me like a rogue Bludger.

"Harry! Wake up!" Ernie was practically yanking me out of bed. "We're going to be late!"

"Late for what?" I mumbled, still half-asleep. "The dragon taming lesson?"

Ernie frowned. "What are you talking about? It's Potions."

Oh. Right. School.

I dragged myself down to breakfast, still daydreaming about a world where classes involved sword fights and unicorns. Instead, I got Potions with Professor Snape, who, by the way, is the human equivalent of a raincloud.

He didn't even look at me at first—just swept into the room like a bat on a mission and started rattling off about the "subtle science and exact art" of potion-making. My mind immediately wandered. What if you could make a potion that turned you invisible? Or let you talk to animals? Or made Aunt Petunia's cooking taste edible for once?

"Mr. Potter," Snape suddenly snapped, pulling me out of my thoughts. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

I blinked. "Uh...an upset stomach?"

The Slytherins laughed, and Snape's face twisted into something between a scowl and a sneer. "Detention, Potter."

And that's how I learned daydreaming in Snape's class is not, in fact, encouraged.

Later that day, I ended up in Charms, where Professor Flitwick—a tiny man with the energy of a caffeinated hamster—taught us how to make feathers float.

"Now, remember," he squeaked, "it's leviosa, not leviosa."

I spent most of the lesson imagining the feather sprouting wings and flying off to live its best life. When I finally tried the spell, I waved my wand a bit too hard and sent the feather shooting into someone's soup.

"Whoops," I muttered, while Flitwick chuckled nervously.