There were many things Harry expected from his first view of Hogwarts.
Gothic towers, flickering torches, and majestic owls flying overhead? Sure. Floating candles? Of course. Four long house tables packed with anxious pre-teens and suspicious meat pies? Why not.
What Harry did not expect was a ceiling that mimicked the outside sky in full, uncensored emotional crisis.
Thunder rolled overhead as the first-years entered the Great Hall. Lightning flared. Clouds gathered.
"Don't mind the ceiling," Hermione whispered. "It's enchanted to reflect the weather and it does that perfectly."
"Cool," Harry said. "I'll just pretend that's not terrifying."
Professor McGonagall, a woman so composed she made marble statues seem unkempt, stood beside an old, beat-up stool holding a hat that looked like it had seen too much.
As in: Vietnam flashbacks levels of "too much."
The Sorting Hat twitched.
It coughed.
It sighed.
Then it spoke.
"Oh good. Another year. Another batch of hormonal pre-teens and magical trauma. Let's get this over with."
Harry blinked.
"Did the hat just sigh in existential dread?"
"Yes," Ron whispered. "It does that."
One by one, the kids were called forward.
The hat offered... commentary.
"Gryffindor, sure, why not. You have unresolved parent issues. Go wrestle a troll or something.""Ravenclaw. You googled 'how to be interesting' last night, didn't you?""Slytherin. Ambition levels at 96%. Morality settings: unconfigured."
When it was finally Harry's turn, the entire hall went silent.
He sat down, the hat dropped over his head like a depressed lampshade, and the voice echoed in his ears.
"Well. You're a weird one."
"Thanks?"
"Your brain's like scrambled eggs and plot armor. I'm sensing… memory loss? Possible divine interference? And oh—what's this? One million Luck stat?"
"Oh, that's what that number was!"
"You didn't know?"
"I forgot. Car crash."
"Oh. Harsh."
There was a long pause.
"You could do well anywhere. Slytherin would weaponize you. Ravenclaw would study you. Hufflepuff would knit you a sweater and never ask questions."
"Tempting…"
"But let's be honest. You're going to end up in chaos no matter what. Might as well do it where people expect explosions."
"…Gryffindor?"
"Obviously."
The Sorting Hat shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" so loudly that several portraits fell off the walls.
A first-year fainted into the mashed potatoes.
The Welcome Feast
Harry took his seat at the Gryffindor table beside Ron and Hermione, who were both blinking in awe.
"Did the hat just explode?" Ron asked.
Harry shrugged. "Emotionally, probably."
A golden plate appeared in front of him, followed by roast chicken, sausages, and approximately seventeen types of starch. He reached for a roll — and immediately knocked over an ornate goblet of pumpkin juice.
"Nice," Hermione muttered. "One minute in and you're already baptizing the cutlery."
Before Harry could reply, something odd happened.
The spilled juice froze mid-air. It hovered. Shimmered.
And then — because this was Harry's life now — it rippled, like a magical tremor had passed through it.
From the glistening liquid emerged a glowing, semi-transparent pudding ghost.
It had eyes. And judgment.
"WHO DARES DISRESPECT THE SACRED JUICE?"
The hall fell into chaos.
A fourth-year screamed. A Ravenclaw tried to banish it with a spoon. Dumbledore applauded politely for reasons unknown.
"I didn't mean to—!" Harry yelled.
"SILENCE, PEASANT. YOU HAVE SUMMONED ME. I DEMAND A DUEL."
Ron picked up a fork. "Mate, do we fight it or eat it?"
Hermione stood. "Don't engage! It's a Class-3 Dessert Poltergeist!"
"How do you know that?!"
"I read the handbook!"
"THERE WAS A HANDBOOK?!"
The pudding ghost reared back—
—and was immediately smacked out of existence by a floating ladle enchanted by Professor Flitwick, who looked way too prepared for this exact scenario.
The room exhaled.
Harry sat back down.
His plate refilled itself with quiet dignity.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Hermione said, dryly. "You've been here twenty minutes and summoned a dessert demon."
Harry rubbed his temples. "I want to go back to the snack avalanche. At least that didn't yell at me."
Harry finally made it to his dorm, somehow still alive and only marginally emotionally damaged.
Winston curled up in the windowsill, munching a stolen éclair. The curtains swayed in the wind. The room smelled like old firewood, laundry, and unspoken trauma.
Harry flopped onto his bed and stared at the ceiling.
"I don't remember my past life," he said aloud. "I don't know what's happening. But I have a ferret lawyer and a personality that attracts supernatural pastry ghosts."
He paused.
"…I think I'm okay with this."
And somewhere in the distant night sky, the magical storm ceiling flickered.
A shooting star zipped by.
And another cauldron fell off a top shelf.
It missed Harry's head by an inch.
Again.
...
Give me all your stones as usual