"Adam Morgan!"
The Great Hall fell silent, every eye fixed on the boy standing before the Sorting Hat, and on the trembling, nervous first-years trailing behind Professor McGonagall.
Dumbledore, seated at the head of the staff table, rose and gently placed the tattered, grimy Sorting Hat on Adam's head.
Catching the boy's disappointed glance, Dumbledore's lips twitched slightly. In a voice only the two of them could hear, he said with a hint of exasperation, "Sorry, young Adam, but Hogwarts really doesn't use Dementors for Sorting."
"And next time, it's best not to tell the other children those things. Professor McGonagall spent a full half-hour trying to convince anyone to step forward for Sorting because someone spread a rumor that a Dementor was hiding in the hat."
Through the dusty brim of the hat, Adam glanced at the cluster of shivering first-years and nodded regretfully.
The Sorting Hat, now perched on his head, began to wriggle. A slit opened near the brim, and it whispered softly in his ear, "So it was because of you. And here I thought no one clapped because they didn't like the song I came up with this year…"
"Maybe in past years, they clapped out of politeness?" Adam suggested quietly.
"…"
The Sorting Hat fell briefly silent, its tip twitching absentmindedly as if wrestling with some internal dilemma.
"Though I can't see your thoughts, based on how you carried yourself in the waiting room, you remind me of Salazar Slytherin. I can still recall the days when he led his students in pursuit of glory."
"But that thick-skinned, cunning streak of yours reminds me of someone else I once knew—though back then, I was just an ordinary hat."
Somewhere far away, a red-haired young man sneezed loudly. He picked up a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean, eyeing it suspiciously before tossing it into his mouth.
"That little rascal told me last time they were random, but this whole bag's full of normal flavors. Where'd he learn to be so sneaky?"
He glanced at the calm lake, its surface reflecting his fiery red hair. Who could it be? So hard to guess.
Adam brushed some dust off the hat's brim and asked, puzzled, "You were in that room the whole time?"
The Sorting Hat's tip swayed again, its brim lightly poking Adam's cheek, leaving a smudge of dirt. "Of course I was. Sometimes, the expressions and movements people let slip reveal their truest thoughts."
"The moment I saw you, I thought you looked like someone straight out of the Middle Ages—a conqueror straddling the line between the Church and the Wizarding Council."
"So, how about Gryffindor? No, wait… justice doesn't seem to suit you. Poor Minerva would have a headache dealing with you."
"Hang on—" Adam started, but the Sorting Hat cut him off.
"Slytherin's not quite right either. You'd lead them to glory, no doubt, but the path might be a bit… bloody."
"And Ravenclaw? No, you've got that same spark as Rowena, but you'd lead those knowledge-hungry eaglets astray."
Adam sighed. "Look, I think—"
The Sorting Hat interrupted again, muttering to itself. "Oh, why don't you just go talk to Dumbledore? Tell him to send you to Azkaban or Nurmengard. I hear he's got connections in both places."
Adam went quiet for a moment, pulling out a small notebook and a quill. In a low voice, he said, "If you don't let me finish, I swear I'll toss you into a cauldron of simmering potion and flush you down the toilet. I mean it."
"That feels oddly familiar. Who are you? Spill it!" The Sorting Hat paused, then poked his cheek again with its brim.
"I've got one question," Adam said. "Which house is closest to the kitchens?"
"Hm? That's what you care about?" The hat sounded surprised. "Well, I may have misjudged you. My apologies, lad. If that's the case, the answer's obvious—"
The hat wiped at Adam's cheek apologetically, though it only smeared more dirt.
As Adam's expression darkened and he raised his quill to jot something down, the Sorting Hat bellowed, "HUFFLEPUFF!"
The Great Hall erupted in thunderous applause. Even Dumbledore, up at the staff table, clapped with a smile. The only place where the cheers were slightly subdued was the Hufflepuff table, where Professor Pomona Sprout, the Head of Hufflepuff, managed a stiff smile under the gazes of her colleagues.
Seeing Adam step down from the stool unharmed, the other first-years, encouraged by Professor McGonagall, nervously approached the hat.
Adam made his way to the lively Hufflepuff table, where the badgers stared at his dirt-smudged face, grinning as they pulled him to sit down. Cedric Diggory jogged over from the other end of the table and clapped him on the shoulder.
"I knew it on the train—you're Hufflepuff through and through," Cedric said.
"Honestly, I just wanted easy access to midnight snacks," Adam muttered.
Cedric's eyes lit up, his grin widening. "Then you're in the right place, mate."
A cheerful prefect stood and handed Adam a damp handkerchief, gesturing for him to wipe his dusty face. Other senior students, sporting their prefect badges, eagerly stood to shake his hand.
As Adam settled in, the Sorting Hat worked at lightning speed, sending first-years to their houses with barely a pause. For some, the hat barely touched their heads before shouting "Slytherin!"
Clearly, the hat had been observing closely, perhaps even using a touch of Legilimency, ensuring every student felt content with their placement.
Sherry, the last in line, plopped down next to Adam, her cheeks puffed out in a harmless glare.
"Don't look at me like that. I gave you a heads-up," Adam said, sliding a plate of pumpkin pudding he'd snagged toward her.
"But you didn't tell me they were ghosts! I thought they were real Dementors…" Sherry grumbled, though her attention quickly shifted to the soft, sweet pudding and the endless dishes appearing on the table.
The spread was dazzling—each dish more tempting than the last. In food-scarce Britain, the best meals always seemed to come from abroad.
Adam grabbed a few fried chicken legs, a dish that vanished from the plates in under five minutes, snatched up by the ravenous badgers. The flavor was divine—fragrant, juicy, with a hint of lemon from the marinade.
When he reached for another helping, the polite seniors who'd held back earlier joined the fray. Adam noticed the prefect who'd given him the handkerchief was the table's top predator, snatching dishes with lightning speed whenever he reached for something.
After a long, hard-fought battle at the table, the feast began to wind down.
The Hufflepuffs chatted quietly about summer homework, generously offering to let others copy theirs. Clearly, cunning badgers like Cedric were the exception, not the rule.
Honest, loyal, hardworking, and fearless—Hufflepuffs were the best allies you could ask for, as long as you didn't steal their food.
This was the Hogwarts life Adam had dreamed of.
He gazed mournfully at a plate of maple ice cream being whisked away, silently vowing to claim it next time.
At the staff table, Dumbledore, prompted by McGonagall, reluctantly set down a frosting-covered cake. He stood, tapped his silver goblet with his wand, and the hall fell silent. His blue eyes, framed by half-moon spectacles, surveyed the students warmly as he spoke.
"It's a joy to see this ancient castle filled with young souls once again. You may be tired, but I hope you'll indulge an old man and listen to a few words about the new term."
"The Forbidden Forest is strictly off-limits to all students…"
Dumbledore's speech was much like previous years, but some older students noticed a subtle change in him—a spark of renewed vitality, like an old tree blooming anew.
Adam, however, caught the headmaster's fleeting glance when he mentioned the Forbidden Forest.
"And, as Professor McGonagall and Mr. Filch have agreed, the use of magical prank items in corridors or public areas is strictly forbidden, or you'll face consequences."
Every eye in the hall turned to the Gryffindor table—specifically, to the redheaded Weasley twins.
"Quidditch tryouts will take place the second week of term. Students in second year and above may apply with Madam Hooch."
…
After covering the usual announcements, Dumbledore turned to the staff table and waved a hand. "Lastly, I'm delighted to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Hogar Lanster."
"Professor Lanster, say hello to the students."
As Dumbledore's words echoed, the hall exploded in applause. Hundreds of curious eyes turned to the staff table, where a burly middle-aged wizard rose. Dressed in a deep red robe, with neatly trimmed brown whiskers and sharp, hawk-like eyes, he scanned the room before offering a warm wave to the students.
The Weasley twins, who'd just been the center of attention, stared at the man with particular interest.
Everyone in the wizarding world knew that when Hogwarts broke for summer, Dumbledore became the least popular wizard around—thanks to the infamous "yearly professor turnover" in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Adam studied the nameplates at the staff table—over thirty professors, most of whom he'd never heard of. But that only made sense for a thousand-year-old school. It would be absurd if the staff consisted only of the handful of professors mentioned in the books, managing hundreds of students.
After leading the school in singing the Hogwarts anthem, Dumbledore dismissed the students. Adam followed the Hufflepuffs toward the corridor.
"Wait, Mr. Adam Morgan," Professor McGonagall called out suddenly.
Sherry, standing beside him, tugged nervously at his sleeve, her eyes wide with concern.
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