Hufflepuff stood out for its herd mentality—in a good sense, of course. The House seemed more united. These conclusions came from subtle details: the way they exchanged glances, how they sat, the nature of their smiles—though you’d only notice if you looked closely. Otherwise, they were just familiar faces sharing common topics and interests.

  Ravenclaw is a house of eccentrics. They distinguished themselves in small ways, even tweaking their school uniforms to add a touch of individuality without breaking the dress code—a stitched detail here, unusual shoes there, rolled-up sleeves, an extra frill, or at least a homemade bracelet. They’re obvious loners too—keeping their distance and respecting personal space was clear, as was the fact that many of them, even at breakfast, watched videos or earnestly discussed what was unmistakably magic, judging by their hand gestures.

  Gryffindor is an explosive mix of everyone. Truly everyone. From prim types eating breakfast with haughty stares at the chaos around them to disheveled slobs with wild grins and restless energy. You could find any personality in that house, but with a bit more observation, a shared trait emerged despite the variety—an immediate, slightly aggressive reaction to anything that irked them. That’s how I’d describe it, at least.

  Slytherin is a breeding ground for kids with aristocratic pretensions. No, not all of them act like princes and princesses. But across the fragments of my memories, I’ve brushed shoulders with the “upper caste”—or those who fancy themselves part of it. Let’s be honest: the elf could boast a less-than-ordinary lineage, as could a couple of wizards. It’s clear—whether from upbringing or a stern word from parents like “Follow the seniors of the faculty”—that’s what shapes them.

  Together, it’s all hilariously absurd, and now I get why Dumbledore smiles as he surveys everyone from the staff table. I’m sure that smile’s a constant, except when it’s out of place.

  I also spotted Hermione, who barreled toward the Gryffindor table like an unstoppable hurricane, scarfed down something without heeding anyone, and then bolted out—all anyone caught was a flash of unruly chestnut hair.

  “And you’re Hector, right?” A blonde my age—clearly a classmate—sat across from us at the table, joined by a slightly plump red-haired girl.

  “Exactly. You?”

  “Oh, really,” the redhead blushed. “Susan Bones.”

  “Hannah Abbott,” the blonde added.

  “Very nice,” I said, though honestly, not really.

  I just don’t like redheads, and Hannah’s smile felt… toxic, somehow. It seemed genuine, yet it was as if she’d scrawled something horribly offensive on your forehead and was waiting for the crowd to react. Still, everyone’s got their quirks—like that smile.

  “Our classmates—and yours too,” Justin said, nodding toward them.

  I couldn’t help but study his features. With his lush dark hair parted perfectly and his oval, slightly elongated face, he looked like a rich movie villain. That expression—like he suspected everyone of everything—only reinforced the vibe. Quite an interesting crew we’ve got here, frankly.

  “Why didn’t you study with us from first year?” Hannah pressed on with her questions.

  “I was sick. Since birth. But don’t worry—everything’s fine now.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Got it,” she nodded.

  “Haven’t you eaten already?” Ernie cut in, clearly irked, though the reason wasn’t obvious yet. “Let’s go, or we’ll be late for Potions.”

  “Oh, by the way!” Susan chimed in as we rose from the table. “Have you noticed everyone’s got Potions at the same time now?”

  We exited the Great Hall and headed in a direction the guys knew well. Justin pulled the parchment schedule from his bag and studied it closely.

  “Indeed,” he said. “So, what—do we get to witness the eternal Gryffindor-Slytherin squabble? What a treat.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “Gnawing?” I asked.

  “Oh, Hector, you don’t know,” Hannah said, walking beside me as we reached the main tower with its moving stairs. “The feud between those two Houses is practically a tradition here.”

  Weaving through the crowd of students, we descended deftly into what seemed to be the dungeons. Torches and bowls of fire cast a warm, diffused glow—unlike the dim evening of my arrival.

  “The older students say it’s usually a quiet conflict,” the blonde continued. “But in our year, a few students turned it into an open, active showdown with all their might.”

  “Is it true,” I couldn’t resist asking the burning question, “that there weren’t magical skirmishes at school before them?”

  “There were, of course,” Zacharias interjected, wedging himself between us. “Something’s always happening—the hospital wing’s never empty. Personal conflicts are one thing; a crowd might start a brawl somewhere until a professor steps in. But it’s another thing when it’s over the color of a tie.”

  “Got it.”

  “That’s why we stick together as a group,” 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 shrugged, breaking his silence.

  “Has that ever happened? And fought back?” I asked.

  “That’s what we do,” Zacharias said with a shrug. “Well, not us personally—thank Merlin, we haven’t had those problems. Hope it stays that way. But if someone gets offended, the whole House feels it, and the seniors sort it out in the end. That said…”

  Judging by the crowd of students our age from all Houses milling around an office door, we’d reached our destination.

  “…the trickiest and most hurtful issues come from Slytherins,” Zacharias continued, nodding toward two groups with scarlet and green robe linings. “The toughest but easiest to handle in kind are from Gryffindors. And Ravenclaws? They don’t care about anyone.”

  We quietly joined the other students, swapping polite nods with some.

  “Oh my God, a Dementor!” a blond in green Slytherin robes shrieked, recoiling from a bespectacled, unkempt brunette.

  The brunette spun around, naturally seeing no Dementors. The move sparked unnatural laughter from the Slytherins and outrage from the Gryffindors.

  “What was that scream you were shouting, Potter?” the blond sneered, flanked by two hulking guys snickering obsequiously. “Mommy, mommy, no-o-o!”

  “Shut up, Malfoy!” a lanky redhead—clearly Potter’s friend—growled at the blond. I didn’t like him instantly. Redheads and me don’t mix.

  Justin nudged me lightly with his elbow, catching my attention. I tilted my head slightly toward him.

  “Draco Malfoy,” he whispered. “Heir and only son of the Malfoy family—rich, influential pure-blood wizards. Cocky, cowardly, rude. They say he’s the unofficial leader of his House. The redhead, Weasley, is from Gryffindor—sixth son of a poor pure-blood family. Hot-headed, dim, brash, lazy, jealous. Most think he’s a leech on Potter under the guise of friendship, though maybe they’re actually mates. Ernie already told you about Potter.”

  “Such detailed info? And you’re supposedly Muggle-born,” I murmured back, still watching the squabble.

  “My father taught me to analyze and compile quick profiles on people,” Justin replied.

  “Yeah,” Zacharias squeezed between us again, “but you still suck at the first part.”

  “True enough,” Justin admitted with a shrug. “You’re no pro at it either.”

  “Hmm… Finch-Fletchley… Finch-Fletchley,” I muttered, trying to recall where I’d recently heard that name. The thought nearly clicked, but Hermione’s arrival cut it short.

  “Enough already,” my sister said, yanking the lanky redhead by the sleeve as 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 slightly shifted values. If there’s a split between pure-bloods and others, that divide gets emphasized. If there’s another distinguishing trait, it becomes a target for discrimination. For an elf, a dwarf, or many of my memory fragments, blood ties always matter. But force? That’s not our way.

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