The Great Hall was buzzing, the atmosphere alive with the hum of excited chatter and the clinking of cutlery against plates. The long tables were filled with eager First-Years, their eyes wide as they dug into the feast in front of them. For Harry, Tonks, Hermione, and Neville, it was a mix of hunger and awe—there was just something magical about Hogwarts' food, something almost too perfect.
"Mate," Ron gasped from across the table, already halfway through a plate of roast beef, "this—this is heaven. Actual heaven. I'm going to marry this gravy."
Tonks, sitting across from him, raised an eyebrow while loading her plate with roast potatoes. "You sure about that? I mean, you don't even know if it's monogamous. Gravy's probably been with other sauces."
Ron blinked, his fork midway to his mouth. "What?"
Harry, ever the master of the savage burn, leaned in with a smug grin. "You're not its type, Ron. It's into sauces with more depth. You? More of a 'splash of something' kind of guy."
There was a chorus of snorts from the table, and even Hermione, who was usually more focused on manners, rolled her eyes and huffed. "Honestly, you two are insufferable."
Ron shrugged, completely unbothered. "If you can't laugh at yourself, what's the point?"
Neville, on the other hand, was cautiously spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate, his eyes darting between the food and the other students. "Do you think everything here is... safe? I mean, this is Hogwarts. It's magical. What if something's cursed?"
Tonks, ever the optimistic disaster, gave a grin as she piled a mound of what looked like treacle-soaked dumplings onto her plate. "Eh, if it explodes, at least we'll go out full and happy."
Across the hall, Susan and Hannah were whispering and giggling like two conspirators. Harry could only imagine what was happening in the Hufflepuff corner; probably still snickering over Seamus' incident earlier. Meanwhile, over at Slytherin, Daphne and Tracey were in a low conversation, occasionally throwing the occasional sidelong glance in Harry's direction. Harry couldn't help but notice the subtle way Tracey leaned toward Daphne with a slight smirk on her face—definitely the kind of thing you'd expect from someone who was absolutely plotting something.
Hermione, trying to maintain her usual composed demeanor, was carefully arranging a neat meal on her plate, ensuring the proportions were just right. She shot a disapproving look at Harry and Tonks.
"I still can't believe you almost ended up in Slytherin," Hermione muttered to Ron, trying her best not to let a judgmental tone slip through.
Ron glared half-heartedly back at her. "Yeah, well, neither can I! And to make it worse, the bloody Hat said I had ambition! As if!"
Hermione raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself now. "What, you don't want to succeed, then?"
Ron opened his mouth... and then paused. "Damn. Is this one of those trick questions? Because I feel like this is a trick question."
Tonks gave him a slow, exaggerated thumbs-up. "Good, you're getting it."
Before Ron could retaliate, an unexpected chill swept through the hall, and a low hum filled the air. Students gasped as dozens of translucent figures began floating through the walls—ghosts, Harry quickly realized. There was something eerie but undeniably cool about them.
"Wicked," Ron muttered, wide-eyed as a ghost drifted straight through him, sending a shiver down his spine.
"That's Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington," Hermione explained, her voice carrying an edge of matter-of-factness as she turned toward the ghost that was now floating toward them. "He's the Gryffindor House ghost."
Tonks leaned forward, quirking an eyebrow. "Bit of a mouthful, innit?"
Sir Nicholas—Nearly Headless Nick as he liked to be called—floated over with an air of pride, bowing slightly to the group. "Most just call me Nearly Headless Nick, though, as you can see, I am... regrettably, not quite headless."
Ron's eyes widened as Nick gave him a particularly dramatic bow, and the ghost floated ever closer, his neck stretching in an odd, unearthly manner. "Wait, wait, wait," Ron said, clearly too curious for his own good. "Not headless, but—what do you mean not quite?"
Nick sighed, clearly used to the question. "Well, I nearly lost my head during my beheading, you see... they simply didn't quite finish the job." The ghost paused, putting a hand to the half of his neck that was still hanging loosely by a thin thread. "In fact, I've been hanging like this for centuries! Quite the uncomfortable state to exist in, I assure you."
"Okay, that was disturbing," Ron muttered, his face a shade of green that not even the faintest blush of his natural freckles could cover.
Harry, still a bit transfixed, leaned toward Hermione. "Why... didn't anyone finish it off? That seems... brutal."
"Well," Hermione said, narrowing her eyes at the floating head, "there's a bit of a legend. They say that he was a bit... too good for the axe. Too noble, or something. It didn't go well."
Tonks snorted, drawing attention to herself again. "Let me guess—he didn't lose his head because he was too important, and they just gave him one of those 'I'll give you a pass' looks."
"Precisely!" Nick beamed. "It's a matter of principle!"
Harry snorted before he could help himself. "If you're so noble, then why don't you try getting your head back, mate?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," Nick replied, eyes twinkling with the hint of a ghostly smirk. "The constant draft through the neck is refreshing, I assure you."
Harry blinked as the conversation veered off in a strange direction, but he wasn't done yet. "Do you get headaches, though?"
"Oh, terrible headaches," Nick said dramatically. "One bad sneeze and I'm practically in a full-blown migraine! It's a nuisance, really." He turned away with a theatrical flourish. "But! It's my burden, and I wear it with pride!" He looked back. "Anyway, if you're ever in need of anything, anything at all, do come to me."
"Er, right," Harry said, his mind whirling at the bizarre encounter.
At that moment, a wailing figure drifted past, drawing everyone's attention. The air grew noticeably colder as the ghost—a pale, wailing woman—floated by, her expression contorted in misery. She was followed by an eerie, greenish figure, who seemed to glide along with unnerving authority.
"That's the Bloody Baron," Neville muttered, looking uncomfortably at the figures. "He's... well, he's kind of the Slytherin House ghost. Really creepy, and a bit stabby. Not the sort of guy you want to get too close to."
"And the wailing one?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.
"Moaning Myrtle," Neville supplied, his tone softening with a kind of practiced respect. "She haunts the girls' bathroom on the second floor. Always moaning about something."
"Oh, fantastic," Harry said with a grin. "We have a haunted bathroom. Why not?"
"Well," Tonks added, half-grinning herself, "at least she can stay on topic. I mean, it's literally in the name, right?"
The ghosts floated away, and the students were left to absorb the strangeness of the encounter. Some went back to their food; others chatted excitedly about their ghostly encounters.
But just as the hall seemed to settle again, a loud BANG echoed through the room. Everyone froze.
"What now?" Harry muttered, his eyes darting up to the ceiling, where the sound had come from.
And then, crash—Peeves, the poltergeist, came tumbling down from the chandelier above, his cackling voice cutting through the startled silence.
"Boo! I am the poltergeist of pure chaos!" Peeves shouted, as he somersaulted mid-air and landed with a thud on the floor, sending plates flying across the hall. "Watch out below, you dunderheads!"
Fred and George let out an uproarious laugh from the Gryffindor table, already starting to chant, "Peeves! Peeves!"
"Bloody brilliant," Tonks added, her grin widening. "Now that's a proper entrance."
And as Peeves cartwheeled away, scattering food everywhere, the Great Hall seemed to erupt into chaos—but this time, it was for fun.
"Honestly," Hermione muttered, "Hogwarts is one wild place."
Harry couldn't help but agree. This was just the beginning of what promised to be one heck of a year.
—
The golden plates shimmered again—this time as the food vanished with a faint, dramatic sigh, like the Great Hall itself was mourning the departure of roast beef and treacle tart.
Ron made a noise that was somewhere between a dying whale and a betrayed child. "You have got to be joking."
"You had three helpings, mate," Harry said, leaning back and patting his stomach like a smug cat. "You were starting to make Hagrid look like he's on a juice cleanse."
Ron gaped. "Et tu, Brute?"
"You tried to drink gravy out of the boat, Ron," Hermione pointed out, brushing a non-existent crumb off her napkin with prim disdain. "With a straw. A reusable straw, mind you, which I respect—but still."
Ron threw up his hands. "It was thick soup!"
Harry tilted his head. "It had a handle, Ron."
"Which is what made it a mug of soup!"
"Of all the idiotic hilltops to die on…" Hermione muttered.
Across the Hall at the Hufflepuff table, Susan Bones had her feet propped up on the bench beside her, looking absolutely delighted. "He really did slurp it. Like he was making out with a molten river of cholesterol."
"Leave it to a Weasley to seduce gravy," Hannah Abbott sighed beside her, cheeks pink from laughter. "It's always the ginger ones."
At the Slytherin table, Daphne Greengrass had an eyebrow arched so high it was in danger of becoming airborne. "And these are the people we're supposed to be competing with for House Cup?"
"Maybe it's performance art," Tracey Davis said dryly, chin perched on her fist. "Avant-garde gluttony. I'd give him a C-minus."
"Pity grade?"
"Participation award."
At the Gryffindor table, Tonks was dramatically twirling an uneaten treacle tart in front of her nose like it was Excalibur. "Let it be known, if I perish tonight, it was in battle—with this dessert. My last words shall be, 'Tell my hair gel I loved it.'"
"You tripped over the bench twice," Neville pointed out helpfully. "And screamed like a banshee being exorcised."
"Gracefully," Tonks said, flipping her hair, which turned violently purple in protest. "There was grace."
"You did a triple somersault into the sausages," Dean added, grinning from ear to ear.
"Which was intentional, thank you. It's called flair."
Before anyone could attempt a slow clap, the lights in the Great Hall dimmed subtly, and a soft chime rang through the air. The ghost of the Bloody Baron paused mid-scowl. Even Nearly Headless Nick lowered his head with theatrical reverence.
Up at the High Table, Albus Dumbledore rose.
He didn't need to say a word. His mere presence was like someone had dropped a silence charm over the entire Hall. The man had stage presence. Like Gandalf if Gandalf had a sugar addiction and a closet full of velvet bathrobes.
"Welcome," Dumbledore said, his voice smooth as warm treacle. "To another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Polite applause rippled through the room. A first-year tried to start a standing ovation but was yanked back down by a surly Prefect.
Dumbledore smiled faintly. "Before you all flee to your dormitories—or, in Peeves' case, to the nearest ceiling—I have a few announcements. I'll attempt brevity. I make no promises."
Peeves, currently floating above the staff table and wrapped in shimmery silver ropes courtesy of Professor Flitwick, blew a wet raspberry and proceeded to mime being tragically oppressed.
"I shall begin, as tradition dictates, with a warning. The Forbidden Forest remains—as the name implies—forbidden. Yes, even to those of you who think rules are suggestions, who own cloaks of invisibility, or who believe 'forbidden' sounds like a dare."
At the Gryffindor table, Harry gave a sly grin and leaned toward Tonks. "Do you think he's talking about us yet or just foreshadowing?"
Tonks smirked. "Let's make it both."
"Secondly," Dumbledore continued, eyes now sparkling with mischief, "our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has updated the list of banned items. It now spans 537 entries, including—somewhat controversially—'exploding ducklings,' 'self-dancing trousers,' and any rendition of Celestina Warbeck played backward to reveal messages from the goblin underworld."
"Wait," Seamus whispered, leaning toward Dean. "That isn't a summoning chant?"
Dean just shrugged. "Still a banger."
Dumbledore's lips twitched. "Thirdly, I must remind you that Mrs. Norris, while occasionally mistaken for a taxidermy project, is not to be hexed, serenaded, glamoured, or forced into interpretive dance rituals—yes, even if it's for extra credit in Divination."
At the Slytherin table, Daphne muttered, "Sounds like something Moon or Nott would try."
Tracey deadpanned, "I've already heard Zabini is goiing to try and train her as a spy."
"He would."
"Finally," Dumbledore said, clapping his hands once, "we arrive at a beloved Hogwarts tradition. A moment of unity. A moment of culture. A moment… of chaos."
Above him, a golden scroll unfurled with a metallic whoosh and hovered like a sentient banner.
"The Hogwarts School Song."
Groans. Cheers. One particularly musical Ravenclaw tried to harmonize them both.
"You may sing it," Dumbledore added serenely, "to any tune you like. And yes, I do mean any. You may begin."
Tonks leapt up from her seat like she'd been hit with a cheering charm. "I call Bohemian Rhapsody! Neville, you're lead vocals."
Neville blinked. "Wait—what?"
"Too late, you're Freddie Mercury now!"
Fred and George leapt onto the Gryffindor bench like backup dancers. "We're going in rounds!" Fred shouted.
"With choreography!" George added, wand already conjuring pyrotechnics.
"I swear to Merlin," Hermione hissed, "if one of you lights me on fire—"
Harry elbowed Ron. "Sweet Child o' Mine?"
Ron grinned. "Let's butcher it."
Across the Hall, Susan was humming the tune to a Weird Sisters ballad, swaying like she was at a concert. "Let's do this, Hufflepuff style."
Hannah blinked. "Wait, what's our style?"
"Shameless enthusiasm and no musical talent."
"Oh, so Wednesday karaoke rules."
At the Slytherin table, Daphne leaned over to Tracey. "What song are we doing?"
Tracey looked thoughtful. "Something classical. Maybe 'O Fortuna.'"
"Intimidating."
"Exactly."
And then all at once, the Hall exploded.
—
The Great Hall didn't explode into chaos. No, that would be far too mild.
It detonated into musical anarchy of the highest, most glorious order.
It began with the Ravenclaws, who predictably attempted to preserve the sanctity of the Hogwarts school song. A solemn quartet stood tall, harmonizing like barbershop angels—until Tonks, full Gryffindor menace with hair blazing scarlet, launched herself onto the bench and belted, "LET ME GOOOO—" like a banshee possessed by Freddie Mercury.
Neville, poor sweet summer child, was yanked up by the arm mid-toast. "Wha—" he blinked. "Did I miss the verse again?"
"You missed the beat drop!" Tonks howled with maniac glee, spinning him into a twirl so aggressive his toad Trevor fled into Dean's pumpkin juice.
Ron was on the table, flat on his stomach, doing the worm to the beat of Harry's savage air guitar solo. "Hogwarts, you're a sweet child o' mine!" he crooned like a drunken rockstar. "Except with more chance of death by staircases!"
Hermione looked up from her napkin, horrified. "Is that… Axl Rose?"
"It's Hogwarts, Hermione," Harry said solemnly between guitar riffs, windmilling his arm like he was channeling Pete Townshend. "Expecto the unexpected."
Fred and George, never to be outdone, had somehow conjured neon Elvis suits over their robes and were crooning with velvet smoothness, wand pyrotechnics bursting overhead like a magical Vegas concert. Their flaming cursive danced across the ceiling: HOGGY WARTY LOVE.
"I swear to Merlin, if one of those sparks sets my hair on fire again—" McGonagall murmured.
"Again?" Seamus blinked.
"Fifth year. Transfiguration exam. Don't ask."
At the Slytherin table, all hell had broken loose—but in the most Slytherin way possible. Daphne Greengrass, composed and flawless, sipped her pumpkin juice with aristocratic calm, while Tracey Davis stood on the bench beside her, conducting a full orchestra of thunderclouds conjured by Blaise Zabini.
"Teach us things worth knowing!" they chanted to the ominous drumbeat of O Fortuna.
Tracey's voice rang out like a gothic goddess. "BRING BACK WHAT WE'VE FORGOT!"
A lightning bolt struck the center of the table. A first year screamed.
"Is it bad I kinda ship her with the apocalypse?" Dean muttered.
"Only if the apocalypse can keep up," Harry said with a grin.
Meanwhile, at the Hufflepuff table, Susan Bones was shaking a conjured tambourine with all the fury of a woman possessed by the spirit of Woodstock. "Just do your best, we'll do the rest—" she declared, completely off-beat.
"Why are we swaying aggressively?" Hannah Abbott asked, struggling to keep upright as a chain of Puff students bumped into her in rhythm.
"Because it's performance art, Hannah!" Susan beamed, eyes wild.
"But the rhythm—"
"Is subjective!"
Somewhere in the chaos, the Fat Friar twirled like a disco ball, clapping along with spectral hands to a beat only ghosts could hear. Peeves was hanging upside-down, juggling enchanted whoopee cushions and honking a vuvuzela like he was summoning a kazoo army from hell.
The final line rang out:
"AND LEARN UNTIL OUR BRAINS ALL ROT!"
Tonks struck a final pose like she'd just defeated Voldemort with interpretive dance. Her hair was glittering gold, and somehow she'd gained a feather boa.
Fred and George dropped to one knee.
The Ravenclaws ended in perfect harmony. One Hufflepuff was sobbing into his mashed potatoes. McGonagall had gone pale.
Dumbledore stood.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
The Hall erupted. Cheers, applause, a kazoo solo from Colin Creevey, and a short-lived chant of "Encore! Encore!" from the Hufflepuffs.
"I must say," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling like a disco ball at a retirement rave, "that was the most aggressively interpretive rendition we've had in a decade. Bravo."
Flitwick leapt onto his chair, dabbing his eyes. "Such... volume!"
Snape slumped lower in his seat. "I'm retiring. Tomorrow."
Sprout waved a little Hufflepuff banner. "That's my badgers!"
Dumbledore raised his hands. "Now, off to bed before someone transfigures the House Hourglass into a lava lamp again."
"Allegedly," Fred muttered.
"Theoretically," George added.
As the prefects rose to herd their Houses out, students still buzzing with chaotic joy, Harry leaned toward Ron. "Think we won that round?"
Ron grinned. "Mate, you left sausage grease all over your solo. That's dedication."
Tonks slapped Neville on the back, nearly knocking him over. "Nev, we made Queen proud."
"I… I think I blacked out during the key change."
"You hit an F sharp that cracked Blaise's storm clouds. That's talent."
"...Oh. Cool."
Hermione looked like she needed a nap and an exorcism. "Honestly. This school."
Harry gave her a shit-eating grin. "Where else are you expected to learn Latin, survive basilisk attacks, and sing like you're in a cursed karaoke bar?"
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why do I even try."
"Because you love us," Ron and Harry said in perfect unison.
Hermione sighed. "Unfortunately."
As they began to split off with their Houses, Susan caught Harry's eye and waved her tambourine. "Sleep well, Potter! May your dreams be haunted by my rhythm!"
"They already are," Harry called back.
"Night, Harry!" Hannah waved too. "That was beautiful!"
"Thanks! I'll send you the album!"
At the Slytherin table, Daphne gave him a nod of approval so subtle it could've been missed. Tracey, on the other hand, grinned darkly and mouthed: Next time, fireballs.
"Looking forward to it," Harry mouthed back.
And as they turned toward their dormitories, still laughing, still buzzing, Harry slung an arm around Ron's shoulder and muttered, "Hogwarts: where brain rot is a House tradition."
Ron snorted. "And we're bloody Head Boys of it."
They wouldn't have had it any other way.
—
The gaggle of first-years stumbled behind Percy Weasley through the torch-lit corridors of Hogwarts like ducklings after a particularly smug, ginger mother duck. Percy, Ron's older brother and a prefect so self-important he practically oozed sanctimony, strutted ahead as if he were giving a royal tour of Buckingham Palace. His prefect badge gleamed like it had been buffed within an inch of its life.
"Keep up, everyone!" he called, his voice echoing with the smugness of a man who once created an Excel spreadsheet to schedule bathroom use. "No dawdling! Hogwarts is full of trick staircases, vanishing steps, hidden passages, and the occasional murderous poltergeist, so stay close."
"Did he just say 'dawdling' unironically?" Harry muttered to Ron, trying not to roll his eyes so hard they'd fall out of his head.
"Mate, I once heard him say 'indubitably' in front of a mirror to practice for a prefect speech," Ron whispered back. "Mum made me swear not to mock him in public. I have… failed that quest."
Tonks, who was trailing beside them with a sort of barely-contained chaotic energy that could power the entire castle if bottled, leaned in conspiratorially. "I heard he once tried to give Peeves a formal citation for 'improper hallway conduct.'"
"What did Peeves do?" Dean asked, curiosity piqued.
"Dumped a bucket of frog spawn over his head and gave him a standing ovation. With sock puppets."
"Legend," Neville whispered in awe, nearly tripping over a stone that looked like it resented being stepped on.
Percy turned around sharply, suspicion in his narrowed eyes. He looked like he could smell sarcasm in a five-mile radius. "As I was saying," he said, pushing his chest out like a constipated pigeon, "the Gryffindor common room is behind a portrait on the seventh floor. You'll need to remember the password, which changes regularly and is not to be shared."
"What happens if we forget?" asked a tiny girl at the back whose pigtails looked like they'd been styled by a tornado on espresso.
"Then you don't get in," Percy said primly. "You sleep in the corridor and reflect on your life choices."
"That's comforting," Seamus muttered.
Hermione, already clutching a thick book like a security blanket, raised her hand like they were in a classroom. "What's the best method for memorizing a regularly rotating password system?"
Percy visibly brightened, like someone had just complimented his sock sorting system. "Excellent question! I recommend the use of mnemonic devices, repetition exercises—"
"She's gonna out-prefect the prefect," Harry whispered to Ron, a grin spreading across his face. "Brace for impact."
Ron nodded solemnly. "Percy's about to discover what it feels like to be redundant."
They began climbing staircase after staircase, one of which creaked ominously and whispered something in Gobbledegook that Harry was pretty sure translated to "nice socks, loser." Neville tripped on it. Twice.
"Honestly, this school's trying to kill me," Neville moaned, clinging to the banister like it was a life raft.
"It probably is," Tonks said brightly, hopping two steps at a time. "Hogwarts has moods. I heard that last year it made all the fourth-floor tapestries cry for two weeks straight."
"Why?" Parvati asked, wide-eyed.
"Because someone insulted their weaving," Tonks replied. "True story."
As they reached a landing, Ron leaned closer to Harry. "You ever wonder if the Sorting Hat actually sorts based on birth order and chaos potential?"
"I have a working theory," Harry said, straight-faced. "Ravenclaws are the kids who read encyclopedias for fun, Slytherins are the ones who write manifestos, Hufflepuffs are trying to survive the other three, and Gryffindors... are the ones who've made eye contact with death and tried to fight it with a spoon."
"I'd like to revise my application," Dean muttered. "I didn't sign up for spoon duels."
They finally stopped before a large portrait of a rather rotund lady mid-opera. The Fat Lady was belting out something that sounded suspiciously like an off-key love ballad to a bottle of wine. She broke off with a dramatic gasp when she saw them.
"Password?" she demanded, one eyebrow arched dramatically.
"Caput Draconis," Percy recited like he was announcing the arrival of the Queen.
"Ah, Dragon's Head. Classic choice. Bit overused, but still respectable," the Fat Lady said with a wink. "In you go, ducklings."
The portrait swung open to reveal a warm, circular common room. Tapestries hung on the walls depicting brave deeds and, in one case, a very confused goat. The fire crackled merrily, and the furniture looked like it had eaten several students in its lifetime but was willing to negotiate.
Ron practically collapsed into an armchair. "Now this is more like it."
Neville cautiously poked a squishy red couch with his wand. "Is it supposed to make that noise?"
"I think it growled," Seamus said. "I'm going to name it Greg."
Hermione had already wandered to the bookshelves and pulled out Numerology and Grammatica with the reverence of someone unearthing a holy relic. "Oh! They have it! I read this when I was seven."
Harry flopped into a chair beside her. "Let me guess—your teddy bear failed the end-of-book comprehension test?"
She smiled sweetly. "Mr. Wuffles was a teddy bear. Expectations were managed."
Tonks flopped onto the sofa next to him, legs draped over the armrest like a teenager in a John Hughes movie. "I could live here."
"You kind of have to," Ron pointed out.
"Details," Tonks replied with a wave of her hand. "Maybe I'll haunt it after I graduate. Just float around telling people they're doing their eyeliner wrong."
"Please do," Lavender said from the other side of the room. "We need a sassy ghost."
Percy cleared his throat loudly from beside the fireplace, where he stood like he was about to deliver the Gryffindor State of the Union.
"Girls' dormitories are up the left staircase, boys' up the right. No sneaking across. The stairs are enchanted to turn into slides."
"Slides?" Harry echoed.
"Slides," Percy said with the gravity of a man who had experienced that horror firsthand. "With sirens. And confetti. And the stairs announce what you're doing in rhyme."
Tonks clapped her hands. "Okay, but that sounds amazing. I want the stairs to call me out with a rap battle."
"Don't even think about it," Hermione said sternly, already halfway up the girls' stairs.
"Too late. Already planning outfits for the slide," Tonks grinned.
"Make sure they're sparkly!" Lavender added.
Percy sighed like a man who knew he'd lost control of the classroom five metaphors ago. "If you need anything, I'll be available. Welcome to Gryffindor Tower."
And with that, he turned and swept off, likely to alphabetize his socks and mentally draft the Constitution of Bedtime.
As the fire flickered behind them, Neville looked around nervously. "So… are all nights at Hogwarts like this?"
Harry leaned back in his chair, smirking like a man who'd already survived a troll, a Dursley, and a centaur-sized mystery. "Mate, this was the welcome song. Wait till breakfast starts hexing people."
"Or explodes," Tonks added cheerfully.
Seamus grinned. "I hope something explodes."
"You would," Dean said dryly.
They laughed, the kind of warm, infectious laughter that made the shadows in the corners of the room recede a little.
Tomorrow, classes would begin. But tonight, they were home.
And Hogwarts, for better or worse, had claimed them.
—
Absolutely, here's a rewritten, richly detailed and banter-filled version of the scene with all the character portrayals you're asking for—featuring Harry's savage wit, Neville's lovable awkwardness, Ron's dry humor, Dean's laid-back charm, and Seamus's chaotic energy, all infused with that Hogwarts magic and a touch of cinematic warmth.
The boys' staircase groaned dramatically as they ascended, each wooden step letting out a creaky wail like it had taken a personal vow to tattle on any student foolish enough to roam after curfew.
"Oi," Seamus muttered, eyeing the steps with suspicion, "if this one groans any louder, it's going to wake the portraits three floors down."
Dean squinted at the stair railing, which twisted ever so slightly, as though miffed. "I think the stairs are trying to snitch. Probably gossip with the portraits during tea breaks."
"Bet the Slytherin stairs don't judge people," Seamus grumbled.
"Yeah, because they probably have a deal with the snakes," Ron yawned, rubbing one eye as they reached a landing. "Oi, remind me again why we didn't just smuggle a flying carpet in?"
"Illegal," Harry replied dryly. "Like, extremely illegal. Even by Hogwarts standards, which is saying something considering I saw a suit of armor trying to flirt with a coat rack on the second floor."
Dean snorted. "Classic. Probably asks her to polish his breastplate."
They turned another corner, passing a tapestry depicting a very red-faced wizard aggressively wrestling a broomstick that kept smacking him in the face. It looked... intimate.
"Do you think the castle ever stops judging us?" Dean asked, nodding at the tapestry.
"No," Harry said simply. "It's Hogwarts. Judgement is built into the stonework. The walls have eyes and an attitude problem."
Ron grunted. "Well, if it tries anything, it can talk to my slippers."
"I don't own slippers," Harry said.
Neville gasped like someone had kicked a toad. "How are your feet still alive?! Mine have already filed a complaint. They're cold. They're tired. They're unionizing."
"I think one of mine's already quit," Seamus added, lifting his foot and wiggling his socked toes. "Gone to warmer pastures."
They finally reached the top floor, where a shiny brass plaque read First-Year Boys in overly dramatic, gothic script that looked like it had been designed by a wizard who moonlighted as a theatre major.
Dean squinted. "That sign has more flair than my aunt on karaoke night."
Ron pushed open the door, revealing a circular dormitory painted in warm, flickering firelight. Five four-poster beds stood around the room like a council of very sleepy thrones, each wrapped in deep crimson curtains. A fireplace crackled merrily in one corner, beside a squat nightstand that still bore the soul of its previous life as a humble footstool. It looked bitter about the promotion.
"Oi!" Seamus shouted triumphantly and made a beeline for the bed by the window. He dove into it like it was the last bed on Earth. "Dibs!"
"You can't call dibs after you bellyflop onto it," Dean said, hurling a pillow at him with surgical precision.
"Too late. Claimed by arse print!" Seamus shouted from under the covers.
Ron dropped his trunk by the bed next to Seamus's and flopped onto it with a groan. "If he snores, we're smothering him with his own pillow."
"I will haunt you," Seamus declared. "And I'll knock your toothbrush into the toilet. Daily."
Harry picked the bed next to Ron's and let himself sink into the mattress with a long, satisfied sigh. The canopy above him was embroidered with little golden stars that shimmered faintly in the firelight, like someone had caught the sky in velvet and sprinkled it with magic and Gryffindor pride.
"Okay," he muttered. "This is already nicer than my entire life."
Neville, ever the eager organizer, took the bed closest to the fireplace and began unpacking with grim determination, like he was preparing for a very polite apocalypse. He placed a squat, spiky cactus-looking plant on the windowsill. It twitched. Menacingly.
Dean blinked. "Mate... is that a plant or a porcupine with anxiety?"
"She's called Mabel," Neville said proudly. "She only bites when she's cold or disrespected."
There was a very long pause.
Dean turned to Ron. "You're sleeping closer to it. I'll pray for you."
"I'm not sharing a pillow with anything that can unhinge its jaw," Ron muttered.
"I'm pretty sure she respects me," Neville said, stroking the cactus gently. It purred. Or... maybe it growled.
Seamus had changed into an oversized, well-worn t-shirt that read "Dublin: Come for the Craic, Stay Because You're Lost" and a pair of rainbow socks that didn't even try to match.
"Are you going to bed or starting a pub fight?" Dean asked.
"Both. Depends on who steals my blanket," Seamus replied.
Harry pulled on his threadbare pajamas—hand-me-downs from Dudley that looked like they'd survived a war, a moth infestation, and a mild fire. They didn't match, they didn't fit, and yet somehow, they belonged here. Right beside a magical bed and a possibly carnivorous plant.
Ron emerged from behind his curtains wearing Chudley Cannons pajamas so violently orange they should've come with a warning label.
Dean shielded his eyes like a vampire at sunrise. "Mate. I think your pyjamas are attacking my retinas."
Ron beamed. "Mum says they bring out my hair."
"Yeah, because they're both shades of danger," Harry said. "If we ever get lost in the Forbidden Forest, we'll just follow the glow from your pants."
"Jealousy is unbecoming, Potter."
"I'm not jealous," Harry shot back. "I just don't want to die from friendly fire in the middle of the night."
Neville, now in flannel pajamas patterned with tiny, aggressively cute toads, tucked himself in like a man preparing for bed, battle, and a quiz all at once. "Do... do the beds ever move?"
"They can," Seamus said ominously. "My cousin's bed at Beauxbatons yeeted him into a closet after he snored through History of Magic."
Dean pulled the covers over his head. "Honestly? Mood."
"Speaking of snoring," Seamus said proudly, "I do it. Loud. I sound like a banshee with a deviated septum. So... you've been warned."
"I've got earplugs," Neville announced, holding them up like ancient relics passed down by generations of noise-sensitive Longbottoms. "And a backup pair in my sock drawer."
"I like you," Dean said, already halfway asleep. "You come prepared."
Harry lay back, arms behind his head, just watching the golden stars above him. For once, no cupboard. No screaming. No threats. Just... warmth. A bed that didn't have a spider infestation. Friends who joked instead of jeered.
He smiled faintly. "Hey Ron."
"Yeah?"
"Your PJs still look like radioactive traffic cones."
Ron groaned. "Mate, let it go."
"I can't. They haunt my soul."
Neville gave a sleepy, possibly terrified murmur from behind his curtains. "Mabel is staring at me again."
"Don't blink," Seamus whispered. "That's how they get you."
Harry chuckled softly, his eyes drifting shut. He felt the castle around him—its old magic thrumming in the stones, warm and ancient and oddly... welcoming.
"G'night," Ron mumbled.
"Night," came the chorus from the others.
Neville murmured something that might've been "Goodnight," "Help," or "She's right behind me."
Harry closed his eyes, a grin still lingering.
For the first time in forever, he didn't feel small.
He didn't feel unwanted.
He felt home.
And just before sleep claimed him, he whispered into the darkness, "Thanks for the stars."
Outside, the sky heard him.
A single shooting star traced across the night, silent and swift.
Because Hogwarts always listens.
Even if it responds in riddles, sentient furniture, and staircases with opinions.
---
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