"You're not from a wizard family?" Hermione's eyes went wide, like Lynn just admitted he was raised by wolves.
"Nope. Family helps, sure, but if you grind for knowledge, it's never too late."
Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it. Harriet jumped in, grinning. "Don't even try, Hermione. Lynn's a freak. One read-through and he's got the book memorized. I barely finished the textbooks over break. Dude plowed through twenty, thirty doorstoppers." She held her hands a foot apart—Olivander's wandlore starter pack stacked taller than her.
Hermione swallowed hard. She'd practically inhaled the first-year books and felt like a boss. Now? Crushed. Memory's a cheat code some people just spawn with.
"Your grades must be insane," she muttered. "You'd kill it at Eton."
"Never went to school. Orphanage taught ABCs. Rest? Self-taught. Hung around Oxford for a year—bugged students, profs, anyone. Most were cool."
"Then some rent-a-cop decided I was a beggar and booted me. By then I wasn't half-illiterate anymore, so I hit the road. See the world books can't paint."
"That's bullshit!" Hermione huffed, hands on hips.
"Dude was just doing his job. Keeping randos out of restricted zones. I get it."
Hermione still looked pissed. "What'd you even learn there?"
"Languages, history. Can spell twelve scripts, speak six. Campus was global—chat with internationals, boom, fluency. One prof took me under his wing."
Hermione's jaw dropped. "That's… insane."
"Photographic memory's the cheat. Spells? I suck. Know the wand flicks, the Latin—still fizzle half the time. Wandlore's my jam; doesn't need raw power. Might lean into ancient runes—spells evolved from those glyphs. Muggle archaeologists dig 'em up thinking they're cult scribbles."
Kids eavesdropping started staring like Lynn was dropping TED Talks. Purebloods included—stuff they'd never heard.
"Show-off," a sneer cut in.
Blond pretty-boy—face like he smelled sour milk—shoulder-checked Lynn hard enough to spin a lesser kid.
Harriet and Hermione glared daggers. Blondie locked on Hermione. "Filthy little Mudblood."
He smirked at Harriet and Lynn. "You two next?"
Murmurs rippled. Purebloods knew the word. Some bristled.
Lynn didn't blink. "Hey, before you talk—pull your pants up. Thanks."
Every eye dropped. Blondie's trousers? Puddled at his ankles like magic laundry day.
Snorts exploded. Blondie's face went nuclear red, yanking them up. He elbowed his goons—get him.
Hagrid knocked on the castle doors. Distraction achieved.
McGonagall strode out, face carved from granite. "First-years, Professor McGonagall."
Dead silence. Her name was on every letter.
Hagrid dipped inside. McGonagall herded the kids another way—up marble stairs, torch-lit halls, into a cramped side room.
"Welcome to Hogwarts." McGonagall's voice cut like a ruler. "Sorting's next. Houses are your family here—classes, dorms, common rooms. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin. Each legendary. Points for wins, deducted for screw-ups. House Cup to the top scorer. Make yours proud."
She eyed the scruffier kids. "Fix yourselves. I'll be back."
Door shut.
"Lynn, how do they sort us?" Hermione whispered, twisting her robe. Neville looked ready to puke.
"Hat."
"Hat?"
"You little—"
Blondie stormed back with his meat-shields.
"You know who I am?!"
"Your pants—"
Blondie clutched his waistband like a lifeline.
"—are up. Chill."
Laughter again. Blondie's teeth ground audible.
"Magic trick." Lynn pulled a foot-long steel rod from his pocket.
Blondie flinched. Lynn just bent it like taffy, tied it in a knot, and tossed it.
CLANG.
"Ever think the three of you tied together couldn't take my pinky?"
Telekinesis strong enough to flip cars? Child's play. First power he mastered.
Goons went ghost-white, trying to hide behind their boss.
"Kidding." Lynn whistled; the knot flew back, unfolded. "Prop. Gotcha."
Relieved chuckles. Blondie still fumed but backed off, muttering slurs under his breath.
"Who is that tool?" Harriet asked.
Neville whispered, "Draco Malfoy. Gran says Malfoy's are bad news—Death Eater wannabes."
Ghost phased through the wall—screams. McGonagall returned.
"Single file. Move."
Great Hall: candlelit sky-ceiling, floating flames, four endless tables. Eyes everywhere.
McGonagall plunked a ratty, patched hat on a stool. It sang. (Lyrics here—classic banger.)
Applause. Hat bowed.
"When I call your name—hat, stool, sorted."
"Hannah Abbott!"
Pink-cheeked girl with pigtails stumbled up.
"Leaky Cauldron owner's niece," Harriet murmured—first magical memory.
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
Cheers.
"Hermione Granger!"
Harriet squeezed her hand. "You got this."
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Hermione beamed, waving as she jogged over.
Neville—after losing his toad—Gryffindor too.
"Lynn."
No last name. Just Lynn.
He slid the hat on, curious.
Well, well. Hat's voice in his skull. Bright boy. Kind heart, helpful streak. Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff—all fit. Thirsty for knowledge, brave with friends… but I see ice-calm under fire. Courage to stare down hell. Gryffindor'll let you shine. Smart wizards are dime-a-dozen. Ones who fight smart? Rare.
Like Dumbledore—Gryffindor alum. Heh.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Hermione whooped. Lynn joined the table.
"Draco Malfoy!"
Strutting like royalty—trip. Face-plants.
Laughter tsunami. He scrambles up, charges the stage—misses a step, crack forehead on marble. Full bow to McGonagall.
She hauls him up, muttering, "Unlucky sod."
Hat barely touches his hair: "SLYTHERIN!"
Slytherin claps. Gryffindor howls.
Draco feels that stare again. Locks eyes with Lynn's shit-eating grin. Mouths: You're dead.
Turns—pants drop. Robe flips. Emerald-green undies for the whole hall.
BOOM. Laughter so loud the candles flickered. Draco yanks, bolts—trips again, nearly bowls over a Slytherin prefect.
Lynn looks away, innocent as a choirboy. Mature soul, zero interest in pranks.
Especially not on spoiled brats.