After dinner, while most students were drifting toward common rooms and dessert-induced happiness, Alexander was marching—reluctantly—toward his first official detention.
Professor McGonagall's office door loomed.
He knocked.
"Enter."
The room smelled faintly of parchment and tea. McGonagall sat at her desk, perfectly composed, hands folded, glasses low on her nose. A stack of scrolls waited nearby—clearly prepared for someone who caused problems.
"Sit, Mr. Chen," she said.
Alexander sat.
"Detention," McGonagall began calmly, "is not merely a punishment. It is an opportunity to reflect on one's actions and learn how to conduct oneself as a proper witch or wizard."
Alexander sighed.
"Professor," he said, "with all due respect, I shouldn't even be here."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "You threw a biscuit at me."
"At a cat," Alexander corrected. "Important distinction."
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
"You are at Hogwarts to learn discipline, responsibility, and respect for magic," she continued. "Not to challenge ancient institutions."
Alexander leaned back in his chair. "Then explain why an ancient institution put me in the wrong house."
Here we go.
"The Sorting Hat does not make mistakes," McGonagall said firmly.
Alexander laughed. Actually laughed.
"Professor, I respect you," he said. "But that hat took one look at me and went, 'Asian? Ravenclaw.'"
"That is not—"
"I'm vengeful," he interrupted. "I hold grudges. I plan retaliation. I dream of payback. If anything, I should be in Slytherin."
McGonagall's lips thinned.
"But no," Alexander continued. "Since I'm Asian, obviously I have to be in Ravenclaw."
Silence.
McGonagall studied him for a long moment.
"The hat sorts based on personality," she said slowly. "Your wit. Your creativity. Your potential."
Alexander crossed his arms. "So it is my fault."
"That is not what I said."
"This conversation has been going on since July," Alexander muttered. "I want Ilvermorny. I want Thunderbird. Instead, I get a judgmental hat and a castle that thinks naps are a teaching method."
McGonagall sighed.
"Mr. Chen, you are brilliant," she said, voice softer now. "But brilliance without restraint becomes arrogance. Hogwarts is where you will learn balance."
Alexander frowned. "I don't want balance. I want justice."
"And what exactly do you intend to do?" she asked.
He looked her dead in the eye.
"I will get revenge on the Sorting Hat."
"…I see," McGonagall said dryly.
The clock ticked on. Scrolls were sorted. Books were re-shelved. Alexander complained the entire time—about Hogwarts, about British wizarding traditions, about how Ilvermorny had better architecture and better birds.
McGonagall corrected his posture twice and his attitude zero times.
By the time she finally dismissed him, it was late.
"Go to bed, Mr. Chen," she said. "And try—just once—not to declare war on magical artifacts."
"No promises," Alexander replied.
That night, in the Ravenclaw dormitory, Alexander slept deeply.
And he dreamed.
Of a hat.
Of a very smug, very old hat.
And of glorious, inevitable revenge