I have a very fragile relationship with stories.
It is impossible for me to live without them but whenever I am with them, I promptly cease to exist in the real world. Either way, I am dysfunctional in society and my social struggles peak especially at lunch time.
But my love for fiction is unbounded, irrevocable and borderline obsessive.
I live between pages. I daydream about overwhelming fictional characters. I animate myself into different worlds and imagine precise witty banter with strange beings. I talk passionately about people and things that never existed beyond words. I get violently excited about my ships and I fail to conform to contexts.
I try to make sense.
Since the beginning of this semester, I have stumbled through the grey corridors in a daze, ambushed with expectations of productivity after a vacation that was long enough to numb any sense of worldly awareness I had formerly possesed. I have observed and considered the people around me with an intensity and depth of thought that is almost obscene.
I like my strolls.
Assigning melodramatic romances and emotional origin stories to complete strangers in college, parading the campus with an amused, distracted grin on my face, cooking up plots for anyone I come across. It’s hilarious.
But I am never satisfied.
With all the sources of entertainment I have set up in the lives of people I’ll never know, I have yet failed to achieve a state of relative peace in my mind because of one question that has been haunting me uninterruptedly.
If I went to Hogwarts, what house would I be in?
This is a matter of great consequence, whatever you may think.
I elaborately asses people who swear their allegiances to either of the four houses based on thier usually exaggerated self-perceptions.
And yet I fail to decide for myself.
The guilt that stems from deep-rooted hypocrisy, along with the typical existential dilemmas characteristic to my age, have been enough to drive me temporarily mad. The tragic death of Alan Rickman and my recent obsession with fan fiction has pushed the world of Harry Potter painfully in my face and now I feel an absolute, crippling need to decide which way I bend.
So here I am, setting the record straight, once and for all.
The obvious choice for a Hogwarts house is Gryffindor, but as much as I’d like to fancy myself brave, daring and chivalrous, I cannot deny that mice and cockroaches scare the living daylights out of me whenever I encounter them. I hate confrontations and I never try to be the hero. I sleep with my lights on because I fear monsters under my bed and that nightmare of a masked man from ‘Scream’. I am quite impulsive at times, but generally too lazy to take charge. I admit I am frequently reckless in the face of obvious authority, but I don’t know if that is enough.
For now, let us forget the red and gold.
Slytherins are fascinating with their pride, ambition and opportunism. They are smooth, cunning and basically everything I am not. Their air of superiority and will to compete is something I will never relate to. Although they are portrayed in a particularly negative light in the books, I personally think their enigmatic darkness and permanent snobbishness make them exceedingly endearing and sexy. But I cannot claim I belong to their regal cult of silver and green.
However, Draco Malfoy will forever remain the fictional love of my life. (Two words: fan fiction.)
Now Hufflepuffs are all sunshine, baking and green grass. They are basically hobbits who crave comfort and happiness above everything. The house stands for loyalty, warmth and general human decency. I understand those sentiments and I’d very much like to belong here but I miserably fail to fulfill the primary qualities of a puff: An unwavering inclination for toil and hard work and unconditional acceptance of people.
I don’t think I need to explain myself any further on this matter. Yellow is not for me.
That leaves us with Ravenclaw, all wisdom and books. Out of all the four houses, this ones makes the most sense for someone as contradictory as me. It is very individualistic and made up of people who tend to be lost in their own worlds. Of course they are generally smart, but love of knowledge rather than intelligence is what defines a Ravenclaw (I checked. Phew.)
And it is no secret that I love books. I also don’t hate birds.
Blue it is then.
Wow, this required more introspection than I thought it would. I feel a very delusional sense of belonging and I suspect my daydreams will intensify exponentially now.
I wish the Sorting hat was real. Its sad how I decided on my house based on a process of elimination rather than preference.
Anyway, I am done. Don’t tell me I waste time. This was important, go away or figure your own house out.
If you choose to, then don’t hate on Slytherins, dont idealise Gryffindors, don’t write off Ravenclaws as nerds and don’t understimate the Puffs. Have fun while you do it. Be cool.
On an entirely unrelated note, this blog turns a year old tomorrow. It has recieved more randomly expressed appreciation than I ever thought it deserved and I thank all of you for sticking around and supporting me as I publish pointless things. It gives me immense happiness to know that my writing makes someone out there laugh, smile and, more importantly, think.
This has been great.
Lots of love from an almost adult me.
Edit: Pottermore negated all of my deep analysis with the blasphemous act of sorting me Gryffindor. There is no point to this post anymore. Sigh.