Diary: 6 Sept '92
Dear Diary,
It's been seven days since my arrival in this world—so familiar yet undeniably different. This body resembles my past self but feels foreign, like a reflection in rippling water. Whether I've truly transmigrated or experienced reincarnation, I'm uncertain; time alone may reveal the truth. But ultimately, does it matter? All that is clear is that I'm here now and must live with the consequences.
I was sorted into Hufflepuff—unexpected, to say the least. I had hoped for Ravenclaw, renowned for wisdom, or Gryffindor, famed for courage. Hufflepuff, however, was known for neither, at least in my view. But perhaps there is value in this, too—a chance to stay unnoticed, tucked away among the humble and kind. I had only one request for the Sorting Hat: not to place me in Slytherin or Gryffindor. And here I am.
After the sorting ceremony, I was ushered to a meal, then to Professor Pomona Sprout's office. She carries a motherly warmth and explained the wizarding world thoroughly, from the Ministry of Magic to Hogwarts' curriculum. Being admitted so suddenly as a Muggle-born and straight into the third year, I was granted the rare opportunity to attend any elective classes I wished this week.
Care of Magical Creatures appealed to me immediately, though selecting a second elective was trickier. When Professor Sprout mentioned remedial classes, my choice was clear: Muggle Studies. It would afford me precious time to myself. I need space to process all this—perhaps it will take months, maybe even years. And so far, Professor Sprout has allowed me my peace.
The timetable here puzzles me. Unlike the world I recall from the books, none of my classes overlap. A Time-Turner seems unnecessary here, as though this world lacks that convenience. I can't help wondering if this reality mirrors J.K. Rowling's work, or if some details deviate for reasons I've yet to understand.
Strangely, there are only two other boys in Hufflepuff's third-year cohort. They mentioned that it has always been this way since their first year. I assumed Hogwarts admitted more students each year, but evidently, around forty is the norm. Considering the scars of the First Wizarding War, it's plausible that smaller batches like this are common.
I can't seem to remember the names of my roommates—a flaw that has followed me into this life, it seems. They are amiable enough, yet sharing close quarters with two teenage boys challenges my patience. I prefer solitude. I've toyed with the idea of asking Professor Sprout for a separate room, though I doubt she'd agree.
Lastly, I keep reaching into my pockets instinctively, searching for my mobile phone. Every time, my hand returns empty. Technology became so integral in the life I knew; the absence of it here leaves an ache, a reminder of how modern comforts reshape our very perception of solitude.
I hope, in the days ahead, to shed these lingering attachments and find peace in this world. The life I left feels stifling in hindsight, a cage of sorts. I can only hope this world offers something different—a freedom I've yet to understand.
Until next time, Diary.