The morning for Harry to leave for Hogwarts was bright and clear, yet his mind was clouded with excitement and nerves. He had spent the past few days pouring over his new textbooks, imagining his life at Hogwarts. Now, standing in the middle of the Tonks' living room, dressed in his new robes, Harry felt a surge of apprehension.
Ted placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, offering a comforting squeeze. "You'll be fine, Harry. Hogwarts is an adventure. Just keep your wits about you, and you'll do great."
Andromeda gave him a soft smile, her sharp eyes holding a hint of pride. "Remember, Don't rush into situations blind. Take your time, observe, and choose your moves wisely."
Harry nodded, his stomach flipped nervously as he tried to take their advice. Dora had been teasing him all morning, trying to lighten the mood. She was in her third year at Hogwarts, a proud Hufflepuff, and had promised to show Harry all the secret nooks and crannies of the castle.
"You'll love it," Dora said, flicking her hair to a vibrant shade of green as she grinned at him. "There's so much mischief if you know where to look. I'll even show you how to sneak into the kitchens. The house-elves there are the best."
Harry grinned back, though his nerves were still buzzing beneath the surface. He wasn't worried about the mischief part—he was more concerned about the other students, about fitting in. Hogwarts was a world he had been preparing for, but now that it was finally happening, its weight felt heavier than he had anticipated.
"Take care of yourself, alright?" Dora added, giving him a playful nudge. "And don't let those Gryffindors fool you into thinking they're the only ones with courage."
Harry chuckled, grateful for her attempt to cheer him up. "I won't."
With a final round of hugs from Ted and Andromeda and a last teasing wink from Dora, they made their way to King's Cross Station, where the train to Hogwarts awaited.
Platform 9¾ was as bustling and chaotic as Harry had imagined. Witches and wizards of all ages hurried about, waving their wands to levitate trunks and owl cages, calling out to friends and family as the scarlet Hogwarts Express puffed clouds of steam into the air.
Harry stood at the platform's edge, his heart pounding as he clutched the handle of his trolley. He had said his goodbyes to the Tonks family, and now it was time to step into this new chapter of his life.
Taking a deep breath, Harry wheeled his trolley toward the train, and with a final glance around the platform, he climbed aboard.
As Harry walked down the narrow corridor of the train, looking for an empty compartment, he overheard snippets of conversations—students talking excitedly about their summers, Quidditch teams, and spells they had learned. He could feel the difference in knowledge among them already. Some sixth years discussed spells Harry had just read about, while others debated magical theory far beyond his grasp.
Finally, Harry found an empty compartment near the back of the train. He heaved his trunk onto the overhead rack and sat down, trying to calm the nervous energy bubbling inside him.
He hadn't been sitting for long when the door to the compartment slid open, and a tall, lanky boy with red hair poked his head in.
"Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full," the boy said, looking hopeful.
Harry smiled. "Sure, come in."
The boy plopped across from Harry, grinning as he wiped his forehead. "Thanks. I'm Ron Weasley, by the way."
"Harry Potter," Harry replied, offering a small smile as Ron's eyes widened in surprise.
"Blimey," Ron said, sitting up straighter. "You're the Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived?"
Harry winced slightly at the title. He had heard it enough times by now, but it still felt strange to be recognised for something he had no memory of.
"Yeah, I guess so," Harry said awkwardly. "But it's just Harry."
Ron looked impressed, his eyes scanning Harry's face as though looking for some sign of the boy from the stories. After a moment, Ron's face split into a grin, and he seemed to relax.
"Well, it's cool meeting you, Harry. You don't seem, you know, like the stories say. That's a good thing, though," Ron added quickly. "I'm the youngest of six brothers, so I know what it's like having people expect stuff from you."
Harry nodded, relieved that Ron wasn't making a big deal out of it. "It's nice to meet you too."
They settled into easy conversation, with Ron talking animatedly about his family—his older brothers who had all been to Hogwarts, his mischievous twin brothers Fred and George, and how his youngest sister Ginny was desperate to start at Hogwarts next year.
Just as Harry was getting comfortable, the compartment door slid open again, and a familiar girl with bushy brown hair and a serious expression stood in the doorway. She clutched a large book to her chest, her eyes darting between Harry and Ron before landing on Harry with a bright smile.
"Hey, Harry. Do you mind if I sit here?" Hermione asked, her voice warm. "Everywhere else is full."
"Of course," Harry said, shifting his bag to make space.
Hermione sat down, adjusting her book on her lap. "It's good to see you again, Harry! I was hoping we'd run into each other."
Ron blinked in confusion as Harry grinned. "Yeah, same here. Did you finish A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration already?"
"Twice," Hermione admitted, looking pleased. "And The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1—though I think Hogwarts: A History might be my favourite so far." She turned to Ron, suddenly realising she hadn't introduced herself. "Oh! I'm Hermione Granger."
Ron still looked slightly bewildered but nodded. "Ron Weasley."
Harry glanced between them and decided to explain. "Hermione and I met in Diagon Alley. We ended up talking for ages at Flourish and Blotts while getting our books."
Hermione nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Harry was kind enough to help me figure out some things about the wizarding world—it's still new to me. We agreed to keep in touch before school started, and Harry Owl Hedwig's been delivering our letters back and forth."
"You have an owl ?" Ron asked, looking interested.
"Harry does," Hermione clarified. "She's beautiful—so clever, too!"
Harry chuckled. "She got plenty of exercise flying between our houses."
Ron still looked a little lost but shrugged. "Right. Well, anyway, you were saying? About Hogwarts: A History?"
That was all the encouragement Hermione needed. She launched into an enthusiastic discussion about the castle's magical properties, and despite Ron's slightly glazed expression, Harry found himself enjoying the conversation. He already knew Hermione was brilliant, but seeing her excitement made him even more confident they'd be great friends.
As the train rattled on, the door slid open again, and a round-faced boy with wide eyes and a nervous expression entered the compartment.
"Excuse me," the boy mumbled, his voice timid. "I—I think I know you. You're Harry Potter, right?"
Harry looked up and immediately recognised him. "Neville... From St. Mungo's."
Neville's face lit up in relief. "Yeah! I wasn't sure you'd remember me."
"Of course I do. Come sit with us," Harry said, waving him over.
Neville joined them, looking much more relaxed now that he was with a familiar face. He and Harry spent many quiet afternoons at St. Mungo's, with Nevill visiting his parents and Harry visiting Sirius. Though they hadn't been close friends, they had always had a quiet understanding—a shared connection through their losses.
As they talked, Neville's clumsy, nervous nature became apparent. Still, Harry and Ron were patient with him, while Hermione seemed fascinated by Neville's stories about the magical plants his grandmother grew in their garden.
During this conversation, Ron leaned closer to Harry, his voice lowering slightly. "So… have you thought about which house you want to be in?"
Harry shrugged. "I haven't decided yet."
Ron's face twisted slightly. "Just don't let the Hat put you in Slytherin."
Harry blinked in surprise. "Why not?"
"Slytherin's full of dark wizards," Ron explained, his voice serious. "They say everyone who goes bad comes from Slytherin. Trust me, you don't want to end up in that House."
Harry frowned, his mind wandering to Andromeda—a proud Slytherin who had defied her family's dark traditions. His grandmother, Dorea Potter, had also been a Slytherin, and she had fought against Grindelwald. They were both kind, loving people who had stood up for what was right. For Harry, Slytherin wasn't about darkness—it was about ambition, about making bold choices.
"I'm not so sure about that," Harry said quietly. "Not all Slytherins are bad."
Ron looked sceptical but didn't press the issue. "Just be careful. You'll see what I mean once we get there."
Harry didn't argue. He wasn't sure if he agreed with Ron's opinion of Slytherin. Andromeda had taught him that people, like magic, were complex—neither entirely good nor bad. And Harry had learned that sometimes ambition could be a force for good.
Harry stared out the window as the train clattered toward Hogwarts, lost in thought. He still didn't know so much, but one thing was clear—this was merely the beginning.
The first glimpse of Hogwarts took Harry's breath away. The castle loomed in the distance, perched high on a cliff above a great, black lake, its turrets and towers outlined by the evening sky. Lights twinkled from its many windows, casting a magical glow across the water. Harry's heart pounded as the boats carried him and the other first years toward the shore, where the school's entrance awaited.
Beside him, Ron was staring open-mouthed at the sight while Hermione gripped the boat's sides tightly, her eyes wide with wonder. Even Neville, who had seemed nervous the entire train ride, looked awestruck.
Harry's stomach flipped with nerves as they disembarked and made their way up the steps. This was it—the moment he had been preparing for. The Sorting Ceremony loomed ahead, and soon, he would know which House would become his home for the next seven years. Despite everything he had learned about the four houses, he still felt unsure where he truly belonged.
The first years were gathered in the entrance hall, awaiting the call to enter the Great Hall for the ceremony. Harry shifted uncomfortably, trying to shake off the nerves that had settled in his chest. Just as he was about to ask Ron if he was ready, the murmurs around him grew louder.
A boy with pale light blonde hair and sharp aristocratic features—a Malfoy—was making his way through the group, flanked by two large, surly-looking boys. Draco's eyes landed on Harry, and with a smug smile, he strode over, his entourage following close behind.
"So, it's true," Draco drawled, stopping in front of Harry. "Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts."
There was a brief pause as everyone around them fell silent, waiting to see what would happen next.
"I'm Draco Malfoy," he continued, his voice dripping with arrogance. "And I think you'll find that in a place like Hogwarts, it's important to know who the right people are. You wouldn't want to end up with the wrong sort."
Draco cast a glance toward Ron and Hermione, his sneer barely concealed. He offered his hand not out of friendship but as a test—a way to assert dominance over Harry and establish himself as the leader.
Harry, however, had spent years with Andromeda, who had taught him all about pureblood etiquette. He understood the subtleties of such encounters better than Draco realised. With a calm, quiet confidence, Harry reached out and shook Draco's hand, but instead of being rattled by the boy's attempt at superiority, he smiled politely.
"I appreciate the advice, Malfoy," Harry said evenly. "But I've found that a person's worth isn't measured by the name they have. For example, Names like yours," he added, his tone respectful yet pointed, "carry a certain… history, shall we say."
Draco's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his smug grin faltering. He wasn't used to people challenging him with such subtlety, especially someone who, on the surface, seemed like he might be easy to sway.
Harry continued, his voice polite but firm. "You know, my grandmother, Dorea Potter, was a Black, and she always said that while family names can be important, it's what you do with your name that matters."
Draco's smile wavered, and for a brief moment, his confidence slipped. He had expected Harry to be flustered, maybe even impressed by the offer, but instead, Harry had turned the tables with a quiet authority that left Draco unsure how to respond.
"Right," Draco muttered, clearly frustrated. He glanced toward Ron and Hermione again as if to salvage some of his pride. "Well, the offer still stands, Potter. Think about it."
With that, Draco turned on his heel, his two lackeys following after him, though not before casting dark looks at Harry's friends. The tension in the air seemed to dissipate as soon as Draco left, and the murmurs of the other students resumed.
Ron let out a low whistle. "Blimey, Harry, that was brilliant. I thought you were going to tell him off, but you… you just outplayed him."
Harry smiled, but he noticed Hermione's expression before he could respond. She was looking at him with a strange mixture of uncertainty and suspicion. She hadn't said anything since the exchange, but her silence was telling.
"Everything alright, Hermione?" Harry asked.
She gave him a tight smile, her brow furrowed. "I suppose. I just… I didn't expect you to be so polite to someone like him."
Harry blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"
Hermione hesitated, glancing toward where Draco had disappeared. "It's just… he's obviously from one of those families, you know? The ones that think blood purity is everything. And you were… polite."
Harry's confusion deepened. "Well, even if I were not going to accept his offer, I wouldn't be rude."
Hermione bit her lip, clearly unsure how to articulate her thoughts. "I guess I just… I don't know. I thought maybe you—never mind."
Before Harry could ask what she meant, Professor McGonagall appeared at the front of the group, her stern gaze sweeping over the gathered first years.
"Follow me," she instructed.
The Great Hall was everything Harry had imagined and more. The enchanted ceiling sparkled with stars, reflecting the night sky above, while the long tables were filled with older students, all watching the newcomers with interest. At the front of the room stood a stool with the ancient Sorting Hat perched on top.
Harry's heart raced as he lined up with the other first years, his mind still whirling from his encounter with Draco and Hermione's reaction. He barely noticed as the first few students were called forward, each sitting nervously as the Sorting Hat decided.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, McGonagall called, "Potter, Harry."
The hall fell into a hushed silence. Every eye in the Great Hall locked onto him—some with curiosity, others with awe, and a few with something sharper, something more insidious. The whispers died as Harry took his first step toward the stool, the weight of expectation pressing down on him.
He would not falter.
Steeling himself, he sat down and placed the Sorting Hat on his head.
"Ahh…" The voice unfurled in his mind, ancient and knowing. "Harry Potter. I was expecting you."
Something felt unsettling about being so intimately known by a voice that had whispered to generations before him. The Hat's presence in his mind was vast and expansive, yet not unkind.
"Let's see…" the Hat murmured, sifting through his thoughts like fingers through turning pages. "Courage, certainly. A hunger for knowledge, yes. But ambition… ah, now here is something rare. Not ambition for power alone—no, merely a tool. Your goal is something grander, something… greater."
Harry swallowed, unsettled by how easily he was seen through—a part of himself that even his closest friends hadn't discovered. Harry collected himself and said, "I want to be great." he admitted, his voice steady in his mind. "Not for mere power or control, but to take action. To be the change. Magic isn't inherently light or dark; it's simply magic. What matters is how we use it and how we wield it. I'm not interested in old rivalries or what others expect of me. I want to be the one who decides what my life will be."
The Hat chuckled, like the rustling of old parchment, like the echoes of voices long past." It's a refreshing perspective. Too often, Salazar's love for the ambitious is mistaken for encouraging cruelty, as if the desire to change the world is a sin rather than a necessity. You understand it for what it truly is: the will to shape destiny rather than being ruled by it."
Harry's breath became more manageable now. "I want to be in Slytherin," he said firmly.
A pause. A deep, considering silence.
"Are you certain?" the Hat mused. "There are other paths, you know. In Gryffindor, you could be the beacon that rallies people to your side, the lionhearted leader who inspires change, not just forces it. You would find allies easily, your name alone carrying weight. In Hufflepuff, you could build unshakable loyalty, weaving together friendships and alliances that would stand the test of time, creating a foundation none could tear down. Or perhaps… Ravenclaw? Your mind is sharp and inquisitive. There, you could reshape the thoughts of those in power and change hearts and minds before raising a wand. That is the power of a different kind—the kind that whispers rather than roars."
Harry exhaled, his fingers tightening on the worn wood of the stool beneath him. "No," he said, his voice steady and unshaken. "I will inspire people, not with reckless bravado. I will make allies, but not by waiting for fickle loyalty to be given. And I will change minds, but not through prattling debate and twisted reasoning."
The words poured from him now, his certainty settling into something fierce, something immovable. "I chose Slytherin because it is the only House that understands what it means to disrupt power from within. I won't fight the system—I will bury myself in it, coil like a serpent at its heart, and squeeze until it bends to my will."
His magic crackled in his veins, thrumming with an intensity he had never felt before.
"The old ways, the rivalries, the petty blood feuds—I will break them. I will take the best of every House, the courage of Gryffindor, the loyalty of Hufflepuff, and the intellect of Ravenclaw, and I will make them mine. And when they realise, it will be too late."
The Sorting Hat was silent.
Then, deep within his mind, it laughed.
"Oh, yes!" the Hat cried, its glee reverberating in his skull. "Yes, yes, YES! Oh, Harry Potter, you truly are a rare one. Not since Salazar himself have I sorted a mind so brazen, so utterly assured in its vision. He, too, wished to mould the world, to shape it to his ideal. But even he would look upon you and wonder if he had dreamed too small."
The Hat's voice deepened, amusement shifting into something sharper, edged with ancient memory. "I have seen others with ambition, yes. But how paltry, how petty their dreams were in comparison."
A flicker of thought passed through Harry's mind—a student, not long ago, whose mind had brimmed with cunning, with a hunger that burned cold and cruel. A boy who had walked these halls, his ambition read by the same Hat, yet his vision was so small. Power for power's sake. Control for the sake of control.
The Hat's voice curled in something close to disdain. "A boy once sat where you sit now, believing himself clever and destined to rise above all others. And yet, for all his cunning and intelligence, his ambition never reached beyond himself. A throne to sit upon. A name to be feared. The same dull, tired vision that has repeated across history in the minds of lesser men."
It chuckled darkly. "Immortality? Power over others? There is nothing new in that. Nothing revolutionary. That was greed, not vision. Fear, not evolution."
Harry felt something stir within him—a refusal. He would not be another fool clawing at a crown, another name doomed to fade into history as just another tyrant.
The Hat exhaled like a breath of wind through hollow chambers. "But you… oh, you are different. You will not be another whisper of history, another ghost of ambition that led nowhere. You are greedy, yes, but not for gold or titles—you are greedy for change, for something greater than yourself. You do not just seek power. You seek to reshape the very world that seeks to cage you."
The glee returned, and this time, the Hat cackled.
A deep, wicked, roaring cackle rolled like thunder through the cavernous hall, shaking the very air with its mirth. It was not the light, knowing chuckle of an old relic—no, this was something different—unrestrained, wild, almost delighted.
The Great Hall fell deathly silent.
Students shifted uncomfortably on the benches, exchanging uneasy glances. Some looked around, seeking confirmation that they had heard the same thing. The Sorting Hat had never laughed like that before.
A few first-years flinched, their hands gripping the edges of the bench. Even among the older students, there were nervous murmurs. The Slytherin table, in particular, was watching with sharp eyes, their expressions unreadable—though a few of them had the ghost of knowing smirks.
The teachers were still, watching the scene with curiosity and unease. Dumbledore's fingers steepled under his chin, his blue eyes twinkling—but there was a sharpness to them now, a profound glint. McGonagall's lips were pressed into a tight line, her gaze flicking between the Sorting Hat and Harry. Snape, from his place at the high table, was unreadable. His dark eyes locked on the boy beneath the Hat, his expression betraying nothing.
For a moment, it was as though the entire castle itself had paused, listening.
"Oh, yes! You do not just wish to play the game—you wish to shatter the board. You do not just seek to rise—you wish to drag the world with you, whether it wills it or not."
Then the Hat exhaled, the remnants of its laughter fading into something almost knowing.
"Very well, then."
The pause was electric, charged with the weight of history itself.
"Better be—SLYTHERIN!"
The silence broke. Some gasped. Others whispered furiously. A few stared.
Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the child of James and Lily Potter, the symbol of the war—was in Slytherin.
And not just a Slytherin.
He had made the Sorting Hat laugh. And no one knew what it meant.
The hall erupted into murmurs as the Sorting Hat made its decision. Harry took a deep breath, removing the Hat and handing it back to McGonagall before making his way to the Slytherin table. He could feel the weight of everyone's stares, especially from the Gryffindor table, where Ron and Hermione sat, looking shocked.
Ron's reaction was immediate. His face was pale, his eyes wide with disbelief. As Harry passed by the Gryffindor table, he saw the hurt in Ron's eyes, as though Harry had personally betrayed him.
Hermione's expression was more complex; Harry knew this had unsettled her. She hadn't fully understood his earlier conversation with Draco, and now his joining Slytherin only deepened her confusion.
The murmurs continued as Harry sat at the Slytherin table but felt a strange sense of peace. He had made the right choice, even if his new friends didn't understand it yet.
The Sorting Hat had seen his ambition, his desire to challenge the status quo. And Harry knew that in Slytherin, he would have the opportunity to do just that. And Harry was ready to make his mark.