The train slowed, its rhythmic clatter giving way to a long, grinding squeal as it finally pulled into Hogsmeade station. Night had fallen, and the platform was dark and windswept, lit only by the swinging lantern of a familiar, colossal figure.
"Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" Hagrid's booming voice cut through the excited babble of the students pouring onto the platform. "C'mon, follow me—any more firs' years? Mind yer step, now!"
Ariana, Harry, and Ron joined the nervous cluster of first-year students, a small flotilla of bobbing heads in a sea of older, more confident students. As they stumbled down a steep, narrow path, Ariana felt the ambient magic of the place wash over her. It was different from Diagon Alley's chaotic commercial hum or her own internal placid sea. This magic was ancient, layered, and deeply institutional. It was the magic of a thousand years of learning, of powerful enchantments woven into the very stone and soil. It felt like walking into a library so vast and old that the air itself was saturated with knowledge.
The path opened up suddenly, and a collective gasp went through the group of first years. Across the surface of a great, black lake, its water as smooth as polished obsidian, stood Hogwarts. It was a breathtaking sight, a sprawling castle of towering turrets and soaring spires, its multitude of windows glittering like stars against the dark, mountainous backdrop. It was grander, more real and magnificent, than any illustration or cinematic depiction from her former life could have ever captured. For the first time, a genuine, unadulterated sense of wonder touched Ariana's composed features. This was a place of true magic, a testament to the power of artifice and will on a grand scale.
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of small, dark boats bobbing gently by the shore, each with a lantern hanging from its prow.
Ariana, Harry, and Ron found a boat and were soon joined by Hermione Granger, who was still chattering about the castle's history and magical protections. As the little fleet pushed off from the shore, moving silently across the black water, Ariana trailed her fingers in the cool lake. She could feel the life within it—the lazy drift of the Grindylows in the deep, the nascent consciousness of the Giant Squid—all part of the castle's vast, interconnected magical ecosystem.
The view of the castle grew more imposing as they approached the cliff it was built upon. They passed through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening, disembarking in a dark, underground harbour that smelled of damp rock and lake water. Hagrid led them up a flight of stone steps and to a halt before a pair of massive, oak front doors. He raised a giant fist and knocked three times.
The doors swung open to reveal Professor McGonagall. Her severe expression was just as Ariana remembered, but her eyes, as they swept over the nervous faces of the new students, held a flicker of something akin to pride. She led them into the magnificent Entrance Hall, its stone walls lit with flaming torches, the ceiling so high it was lost in shadow. The murmur of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right indicated the rest of the school was already waiting.
They were led into a small, empty chamber off the hall. Professor McGonagall gave them a stern introductory speech about the four houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—and the importance of the House Cup, her words instilling a mixture of excitement and terror in the assembled children. As she left to check if everything was ready, a wave of panicked whispers broke out.
"How exactly do they sort?" Harry asked Ron nervously.
"Some sort of test, I think," Ron said, his face pale. "Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."
Hermione, meanwhile, was muttering all the spells she knew under her breath, a mantra against her own anxiety. Ariana alone remained silent, her posture relaxed, her periwinkle eyes calm. She knew about the Sorting Hat. The concept of having her mind read was not daunting; her own thoughts were a carefully ordered library, and she was a very particular librarian.
When Professor McGonagall returned and led them into the Great Hall, the sight silenced even the most panicked whispers. It was even more spectacular from the inside. Thousands of candles floated in midair over four long tables, where the rest of the students were seated. The ceiling, as Hermione had read, was bewitched to look like the night sky outside, a vast, star-dusted velvet canopy.
At the front of the hall, on a raised dais, sat the staff. And in the center, in a large, golden chair, sat Albus Dumbledore. His long silver hair and beard seemed to catch the candlelight, and his halfmoon spectacles were perched on his long, crooked nose. His blue eyes, magnified by the lenses, twinkled with a benign amusement as he watched the new students approach.
His gaze passed over the familiar face of Harry Potter, then continued its sweep. And then it stopped.
It stopped on Ariana.
The twinkling in his eyes vanished, replaced by a profound, breathtaking stillness. It was a look of utter, soul-shaking shock, a look that stripped away the centuries of wisdom and power, leaving only the raw emotion of an old man seeing a ghost. He saw his sister's face, not as a vague family resemblance, but as a perfect, living resurrection. Her youth, her beauty, her luminous eyes—it was Ariana as he remembered her from that last, golden summer before tragedy struck. His hands, which had been resting on the arms of his chair, gripped the wood so tightly his knuckles turned white. Professor McGonagall had warned him, but words were a pale, inadequate preparation for
this visceral reality.
Ariana met his gaze from across the hall. She did not flinch, nor did she offer a challenging stare. She simply held his gaze with her own calm, periwinkle one, acknowledging his shock with a serene poise that was, in itself, deeply unsettling. It was the face of his sister, but the soul behind the eyes was something else entirely. Something ancient and unknowable.
Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool before the first years and on top of it, a patched, frayed, and exceedingly dirty wizard's hat. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the Sorting Hat began to sing its annual song. When it was finished, the Sorting began.
One by one, students were called up. Hermione Granger, after a moment's deliberation, was sent to Gryffindor. Draco Malfoy was barely touched by the hat before it screamed "SLYTHERIN!". Ron Weasley, looking terrified, was also sorted into Gryffindor, to the loud cheers of his older brothers.
Harry was sorted a moment later, the Hat barely hesitating before yelling"GRYFFINDOR!", and the resulting cheer was the loudest of the night. The Weasley twins were chanting, "We got Potter! We got Potter!"
Then, Professor McGonagall called out, "Dumbledore, Ariana."
A hush fell over the Great Hall. The name alone was enough to cause a stir, a murmur that rippled through the student body and even along the staff table. The students craned their necks to see the girl who bore the Headmaster's famous name. They saw a vision of ethereal beauty and unsettling calm walking gracefully towards the stool.
She sat down, and Professor McGonagall placed the dusty hat on her head. It slipped down over her eyes, plunging her into darkness.
Well now, a small, dusty voice spoke inside her head. This is something I have not seen in a very long time. A mind so… ordered. It is not the busy, fact-filled mind of a Ravenclaw, nor the ambitious, cunning mind of a Slytherin. It is a quiet mind. A deep mind. Like a library in a forgotten palace.
Ariana did not respond, she simply allowed the Hat to browse.
There is immense power here, the Hat continued, its voice full of a strange respect. Not the volatile, untamed power I sensed in the other Ariana all those years ago… no, this is different. This is controlled. Woven into the very fabric of your being. And behind it all… another soul. Another life.
Ah, a traveller. How very, very interesting. You possess knowledge that could place you at the top of any house. The cunning to be a great Slytherin. The intellect for a premier Ravenclaw. You have a loyalty that Hufflepuff would treasure… and a quiet courage that is the bedrock of Gryffindor.
The Hat was silent for a long moment, longer than for any other student. The entire hall watched, holding its breath.
You do not fit, Miss Dumbledore, the Hat finally concluded. You do not fit into any of my neat little boxes. You are a category unto yourself. A mind like yours does not need my guidance. It needs only to choose its own path. So, I will do something I have only ever done a handful of times in my long existence. I will ask. Where do you wish to be?
Ariana considered. Ravenclaw was tempting; the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake was a noble one. But she did not need a common room to study. Slytherin held a certain appeal in its pragmatism, but she had no interest in the petty ambitions of most of its members. Hufflepuff's loyalty was admirable, but she was not a joiner. That left Gryffindor. The house of the brave, yes, but also the house of the proactive. The house of those who acted on their convictions. More importantly, it was Harry's house. He was the fulcrum upon which this world's future balanced, and proximity to him was a strategic necessity. He was also her friend, and he would need allies who were not blinded by his legend.
Gryffindor, she projected, her mental 'voice' calm and decisive.
Gryffindor? the Hat sounded surprised. The house of the loud, the bold, the reckless? It is an odd choice for one so serene. But a choice made is a choice respected. Very well… To the hall, the hat shouted: "GRYFFINDOR!"
A thunderous applause erupted from the Gryffindor table. Ariana gracefully removed the hat, handed it to Professor McGonagall, and walked towards her new house. She took a seat opposite
Harry, next to Hermione, who immediately began asking her what the Hat had said to take so long. Ariana simply smiled and said, "It was being thorough."
Once the feast was over and the students were being led away by their prefects, Professor McGonagall approached Ariana. "Miss Dumbledore," she said, her voice low. "The Headmaster would like a word with you in his office. Please, follow me."
She was led not to the chaotic dormitories, but up a silent, moving spiral staircase, to a door guarded by a large stone gargoyle.
Professor McGonagall uttered the password—"Sherbet Lemon"—and the gargoyle sprang to life, revealing the entrance.
Dumbledore's office was a vast, circular room filled with strange, silvery instruments that whirred and puffed smoke. Bookshelves were crammed with ancient tomes, and on a perch near the desk, a magnificent, crimson bird with a golden tail regarded her with intelligent, black eyes.
Albus Dumbledore was standing by the window, looking out at the dark grounds. He turned as she entered, and the professional mask of the Headmaster was gone. In its place was the raw vulnerability she had seen in the Great Hall. His blue eyes were filled with a century of sorrow, regret, and a desperate, hopeful curiosity.
"Ariana," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "My dear child. Forgive an old man's shock. You are… the very image of her."
"I have been told," Ariana replied, her voice soft.
He gestured to a chair opposite his desk. "Please. Sit." He settled into his own large chair, his long fingers steepled before him. He seemed to be struggling for words. "Your parents… they were from my Nephew Credence's line, a Squib branch of the family. I… confess I did not keep as close a track of those branches as I ought to have. A failing of mine, among many."
His eyes searched her face, looking for any sign of the trauma, the fragility, the tormented spirit of the girl he had lost. He found none. He found only a preternatural calm, a self-possession that was both baffling and, in a way, a profound relief.
"You seem… very well-adjusted, my dear," he finally managed. "Professor McGonagall told me of your unusual control of your magic. Ollivander, too, sent me a most… effusive owl regarding your wand."
At that moment, the crimson bird on the perch let out a low, beautiful, trilling note. It unfurled its magnificent wings and flew from its perch, not to Dumbledore, but to Ariana. It landed softly on her outstretched arm, its golden claws gentle on the fabric of her sleeve. It was Fawkes, the phoenix.
Dumbledore watched, his breath catching in his throat. Fawkes was a creature of immense discernment, attuned to loyalty, love, and the purity of a soul. He was not a creature to offer his affection lightly. Yet here he was, nuzzling his beautiful head against Ariana's cheek, letting out a series of soft, contented croons. Ariana, in turn, stroked his warm, crimson feathers, her touch gentle and sure. A silent communion was passing between the girl and the immortal bird.
The sight seemed to solidify something in Dumbledore's mind. A great, painful weight settled in his heart, followed by a fierce, protective resolve. He had plans for Harry Potter. Difficult, dangerous plans that were necessary for the salvation of their world. He had steeled himself to manipulate, to guide, to sacrifice the boy if need be, for the Greater Good.
But this girl… this child who wore his sister's face, who calmed his phoenix with a simple touch, who looked at him with eyes that held no fear and no judgment… he could not do it to her. He could not, would not, draw her into his webs of intrigue and sacrifice. The thought of using her, of putting her in harm's way, was a sacrilege he could not commit. It would be like losing his sister all over again, but this time, through his own deliberate actions.
The Greater Good could demand the soul of Harry Potter. But it would not have hers. He would protect her, even from himself. He would keep her separate, allow her to flourish, to study, to live the peaceful, powerful life that the first Ariana had been denied. It was a penance he would offer to the ghost of his sister.
"You have a remarkable gift, Ariana," he said, his voice finding its strength again, now infused with this new, quiet conviction. "Hogwarts is here to help you cultivate it. If you ever need anything—a book from the restricted section, guidance on a particular branch of magic, or simply someone to talk to—my door is always open to you."
It was an unprecedented offer. An open invitation to the Headmaster's knowledge and resources, with no strings attached.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Ariana said, her fingers still stroking the phoenix's warm crest. "I appreciate that."
As she finally left his office, Fawkes flying reluctantly back to his perch, Dumbledore sank back into his chair, feeling the weight of a hundred and fifty years. He looked at the portrait of the laughing, happy girl on his wall—the original Ariana. He had failed her. He would not fail this one. His grand, intricate plans for the coming war with Voldemort had just developed a new, inviolable rule: Ariana Dumbledore was to be kept out of it at all costs.