Chapter One: The Sorting
The castle doors loomed higher than Harry had ever imagined. Candles flickered from sconces set into the walls, casting golden light across the sea of first-years gathered at the threshold. His stomach churned with nerves as Professor McGonagall led them into the Great Hall.
Harry's eyes widened. Hundreds of candles floated above the tables, their flames steady despite the faint draft. The ceiling stretched into the night sky, stars glittering faintly against velvet black. He heard Hermione whisper in awe, "It's enchanted to look like the sky outside. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History."
The Sorting Hat waited on its stool, patched and weathered, as though it had been here since the beginning of time.
Harry tried to focus on McGonagall's voice as she began to call names, one by one. Students stepped forward, trembling or determined, the Hat dropping into place and shouting its decision. Cheers erupted at each announcement, the tables of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin welcoming their newest members.
Harry barely heard when "Granger, Hermione" became Gryffindor, or when "Malfoy, Draco" joined the Slytherins with smug pride. His palms were sweaty. Soon it would be him. Soon the whole school would be watching.
But before "Potter, Harry" could be called, McGonagall raised her hand.
"There is a matter to attend before we continue," she announced, her voice firm but carrying a note of curiosity even she couldn't disguise. "This year, in an unusual circumstance, we welcome three transfer students to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They have been accepted into the fourth-year class."
A ripple of whispers shot through the hall. Transfer students? That almost never happened.
The great doors swung open.
Three figures entered, side by side.
The first was a boy—tall, broad-shouldered, with sea-green eyes that seemed to catch the torchlight and hold it. His dark hair fell casually over his brow, but there was nothing casual about the way he moved. Every step seemed deliberate, as though time itself bent to his stride.
Beside him walked two girls.
One was silver and sharp, her eyes cool as moonlight, her long dark hair tied back with a band of silver. She carried herself with a hunter's poise, every movement precise, every glance assessing.
The other was softer in appearance but no less commanding. Golden-brown hair framed her face, her grey eyes piercing and thoughtful. When she walked, students noticed the way her gaze took in every detail—the height of the hall, the number of candles, even the arrangement of the teachers at the staff table.
They didn't look nervous. They didn't even look curious. They looked… assured. As if they belonged here, yet above it all at the same time.
Harry felt the hairs on his arms rise. He couldn't explain why, but he knew in his bones that these three were not like anyone else in the room.
Whispers broke out immediately.
"Who are they?"
"They're older!"
"Fourth-years, the professor said!"
"Where did they come from?"
The girls settled on either side of the boy as they paused before the Sorting Hat. He didn't need to touch them, but he did—his hand brushing the silver-eyed girl's wrist, his shoulder bumping gently against the golden-haired one's. It was small, almost absent-minded. But the gesture spoke volumes: closeness, familiarity, intimacy.
Harry caught the look that passed between them, and his stomach twisted in a strange mixture of curiosity and envy. They weren't just friends. They weren't just classmates. They were something more.
At the Gryffindor table, the Weasley twins leaned toward each other.
"Blimey," Fred whispered.
"Did you see her?" George whispered back, nodding at the silver-eyed girl. "That one looks like she'd hex you for breathing wrong."
"And the other one's a heartbreaker," Fred muttered. "Bet every Ravenclaw will be chasing her by morning."
Across the hall, Slytherins whispered differently. Draco Malfoy's pale eyes narrowed as he watched the boy.
"Too smug," he muttered. "Thinks he owns the place already."
But even he couldn't disguise the irritation that crept into his voice when he noticed how naturally both girls leaned toward him.
The Sorting Hat seemed to hesitate as it was placed on the boy's head first. For a long moment, it was silent, as though struggling with something beyond words. Finally, it called out, "GRYFFINDOR!"
The hall erupted in cheers. Percy—though no one knew his name yet—rose from the stool with a faint smile, moving to the table where the lion banners hung.
The silver-eyed girl stepped forward next. The Hat barely touched her head before it shouted, "SLYTHERIN!"
Gasps echoed. The girl didn't flinch. She only lifted her chin, eyes gleaming with some private amusement, and strode to the green-and-silver table. Students parted to make room, whispering furiously.
The golden-haired girl was last. The Hat muttered over her longer, before finally declaring, "RAVENCLAW!"
And so they were scattered—one to each house. Yet as they sat, each glanced at the others, as though invisible strings bound them still. Percy caught both their eyes, and in that silent exchange was more affection than a hundred whispered declarations.
Students noticed. Students envied.
Harry noticed most of all.
"Potter, Harry," McGonagall called at last.
Harry swallowed hard, stumbling forward to the stool. His head spun with whispers, with questions. He sat, the Hat dropping over his head.
And even as it muttered about bravery and cunning and the choice between Slytherin and Gryffindor, Harry's last thought before it shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" was of those three mysterious older students—whose presence already made the hall feel different, heavier, brighter.
When Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, Percy Jackson—though he had not yet introduced himself—was just a few seats away. His sea-green eyes flicked toward Harry, and for the briefest second, he smiled.
It was steady, knowing, protective.
Harry didn't understand it. But he felt safer than he had in years.