The door slid shut behind Daphne Greengrass with a soft, satisfying click. She moved with quiet confidence. Her blonde hair fell straight and sleek down her back like a sheet of pale silk. Her ice-blue eyes were cool and assessing as they swept the compartment. The air shifted slightly with her presence. It carried the subtle poise of someone raised in old wizarding families—the kind who noticed everything without ever seeming to try.
She paused for a moment. She glanced at the empty seats across from Harry. Then her gaze settled on him. It lingered on his height for an eleven-year-old, the relaxed set of his shoulders, and the calm steadiness in his hazel eyes.
"May I sit here?" Her voice was crisp and precise. It carried the faint, elegant drawl of pure-blood Britain.
Harry nodded with a small smile. "Of course. Please do."
She settled opposite him with graceful economy. She placed a small leather case on the rack above. The train lurched forward gently. The countryside began to blur past the window in streaks of green and gold under the bright afternoon sun.
"I am Daphne Greengrass," she said, offering a polite nod.
"Evan Ray."
She tilted her head slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "You have an American accent. Were you raised there?"
"Yes, mostly," Harry replied. "My mother and I moved around a bit."
Silence fell between them then. It was watchful but not uncomfortable. Daphne pulled a book from her bag. It was *The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1*. She opened it and began to read. Her eyes flicked up occasionally as she turned the pages.
A few minutes passed like that. Fields rolled by outside in waves of summer green. The train settled into its steady rhythm, wheels clacking on the tracks.
The door opened again.
A dark-haired girl entered with sharper features and a sly curve to her mouth. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw Daphne.
"Daph, there you are!" She grinned and stepped in quickly. "I checked three carriages before finding this one. Everywhere else is full of loud Gryffindor hopefuls shouting about Quidditch."
Daphne's cool expression warmed instantly into a genuine smile. "Tracy. Come sit."
Tracy Davis stowed her trunk with practiced ease. She dropped onto the seat beside Daphne. She bumped shoulders with her friend in a familiar, affectionate way.
"Tracy Davis," she said to Harry with a quick, mischievous grin.
"Evan Ray."
The two girls were clearly old friends. Their easy banter started low and comfortable. They talked about summer parties at shared family estates. They mentioned mutual acquaintances Harry did not know—names like Astoria, Blaise, and Theodore. He listened quietly. He smiled faintly when they included him with a question or a glance.
The journey continued under bright daylight. Sunlight streamed through the windows and warmed the compartment. Green fields stretched wide on both sides. Distant hills rose gently under a clear blue sky. Hours passed in comfortable quiet broken by occasional talk.
Halfway to Hogwarts, with the sun still high and the landscape bathed in golden light, the door burst open once more.
A bushy-haired girl stood there breathless. Her arms were loaded with books. "Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one."
Daphne arched a brow coolly. Tracy snorted softly under her breath.
Harry shook his head politely.
The girl—Hermione Granger—huffed impatiently. "Well, if you do see it, please tell him." She vanished as quickly as she had come. The door banged shut behind her.
Tracy rolled her eyes dramatically. "She's already acting like she owns the train."
Daphne's mouth quirked in quiet amusement. "A bit rude, charging in like that without even introducing herself."
Harry's mouth curved into a small, easy smile. "Probably just first-day nerves. Everyone's excited."
Soft laughter followed from both girls. The ice broke completely after that.
Talk turned easy and natural. They spoke mostly about houses and what they expected from Hogwarts.
"I'm almost certain I'll be in Slytherin," Tracy said with a sharp, confident grin. "Ambition pays off, and my whole family has been there for generations."
Daphne nodded thoughtfully. "It's tradition for the Greengrasses too. Most probably I will be sorted in Slytherin. My family has traditionally been sorted there. But Ravenclaw wouldn't be terrible if the Hat sees something else."
Harry listened without committing to his own thoughts. He simply smiled and asked questions that kept them talking.
The sun remained high as the train sped north. Daylight bathed the compartment in warm glow. Clouds drifted lazily overhead. The conversation stayed light—school rumors, what classes might be like, nothing too deep.
The train began to slow while the sun still shone bright. Hogsmeade station lights were unnecessary in the afternoon glow.
"Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!"
Hagrid's booming voice carried over the platform. Harry left his trunk and Hedwig's cage with the other luggage to be taken up separately. He joined the cluster of small figures. The warm afternoon air greeted them as they climbed into boats—four to each one. The wood creaked under their weight.
The lake sparkled under sunlight. The castle rose sudden from the cliffs. Its black towers pierced the blue sky. Its windows gleamed gold in the sun. It was vast and ancient. Every stone hummed with power. Battlements and turrets stretched high. Flags fluttered from the highest points. The structure looked both beautiful and imposing. It felt alive with centuries of magic.
Harry's breath caught sharply. Awe stirred deep inside him. The magic saturation in the air was truly impressive—thick, layered, ancient. It tingled against his super senses like static electricity. Pride rose too—that this world was his to master, to learn every secret.
Gasps rippled through the boats. Daphne whispered nearby, "It's even more impressive than Father described."
As soon as they reached the pier, they disembarked. Climbing up the slippery stony stairs, they arrived at a huge door. Standing there in emerald robes and a long pointed witch's hat, Professor McGonagall stood waiting for the first-years.
"Firs'-years, Professor McGonagall."
"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take it from here," she spoke in a strict but soft voice of an educator who had dealt with generations of teenagers and knew exactly how to handle them.
She led them into a small chamber off the Great Hall—stone walls cool, windows letting in fading afternoon light. Nervous chatter filled the air. A few boys told loud stories of spells they claimed to know. Ghosts drifted through the walls—the Grey Lady floated past silently, her expression distant and recluse as she ignored the students completely.
The Great Hall doors opened wide.
Sunlight slanted through high windows under the enchanted ceiling—a perfect blue sky with drifting clouds. Thousands of candles floated in mid-air. Four long tables were packed with older students who stared curiously. Benches lined each side. The staff table stood raised at the far end. Golden plates and goblets gleamed. Dumbledore sat in the center—his silver beard tucked into starry purple robes, half-moon spectacles twinkling over a long nose.
The Sorting Hat rested on a stool. It twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth. It sang its hoarse song.
"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"
The hall applauded loudly. The Hat bowed to each table in turn.
Names were called in alphabetical order.
"Abbott, Hannah!" The Hat shouted "Hufflepuff!" after a moment.
Cheers rose from the yellow table.
"Boot, Terry!" "Ravenclaw!"
The bronze and blue table erupted with applause.
"Davis, Tracy!"
The Hat barely touched her head. "Slytherin!"
Green and silver cheers rang out.
"Greengrass, Daphne!"
A longer pause. The Hat considered her ambition, her sharp mind, her family tradition. "Slytherin!"
More cheers from the green table.
"Granger, Hermione!"
The Hat deliberated for minutes. It weighed her thirst for knowledge against her courage. "Gryffindor!"
The red table roared.
"Ray, Evan!"
The Hall hushed slightly. Harry walked forward with a steady heart. The Hat slipped over his eyes, blocking the view.
A dry voice spoke in his mind. "Plenty of courage here. Considerable talent. Ambition strong. Loyalty deep. And a sharp mind indeed—a thirst to prove yourself, to master everything, to learn every secret this castle holds."
Harry waited calmly. His thirst for knowledge burned bright—he wanted to understand magic fully, to explore every book, every spell, every hidden corner.
The Hat paused longer. It weighed his wit, his creativity, his drive to understand the world fully. It considered ambition that could fit Slytherin, but saw the danger—his power in that house might lead to conflict, exposure, deaths.
"Better be—Ravenclaw!"
The bronze and blue table cheered loudest. Harry joined them under banners of eagles. The airy feel of the house settled around him—the thirst for knowledge here would let him hide, learn, grow without drawing fatal attention.
Dumbledore rose for welcome. His voice was calm as he gave start-of-term notices. The Forbidden Forest was off-limits to all students. The third-floor corridor on the right-hand side was out of bounds to everyone who did not wish to die a most painful death.
The feast appeared on golden plates—roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon, steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and peppermint humbugs.
Harry ate steadily. The flavors exploded on his super senses—rich, layered, perfect. He listened to the chatter around him.
Ravenclaw Tower stood high in the castle. It was reached by a long spiral staircase that moved occasionally, swinging to new positions with a groan of stone. The door was an eagle knocker that asked a riddle. Harry answered it quickly with a smile. The common room was vast and circular with blue silk walls and bronze accents. An arched starry ceiling mirrored the night sky. Endless bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes that smelled of old parchment and ink. Wide windows overlooked the grounds in fading daylight.
The dormitories were individual rooms for privacy—small but comfortable, with four-poster blue hangings, a desk by the window, and a wardrobe enchanted to organize clothes neatly. Harry's roommates were Terry Boot, who chattered excitedly about spells, Michael Corner, who stayed quiet and observant, and Anthony Goldstein, who seemed thoughtful and asked good questions.
Classes began sharply the next day.
Transfiguration took place in a high-ceilinged room with neat wooden desks and a large blackboard. Professor McGonagall stood stern in her emerald robes and tight bun. She demonstrated first by turning her desk into a pig and back again. The class gasped. Then she transformed into a tabby cat with spectacle markings around her eyes. She changed back smoothly. "Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said firmly. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned." Harry turned his match into a perfect silver needle silently. He acted surprised at his success, earning a sharp nod but no extra attention.
Charms was held in a sunny room where Professor Flitwick stood on stacked books. His squeaky voice was full of excitement as the half-goblin professor bounced slightly. He started with Lumos. "The wand-lighting charm. Swish and flick—Lumos!" Harry's wand tip glowed steady and bright. He let it flicker once like the others, pretending minor difficulty.
Potions unfolded in the cold dungeons with glowing jars on shelves filled with pickled creatures. Professor Snape swept in with black eyes, sallow skin, and a hooked nose. His voice was silky with bitter sneer. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even put a stopper in death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach." Favoritism toward Slytherin was clear from the start. Harry brewed his Cure for Boils flawlessly but let a small bubble overflow to blend in.
Herbology happened in the steamy greenhouses where the earth smell was strong and rich. Professor Sprout was round and wore a patched hat. She introduced them to basic gardening tools and soil types. They spent the lesson repotting simple fluttering seedlings that tickled fingers when handled.
History of Magic was in a dusty room where ghost Professor Binns droned in monotone about goblin rebellions and endless dates. Harry took notes diligently, acting interested like the others.
Defense Against the Dark Arts had a heavy garlic smell that stung his super senses. Professor Quirrell wore a purple turban and stammered constantly. "I-I-I am P-P-Professor Q-Q-Quirrell. T-T-Today we w-w-will cover th-th-theory only. P-P-Practical lessons are t-t-too dangerous for n-n-new students." He lectured on basic curses from the book in a trembling voice. Completely useless. Harry pretended to take careful notes.
Astronomy was at midnight on the freezing tower with brass telescopes for charting stars. The cold bit sharp, but Harry enjoyed the vast sky.
Flying lessons were on the grounds with Madam Hooch's sharp whistle and hawk-like eyes. Brooms rose on command. Harry hovered steady without show, acting nervous like many others.
Harry kept a low profile in every class. His answers were correct but never the fastest. His spells were clean but never flashy. He acted like an average first-year—interested, capable, but not a prodigy. Sometimes he pretended confusion on simple things he knew perfectly, asking questions like the others to blend.
Friends formed naturally. He spent time with Daphne and Tracy in cross-house talks in corridors—they teased him gently about Ravenclaw's "bookworm" reputation, and he laughed along. Padma Patil joined during quiet library sessions. She was thoughtful and precise, sharing notes on charms. Their debates were soft but deep—Harry held back just enough to seem bright but not overwhelming.
Letters home went frequently via Hedwig.
My dearest Mama,
The castle is more incredible than I imagined. The towers stretch so high they seem to touch the clouds, and the moving staircases catch everyone off guard—I've already learned to time my steps when they swing. The paintings talk and move; some gossip endlessly, so I avoid the busy ones at night. The magic here is thick in the air—old and layered, tingling against my skin like constant static. The Great Hall ceiling mirrors the real sky perfectly; the stars at night feel close enough to touch.
I was sorted into Ravenclaw. The tower is airy and full of books—I love it already. The common room has huge windows overlooking the lake and grounds, and we have individual rooms, which is nice for quiet reading.
I've made friends. Daphne Greengrass and Tracy Davis from the train are in Slytherin—they're sharp and fun, always teasing about house rivalries. Padma Patil is in Ravenclaw too; we talk spells in the library. She's precise and asks good questions.
Classes are starting slow. Transfiguration is interesting—Professor McGonagall turned into a cat to demonstrate. Charms began with Lumos, which was easy. Potions with Snape is cold; he favors Slytherin and sneers a lot. Defense is useless—Professor Quirrell stammers and smells of garlic. Herbology was just gardening today—simple plants in the greenhouses.
I miss you every day. The manor feels quiet in my mind without your voice. The training hall, our walks by the lake, even Shadow's headbutts. Hogwarts is fascinating, but it's not home.
Write soon.
All my love,
Evan
Lily's replies came swift, warm pages full of pride and encouragement.
My dearest Evan,
Your letter brought the biggest smile to my face. The castle sounds exactly as wonderful as the stories made it—moving staircases must be quite the adventure. Ravenclaw is perfect for my clever, curious boy. All those books to devour—I'm proud beyond words.
Your friends sound delightful. Daphne and Tracy seem like sharp company to keep you on your toes. Padma too—good debates will sharpen your mind even more.
Classes will pick up soon, love. The basics always come first. Be patient and soak it all in.
I miss you terribly too. The manor is far too quiet without your laughter filling the halls. Shadow sulks on your bed, and even the greenhouse feels empty. Train hard in your free moments—stay strong.
All my love always,
Mama
Harry read her letters in his individual room at night, Hedwig perched close on the desk. The warmth spread through him despite the distance. He folded them carefully and tucked them under his pillow.
The autumn term rolled on steadily. The moving staircases became familiar surprises—Harry learned to time his steps perfectly or jump gaps with casual ease, acting startled like the others when they swung unexpectedly. The portraits gossiped endlessly; he avoided the chatty ones at night, slipping past silent under his cloak when exploring.
The library became his favorite place. The scent of old parchment and ink was intoxicating. Pages turned under his fingers with a texture he felt deeply. Books on charms, transfiguration, creatures—he read voraciously but quietly, borrowing stacks and returning them prompt.
Classes settled into routine. Harry excelled quietly—top marks earned without visible effort. Teachers noted his steady work with approval. Professor Flitwick praised his Lumos control with a squeaky "Excellent wand movement, Mr. Ray!" Professor McGonagall gave sharp nods at his needle transfiguration. Even Snape sneered less at Ravenclaw competence, though his bitterness remained.
Friends deepened naturally. Corridor talks with Daphne and Tracy turned regular—they teased him about Ravenclaw's "bookworm" reputation, and he laughed along, countering with gentle jabs at Slytherin ambition. Library sessions with Padma grew frequent—she asked precise questions on charm theory, drawing him into soft debates. Harry held back just enough—answering bright but not overwhelming, letting her lead sometimes to seem ordinary.
He missed Lily sharply. The manor's warmth, her guiding voice during training, the shared quiet by the lake—all felt distant. Hogwarts fascinated him endlessly—the magic thick, secrets waiting—but home called stronger each night.
Term neared its end. Snow began to dust the grounds lightly. Winter break approached. The castle buzzed with excitement for holidays. Harry packed early, anticipation building for the train home.