Chapter Text
The platform was noisy, too bright, too much. Shouts and laughter tangled with the hiss of steam, and everywhere John turned there were trunks, owls, and people rushing about with excitement. His hands shook faintly as he clutched his own second-hand trunk, dragging it along the platform. He didn’t look around for his mother or sister—he knew they weren’t there. He hadn’t asked them to come, and truthfully, they couldn’t bear to. His mother was still in the bedroom with the curtains drawn, and Julie was curled up on the sofa at home. It had been only a few days since the funeral.
The letter from Hogwarts had come in July (a month before his birthday), like some odd miracle, but John’s father had laughed softly and told him it must be some silly mistake. And then, just after John turned eleven, the laughter had ended forever. The grief pressed down on him now, as heavy as the trunk he dragged, and though part of him wished someone—anyone—would wave him off, another part was glad he was invisible in this chaos. He was glad no one could see how numb he felt, how empty.
He found the right train carriage at last and heaved the trunk inside. The corridor seemed endless, full of loud, excited voices. Carriages were already filling with clusters of friends, families, owls screeching from cages. He didn’t belong to any of it.
Halfway down, he saw one that wasn’t full. Just two children inside: a girl with dark braids, freckles across her nose, and a boy with a mop of sandy hair. They both looked up when he slid the door open.
“D’you want to sit?” the girl asked brightly, shuffling her bag out of the way.
John nodded quickly, grateful, and lifted his trunk in. He sat opposite them, pressing close to the window, his face turned towards the smoke and the platform outside.
“I’m Clara,” the girl said cheerfully. “Clara Woods. Muggleborn, like you?”
John’s eyes flickered towards her, startled, but he didn’t reply.
The boy spoke next, smiling as though trying to ease the awkwardness. “I’m Michael. Michael Fletcher. My dad’s a wizard, my mum’s not, so… sort of half and half. It’s weird, isn’t it? Magic.”
John turned his face back to the window. The steam swirled past in white clouds, hiding the crowd from view. His hands fumbled with his satchel until he pulled out a book—thick, worn, the cover cracked and softened with age. It smelled faintly of dust and old parchment.
The other two fell quiet for a moment, watching him.
“What’s that?” Clara asked finally, leaning forward. “Is it about Hogwarts?”
John set it carefully on his lap, fingers brushing the faded lettering on the cover: A Traveller’s History and Secrets of Hogwarts Castle. He’d found it in a small reseller’s stall in Diagon Alley, tucked under a stack of Quidditch magazines. He’d bought it for just a few Sickles, though it had looked as though it belonged in a proper library. The official pamphlet Hogwarts had sent him—A Brief Guide for the Muggleborn—was thin and dull in comparison. This book was alive with ink illustrations, side-notes in the margins, even small pressed flowers between the pages.
He didn’t answer Clara, though. He only opened the book to a page marked with a bit of string and bent closer to read. His eyes scanned lines he already half-knew, about the moving staircases, the ghosts, the hidden corridors. The words were like an anchor in his chest—something steady when everything else was slipping away.
Clara and Michael exchanged a look.
“Guess he’s shy,” Michael whispered, not unkindly.
“Leave him, then,” she murmured back. “He’ll talk when he wants to.”
But John barely heard them. He traced the illustration of a tall tower with his fingertip, the spidery lines of windows inked in black. His head felt strange, hollow, as though his memories were slipping further away with each breath. Already it was hard to picture his father’s face clearly, hard to remember the sound of his laugh. The numbness pressed in tighter, like cotton stuffed into his mind.
He let it happen.
The book was safe. The book had rules and facts, staircases and rooms and maps. It was better to drown in those pages than to let his thoughts slide back into the silence of home.
Outside, the train whistle blew. The carriage jolted. Smoke rolled past the glass as the platform slid away and the red train began its long journey north.
Clara and Michael began chatting again, quietly at first, then more animated. They speculated about what the Sorting Ceremony would be like, whether they’d meet actual ghosts, what kind of food there might be in the Great Hall. John listened without looking, every word catching at the edges of his mind. He wanted to speak—wanted to say yes, I read about the ghosts, they’re real, there’s even a Bloody Baron who’s terrifying, and the kitchens are run by house-elves who’ll make anything you want—but the words stayed inside.
Instead, he turned another page of the book, eyes fixed on a scrawled margin note in someone else’s hand from decades ago: Stair 144 moves only at dusk—never trust it then.
The voices of Clara and Michael blurred into a hum. The train clattered on, pulling him further away from everything he knew, further into a world of secrets and shadows, and he held the book like it was the only thread keeping him from unraveling completely.
John had already changed into his new uniform before leaving home. His mother had insisted on ironing the black robes the night before, her face pale and drawn as she pressed the creases into them, as if clinging to the small, practical task would hold her together. John hadn’t argued. He’d simply put the robes on that morning and buttoned them up tight, like armour.
Clara and Michael, though, were still in their Muggle clothes—Clara in a neat cardigan and skirt, Michael in trousers and a short-sleeved shirt. They didn’t seem to notice or care until the door slid open again.
“Hey, first-years,” came a voice, firm but not unkind.
A tall boy with long, curly brown hair ducked into the carriage, badge gleaming on his chest. Prefect, it read. His robes were immaculate, his wand tucked neatly into his belt. His eyes swept over the carriage quickly, intelligent and serious, though there was a kindness hidden behind the sharpness.
“You should be in uniform by now,” the prefect said, directing the words to Clara and Michael. His gaze lingered only a moment on John, already dressed, before flicking back. “We’ll be reaching Hogsmeade before long. Best to be ready before it gets too crowded.”
Clara flushed. “Sorry! We didn’t realise—”
“No harm done,” the prefect said. “But change quickly. I’ll be checking again.”
With that, he moved down the corridor, reminding other carriages.
John stood at once. Without a word, he pulled his trunk back out into the corridor and stepped aside, closing the carriage door firmly behind him. He knew enough to give people their privacy. Clara and Michael were clearly comfortable with each other—they must have been friends before all this, maybe even family by how they whispered to one another. Neighbours, he’d overheard. It was easier to let them change together.
He leaned against the wooden wall of the corridor, book still in hand. The train rocked beneath him, rattling over the tracks. Every so often, a group of laughing students passed by, brushing against him as though he weren’t there.
John opened his book again, balancing it carefully against his arm, though the words blurred with the sway of the train. He pressed on anyway.
Somewhere further down the carriage, he heard the prefect’s voice again—reminding, directing, but always gentle. Something about the boy made John’s chest tighten. He looked about fifteen, older and steadier, the kind of person who seemed as though they belonged exactly where they were. John dropped his eyes back to the page quickly, the lines of ink a safer place to hide.
Then came the sound of loud, grumbling voices. Low, indignant, and growing steadily louder as they approached the first-years’ carriage.
“Stupid, stupid!” a voice hissed sharply, undercut with a rough edge of teenage fury.
John didn’t look up, though his hands tightened around the book instinctively. The voice had the quality of someone used to taking up space, to being noticed.
“Don’t talk to me about stupid!” another voice snapped back, sharper, smaller but no less angry.
They were close now, their boots clattering on the polished floor of the corridor. John caught a glimpse of movement in the glass panel of the carriage door—a flash of red and gold robes, the tie of a Gryffindor uniform clearly visible.
The first boy was blond, hair brushing just past his shoulders, messy at the ends as though he hadn’t bothered to comb it properly. He was scowling, brow furrowed so deeply it almost seemed painful. He was muttering furiously under his breath, jabbing a finger at the polished wood of the wall as he walked.
“Pushed down a year!” he growled. “Me! Thirteen, already supposed to be in third! They’re insane! I’m too old for second year, Alfie, too old! I don’t care what anyone says—totally ridiculous.”
His companion, a shorter boy with dark hair and a narrow face, nodded furiously, matching every frown with his own. “It’s not fair! I was supposed to be in the same class as you. Now what if they don’t even let us share a dorm? You can’t just— ugh! This is stupid!”
As they continued they collided with something—or someone.
John didn’t move aside. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even flinch at the impact, only rocked slightly with the movement of the train. His book slipped a little in his hands, and he caught it automatically, eyes never leaving the page.
“Oi! Watch where you’re going!” the blond barked, even though John hadn't even moved, voice sharp, anger flaring in the corners of his mouth.
John remained silent. No blink, no glance. His face was turned to the window again, expression blank, as though he weren’t even there.
“What the- he didn’t even move!” the smaller boy, Alfie, muttered, fists clenching in frustration. “Mate, do you think he’s… dumb or something?”
The blond’s scowl deepened. “I don’t care. I’m not apologising. Not to some… some random first-year.” His voice dropped to a mutter again, almost to himself. “Bloody ridiculous… all of this… pushing me down… I should be in third year… third! And now I’ve got to deal with idiots and…” He gestured vaguely at the carriage, voice trailing as he muttered to Alfie, “If I’m not in the same dorm as my mates, I swear—”
Alfie jabbed him in the ribs, making the blond jerk sharply, snapping his head toward him. “Quiet! Don’t scare the kid... or whatever that is!”
The blond glanced again at John, whose eyes remained fixed on the sketch of a moving stairway, oblivious to the muttering around him. There was no fear, no acknowledgment. Just an unreadable stillness that somehow made the blond pause. His brow furrowed deeper. He tilted his head slightly, observing, before muttering under his breath, “What the hell is he even doing… reading like that…”
Alfie snorted. “Some muggle-born geek, I reckon. Probably thinks he’s smart or something.”
“Not apologising,” the blond—Roger—said again, louder this time, jab of defiance to the universe itself. He shoved past, Alfie hurrying beside him, both glaring as if the world itself had wronged them.
John didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Only the faintest pressure of the book in his hands, and the faint rattle of the train, acknowledged the collision at all.
Roger and Alfie muttered to each other as they stomped down the corridor, robes brushing against the walls, the sound of their voices fading slowly until only the gentle rocking of the train remained, punctuated by the occasional murmur from distant carriages.
John exhaled a little, unconsciously, and pressed the book closer. The stillness of the carriage returned, as if the interruption had never happened.
That was when he noticed more movement out of the corner of his eye. A fifth-year boy was walking down the corridor with an easy, confident air, one hand tucked into his robe pocket and the other swinging casually at his side. His hair was impossibly fluffy, dark and wavy, tumbling past his ears in a manner that seemed almost deliberate, as though he had trained it to look effortlessly chaotic. His robes were pristine but deliberately unconventional: a vividly patterned scarf thrown over the collar, cuffs turned back to reveal silken lining, and boots polished to a brilliant shine.
He spoke in a crisp, oddly posh English accent, soft but carrying easily in the corridor. “Mary, do hold your skirts in place,” he said lightly, almost teasingly, as a girl in Hufflepuff robes fell a step behind him, rolling her eyes. She caught up, brushing her own hair back into order, expression equal parts exasperation and amusement.
Freddie—John would soon learn—had transferred to Hogwarts only the previous year, arriving from a school in Zanzibar after the attacks had made staying home impossible. The boy’s presence carried a certain energy: charismatic, assured, but not overbearing. He noticed the collision John had experienced with the Gryffindor pair a moment too late to intervene, yet his sharp eyes immediately picked up the first-year leaning quietly against the window, book in hands, silent and still.
He paused. “What do we have here?” he murmured, tilting his head and stepping closer, Mary at his side. The boy’s eyes lingered on John for a moment, examining the neatness of his uniform, the careful way he held the book, the faint pale cast to his cheeks. He crouched slightly, hands reaching out before John could protest, fussing over the too big uniform, tugging gently at the sleeves and smoothing down the robes.
“Oh, you are far too precise,” Freddie said with a cooing, melodic tone. “Absolutely impeccable, really. But let me just…” He patted John lightly on the head, tousling his wavy, brunette hair that fell around his shoulders. “Hmm… I’d wager Ravenclaw for you,” he said thoughtfully, leaning in to whisper. “Yes, yes… the way your eyes keep darting back to your book… itching to return to reading… and such patience. Oh, delightful. Truly.”
John felt a flicker of warmth at the praise. Unlike the red-and-gold boys who had shoved past him without care, Freddie’s attention was gentle, attentive, curious. And there was something undeniably kind in the way he fussed, even if it was a little overwhelming. He didn’t speak immediately—he only watched the boy, then slowly, almost shyly, gave a small nod.
Freddie noticed. He smiled, eyes sparkling. “Oh, you do engage! Excellent, excellent.” He clapped his hands together once, softly, delighted, before glancing down at Mary, who was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and clearly trying not to laugh.
Before he could say more, the carriage door opened, and Clara poked her head out, small and apologetic. “Um-” she said softly, “you can come back in now. Sorry for… um… kicking you out.”
John looked up at Freddie, his lips curling in a small, genuine smile. “Thank you for being kind,” he said softly. His voice, though quiet, was steady, and he felt the words meant exactly what they said.
Freddie’s reaction was immediate and theatrical. He gasped, bringing a hand to his chest and leaning back slightly. “He speaks!” he cooed, clapping his hands together in delight. “Marvelous, marvelous!”
Mary rolled her eyes, exhaling loudly. “Honestly, Freddie,” she said, voice flat, “you make it sound like he just invented fire or something.”
He paid her no mind, crouching slightly so that he was at eye-level with John. “No, no, Mary. This is extraordinary! A first-year with charm, composure, and speech!” His smile was warm, playful, almost indulgent. “Now, off you go, little bookworm. Back to your carriage—your companions await. But do, please, allow me to inspect that book later. Such treasures deserve attention.”
John stepped carefully past him, back into the warmth of the carriage. Freddie gave him a little pat on the shoulder before straightening and turning to Mary with a flourish. “Really, what a delight! First-years should all be so… promising.”
Mary shook her head, though a faint smile tugged at her lips, as they followed down the corridor with the ease of those who knew Hogwarts’ rhythms well. John settled back into his seat, heart a little lighter than it had been, the faintest thrill of curiosity buzzing under the surface. For the first time since leaving home, someone had noticed him, not for trouble or inconvenience, but for who he might be.
Ten minutes kater, the train slowed with a soft screech, the rumble beneath their feet changing to a gentle, almost hesitant roll. John’s eyes followed the blur of the countryside outside the window, now darkening with the approach of evening. Steam hissed from the locomotive one last time before it hissed to a stop, and the sudden quiet made the carriage feel smaller, tighter, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Clara and Michael had already gathered their belongings, chattering quietly, and were nudging each other toward the door. John hesitated, his hands gripping the straps of his trunk a little tighter. His robes felt enormous, swallowing him up entirely, the sleeves dragging past his wrists and the hem brushing the floor. “You’ll grow into it,” his mother’s words whispered faintly in his mind, though they felt distant, like a memory half-erased.
“Come on!” Clara called softly, glancing back over her shoulder. Michael gave him a small wave, both of them moving with the confidence of those who had rehearsed this moment a hundred times.
John swallowed, lifting the trunk with a careful effort, wobbling slightly as the weight shifted. He stumbled once, catching himself on the polished wood of the carriage wall, the wheels squeaking faintly beneath him.
“Careful, first-year,” a voice said, crisp and measured. Brian May—in prefect robes—stood nearby, eyes sharp. “Leave the case. The house-elves will take it.”
John froze. He looked down at his trunk, the scuffed corners and worn leather suddenly seeming heavier than ever. “But… I—” but Brian didn't hear.
“Really,” Brian said gently, stepping closer. “They’ll put it straight in your dormitory after you're sorted. You just follow the rest of the first-years. Trust me.”
John’s throat tightened. He gulped, staring down at the trunk as if it might suddenly sprout legs and run away. Slowly, hesitantly, he lowered it to the floor.
Before he could do anything else, a small, rustling sound came from beneath the carriage. Two tiny house-elves, their large ears twitching and eyes gleaming with efficiency, appeared from the shadows. One reached a delicate, gloved hand toward the trunk while the other muttered softly to itself, adjusting its apron.
John’s lips parted, but no words came. His hands fell to his sides. The elves lifted the trunk with surprising ease, their movements swift and practiced. It disappeared into the shadows of the train corridor, taken away with an efficiency that made John’s stomach twist in nervous awe.
He watched them go, shoulders tense, as if letting go of the trunk meant letting go of something he could never get back. The memory of his father, the smell of home, the quiet safety of his room—they all felt tied up in that case. And now it was gone.
Brian May’s hand rested lightly on John’s shoulder. “It’ll be safe,” he said, voice low but firm. “And it’ll be waiting for you. You’re okay.”
John swallowed again and nodded, though the knot in his stomach didn’t loosen. He adjusted the oversized robes around his arms and followed Clara and Michael out of the carriage, stepping carefully along the platform. The cold evening air of Hogsmeade wrapped around him, sharp and clean, carrying the faint scent of pine and snow, even though it wasn’t quite winter yet.
Every step felt tentative. The world was new, enormous, and unfamiliar. And yet, somewhere beneath the nerves, there was a small spark of curiosity—an itch to see the castle, the magic, and perhaps, in time, to feel at home.
John stepped onto the platform. The train hissed softly behind him, letting off clouds of steam that curled into the dim, cloudy sky above. It looked as though the heavens were preparing to open, the low clouds heavy and swollen with rain, and a chill clung to the evening air. His book, safely tucked into the deep pocket of his robe, was the only possession he clung to.
Around him, first-years were gathering hesitantly, the adults and older students bustling with energy and direction, giving instructions, calling names. The crowd jostled, laughing and whispering, some clutching their trunks, others their satchels. John felt small and strange amidst the swirl of robes and voices, an observer more than a participant.
A booming voice carried over the murmur of students. “First-years! Over ‘ere! First-years, come on!”
He looked up to see an enormous figure striding toward them, wide shoulders nearly brushing the top of the platform roof. The man’s hair and beard were wild and thick, and his coat looked far too large for him, sleeves dangling past his wrists. He waved a hand in a friendly, almost clumsy manner.
John froze for a moment, unsure if he should approach. The other students were already edging forward, drawn by the sound of the voice, shuffling toward the massive man. The sheer size of him made John’s stomach tighten—he had never seen anyone so tall, so… impossibly large.
He didn’t know the name, didn’t need to. Something about the presence was undeniably kind, despite the slightly intimidating figure. The man crouched a little, as if to meet the students’ eyes, and his voice boomed again, cheerful and warm: “Over here, you lot! Don’t be shy, come on now!”
John clutched the folds of his robe, feeling the weight of it pressing him down. Without a trunk, without a satchel, he felt even more exposed, but he took a careful step forward, the book heavy in his pocket, pressed close against him like a talisman. The others were moving with him, and the path toward the water—and whatever awaited them across it—stretched wide and dark before him.
He tugged at the oversized sleeves, brushing his hands against the fabric, and followed the throng of first-years, feeling the damp chill of the evening pressing against his skin. Somewhere in the distance, the low rumble of the train faded behind him, and ahead, the mysterious figure continued to call, gesturing to the first-years like a shepherd gathering his flock.
John swallowed, tight-throated, and stepped forward. The clouds above him seemed ready to spill rain, the sky a murky, swirling gray, but somehow the moment felt alive—full of possibilities, terrifying and exhilarating at once. He clutched his book tighter, tucking it fully into the deep pocket of his robe, and moved closer to the figure, heart drumming in his chest.
The first-years were herded down a narrow path toward the edge of the lake. The water shimmered darkly beneath the gray sky, the surface rippling in the wind, and the line of small black boats waiting patiently seemed almost surreal. John’s heart hammered as he stepped closer. The wind tugged at his oversized robes, and the faint scent of rain filled the air.
He paused at the water’s edge, clutching the folds of his robe, and instinctively reached into the deep pocket he had fashioned as his own little sanctuary. The book was there, pressed snug against the wand tucked beside it. He buried them deeper, as if hiding them from the storm and the unknown together, and whispered a silent prayer. Please… let this be okay. Let me not fall in, let me survive this first night… let me be… safe.
A prefect gave a loud call, and one by one, the first-years stepped into the small, dark boats. John hesitated, then followed, placing his feet carefully on the narrow plank before letting his knees bend, sinking low. The boat rocked slightly under his weight.
He wasn’t alone. The boy sitting opposite him looked pale, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the boat with both hands. Every slight movement—John adjusting his robes, the wind pushing against the boat—sent the other boy flinching, bumping the vessel into a small wobble. “S-sorry,” the boy stammered, voice shaking. “I… I’m just—”
“It's ok,” John said softly, leaning forward slightly but keeping his voice low. The words surprised even him. He reached one hand toward the side of the boat, resting it lightly on the trembling edge. “Don’t… don’t rock i-it too much.”
The boy nodded quickly, swallowing. “I’m… scared of falling in.” His eyes darted nervously to the dark water on either side of the boat.
John’s gaze followed his own reflection in the lake, ripples distorting his image, and then returned to the boy. He squeezed his hands together in his lap, holding tight to the book and wand under his robes, buried like treasure. “You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “I… I'm sure they won't let us actually fall i-in.” The words were quiet, but somehow solid, and he hoped the boy could feel it.
The first drops of rain began to patter against the surface of the lake, tiny taps that grew steadily heavier. John hunched a little, covering his book with one hand and pressing it closer to his chest, while the wand remained snug against it. He listened to the rhythm of the rain on the boat, the slap of water against the hull, and felt the faint, cold spray on his face.
The boy across from him shifted again, accidentally jostling the boat. “I— I’m sorry!” he stammered, eyes wide.
John let out a small sigh. “It’s alright. Just… breathe. Keep still.”
The rain fell harder now, soaking the robes and plastering hair to foreheads. The lake stretched endlessly ahead, dark and vast, but John’s fingers tightened on the book and wand, and his heart thumped fiercely in his chest. He watched his boatmate, who was now attempting to mimic his calm, and John allowed himself a small, silent hope that maybe, just maybe, they’d both make it safely to the other side.
Above, the clouds rumbled, but John focused on the narrow space of the boat, the boy opposite him, and the strange, glittering lights of Hogwarts rising in the distance. It was terrifying and new.
The boats scraped softly against the shore, and John stepped carefully onto the pebbled edge, boots slipping slightly in the slick mud. He and the other first-years were funneled toward the wide, sweeping stone steps that led up to the towering silhouette of Hogwarts. Rain still fell in a steady drizzle, soaking robes and hair, leaving everyone chilled and dripping.
John tugged the book and wand from his pocket, palms cold, and looked down at the slender piece of wood. His fingers flexed around it with a nervous but deliberate precision. Sunlight charm… he thoguht to himself, the words tasting strange on his tongue but familiar from his late-night reading and whispered practice in empty corners.
He raised the wand, murmuring the incantation carefully. A small ball of golden light appeared above the tip, warm and steady, like the sun breaking through clouds. The first glow touched the tips of his dark wavy hair, drying the strands instantly, and John allowed himself a small sigh of relief as warmth spread over his head.
He moved the wand slowly down to his shoulders, robes, and finally hands, the golden light following in soft, curling trails. The other first-years paused on the steps, staring in awe—or perhaps in irritation—at the small, radiant orb moving over John, drying him in a way they hadn’t imagined possible.
Professor McGonagall, overseeing the first-year arrivals, was walking briskly toward the group, her sharp eyes catching the sudden glow. She stopped mid-step, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. The warmth of the small sunlight ball radiated subtly across the steps, reflecting in the stone and bouncing off John’s serious, focused expression.
My word… she thought, narrowing her eyes slightly but with unmistakable admiration. Using the sunlight charm… to dry oneself? I’ve never seen that before.
Her mind raced. Points. Definitely points. She would remember this, she promised herself. Whoever this boy ended up with, that house would earn recognition for ingenuity and initiative.
A few of the other first-years, less impressed by John’s quiet diligence, murmured among themselves.
“Oi! That’s cheating!” one of them hissed, crossing his arms, eyes narrowed. “He’s a nerd!”
Another piped up, voice high and sharp. “Dry us too! Make us not wet!”
John glanced at them from beneath his soaked fringe, the golden light still trailing over his robes, and his jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t reply—he never was quick to speak when confronted—but the warmth from the charm remained steady, serene, a quiet shield of comfort.
McGonagall’s gaze lingered on him, sharp and approving. She allowed herself a tiny smile, barely perceptible, and tucked a mental note away: Whoever this boy becomes… points will be awarded. Creativity, initiative, and calm. A rare combination.
John finally lowered the wand, the sunlight orb dissipating slowly, leaving him warm, dry, and a little more composed than before. Around him, the drizzle continued, the steps glistening wet beneath their boots, but he felt a faint, steady courage building inside—a small, private triumph before the Sorting Ceremony awaited.
Professor McGonagall straightened her robes and clicked her tongue, the sharp sound carrying over the wet, echoing steps. “All first-years, follow me! Keep together, and do not dawdle.” Her voice was firm, commanding, but not unkind; there was an unmistakable edge of expectation beneath it.
The first-years shuffled behind her, stepping carefully up the glistening stone staircase. John’s oversized robes swirled around him with every movement, the sleeves dragging past his hands, but the warmth from the sunlight charm still lingered faintly against his shoulders, comforting and reassuring.
The wind tugged at the students as they ascended, a chilly breeze carrying the scent of the lake and rain, and the dark clouds above seemed to press closer. John’s hands remained tucked into his folds of robe, fingers brushing against the hidden book and wand in his pocket. He kept his head down slightly, observing the steps beneath his feet, careful not to stumble.
“Line up as I direct,” McGonagall instructed. Her sharp eyes swept over the first-years, noting who lingered, who fidgeted, and who moved quietly and deliberately. She paused at the top of the staircase, glancing back at the long, winding line of students trailing behind her.
John glanced briefly at the faces around him. Some of the other first-years whispered, nervously peering at one another; some were already wide-eyed at the distant glow of the Great Hall, lights flickering faintly in the drizzle like stars caught in the stone. A few muttered about the rain, their hair plastered to their foreheads, robes dripping. But John’s attention remained partly on the book in his pocket, partly on the way McGonagall moved with effortless authority.
“Keep moving,” she said sharply, and the first-years obeyed, forming a single, winding line along the broad corridor. The echo of their boots and the soft slap of wet robes against the stone walls created a steady rhythm. John’s stomach tightened slightly, anticipation and nerves mingling in equal measure.
The entrance to the Great Hall opened ahead, vast and dimly lit, the ceiling enchanted to mirror the stormy sky outside. John’s heart skipped. He could see the long tables, stretching far ahead, and the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows across the polished floor. For a moment, the weight of the day, the loss, the uncertainty, seemed to lift slightly in awe of the space.
McGonagall paused at the doorway, eyes sweeping over the students one last time. “Remember, first-years,” she said, voice firm, “courage, respect, and composure. Now, enter the Great Hall in order, quietly and carefully. The Sorting Ceremony awaits.”
John took a careful step forward, following the line of students, oversized robes swishing around him. His book and wand pressed close to his chest, a private anchor in the strange, glittering new world. The other first-years whispered nervously among themselves, but he kept his focus, scanning the tables and ceiling in awe, heart pounding with a mixture of fear, curiosity, and a faint thrill of anticipation.
The doors swung fully open, and the first-years were funneled into the wide, candle-lit hall. John’s eyes widened at the sheer scale: the enchanted ceiling above, reflecting the storm outside; the long tables lined with older students; the gleaming Sorting Hat perched on its stool at the far end. The air smelled faintly of roasting meats and the faint tang of magic, and John’s fingers tightened reflexively around the hidden book.
McGonagall’s gaze met his briefly, sharp and assessing, before she began directing the students toward the Sorting Hat. “Form by the stool. Remember, calm and steady. You will be sorted in alphabetical order. Follow instructions.”
The Sorting Hat stirred as the students gathered. It twitched, shifted slightly, and then opened its mouth in song, its deep, scratchy voice filling the Great Hall.
“Oh, you may not think I’m wise,
Though I’ve seen centuries rise,
Many a mind I’ve peered within,
To sort the hearts, the weak, the kin…”
The hat’s song rambled on, winding and melodic, listing traits, histories, and philosophies of the four houses. It spoke of courage, cunning, loyalty, and learning, each line carrying the weight of tradition and expectation.
John, however, hardly listened. His eyes roamed the vast hall instead, taking in the long tables, the flickering candlelight, the stars twinkling faintly on the enchanted ceiling. The Great Hall was enormous—bigger than he had imagined from any description or sketch. It almost felt unreal.
He counted, quietly in his mind. First-years would be sorted into houses. Each class tended to combine two houses, he remembered from his reading. Around fifteen students per house, sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less. That meant nearly sixty first-years in total for this year, he estimated.
The Sorting Ceremony moved steadily, names called in order from the registers, last name first. John’s surname began with a D—Deacon—but he had been watching as one by one, students whose names preceded his were called. He fidgeted slightly on the stool, oversized robes swishing around his knees, dark wavy hair falling over his eyes.
The letters “D” passed, and still no one called him. A faint crease appeared between his brows, a soft frown tugging at his lips. Am I being missed? he wondered, though the thought was quiet, tentative, almost imperceptible.
Finally, McGonagall’s sharp, precise voice cut through the quiet murmurs of the hall. “John… Deacon.” The register had the names last-first, so his names were the wrong way around.
John blinked and stood carefully, the extra length of his robes tripping him slightly as he moved toward the stool. He caught whispers as he passed the seated first-years and older students: comments about his long hair, murmurs of curiosity or mild astonishment.
He ignored them, as he always had. Words carried little weight in a room full of strangers. The only weight he felt was the cold, polished stool beneath him as he lowered himself carefully, folding his hands in his lap, keeping the book and wand safe in the deep pocket of his robes.
The Sorting Hat settled over his head with a soft, almost imperceptible shift, and then the familiar voice spoke in his mind, low and ancient, brimming with centuries of wisdom and curiosity.
“Ah… a… unusual,” the Hat murmured, its voice deep, resonant, and echoing directly in his thoughts. “Yes… yes, so many fragments… pieces of memory… so much… loss.”
John flinched slightly, instinctively drawing the book and wand closer in his pocket. He didn’t speak back. He couldn’t.
The Sorting Hat hesitated. “Curious… clever… a desire to know… but scattered, drifting. So much potential… but… oh, there is fear, yes, fear of belonging… fear of connection… without others, your ambition cannot flourish… yet you hunger for it.”
It paused, its brim twitching, as if unsure how to continue. The centuries-old voice, used to making immediate judgments, seemed… unsettled.
“You have loyalty… kindness… patience… but they are mixed with uncertainty, with fragility. I can see flashes of courage, yes… sparks of cleverness, curiosity… yet the mind is fading… pieces lost, slipping away…”
There was a long silence, and then the Sorting Hat’s voice rose slightly, projecting outward for the first time.
“Professor McGonagall!” it called aloud, and the students around John murmured in shock, turning toward the voice emanating from the strange, magical hat. “This one… I cannot place! I cannot determine the house without guidance! His mind is… fragmented… he needs direction, support, someone to see him, to guide him… I cannot choose alone!”
Gasps ran through the hall. Whispers spread like wildfire. The Sorting Hat has never done that before… it’s never spoken to a teacher directly…
John’s face flushed deeply. His hands gripped his oversized robes, the book and wand pressing into his chest. He felt all eyes on him. The weight of the students’ stares, the unspoken scrutiny, pressed down on him. Shame pooled in his stomach, curling tightly around his ribs.
McGonagall’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. She stepped forward quickly, her robes swishing with authority, and bent slightly to speak directly to the Sorting Hat.
“You want me to… help?” she asked aloud, though the tone was gentle, careful, commanding.
“Yes!” the Hat replied instantly. “His mind is… lost. I cannot… I cannot discern fully.”
McGonagall hesitated, then made a decision. She removed her own hat—the plain, pointed witch’s hat—and placed the Sorting Hat carefully upon her head, the familiar weight sitting snugly over her own. The hall fell silent, the students craning their necks, whispering, eyes wide.
Never has this been done before, the murmurs floated around the room. The Hat… on McGonagall?
John sat frozen on the stool, head bowed slightly, ears hot, unable to look at anyone. His hands pressed into the folds of his robes, book and wand still secure in the pocket, trying not to tremble.
The Sorting Hat’s voice spoke directly into McGonagall’s mind now, calm and patient but insistent.
“He is… fragile. Pieces of memory are slipping, fading. He hides behind books, knowledge… yet he is not fully present. Loyalty and kindness dominate his instincts, but he fears connection, fears being seen. He cannot achieve ambition without others, yet he desperately wishes to belong. He has the mind to do great things, but he needs guidance. His house alone will not suffice; he requires care, support, structure.”
McGonagall’s gaze hardened, resolve settling over her. He needs someone to notice, to nurture him. Hufflepuff… yes. But I will speak to the head of house. They will help him. He must not be lost in his own fear.
She removed the Sorting Hat from her head and held it carefully in her hands. Her eyes, sharp and commanding, swept over the first-years. John’s gaze remained on the stone floor, the blush still burning in his cheeks.
“John, Deacon,” she said clearly, voice calm but firm. “You will be in… Hufflepuff.”
The words hung in the hall. They were not binding, just an initial decision—enough to place him safely, but with room to revisit if the boy needed it. The other first-years whispered again, some in awe, some curious, but John only exhaled quietly, relief and embarrassment mingling in a tight knot in his chest.
McGonagall made a private note to herself: she would speak to the Hufflepuff head of house immediately after the ceremony. John would need help, guidance, someone who could understand his fragmented mind, and who could ensure he had a place where he could grow safely.
The Sorting Hat, now back on its stool, twitched its brim as if satisfied—or at least relieved. The hall returned to its usual hum, though all eyes remained subtly drawn to the boy whose mind had challenged even the centuries of wisdom held within the enchanted hat.
John lowered himself carefully from the stool, shoulders tight, cheeks still hot, and walked toward the Hufflepuff table. Each step felt both heavy and necessary, a strange combination of exposure and cautious relief.
The first-years sitting along the table leaned forward, craning their necks to get a better look. Most were bright-eyed, energetic, and eager to engage, chattering among themselves as they watched him approach. John’s hair fell into his eyes, shielding him slightly, and he kept his gaze low.
They seemed to assume he was… different. Mute, perhaps. No one heard him speak. No one tried pressing too hard, but they were insistent.
“Hi!” a girl with curly hair said brightly, nudging the other boy next to her. “I’m Lila. What’s your name?”
John didn’t answer. He only slid onto the bench beside her, careful not to knock over his robes.
Another first-year, a boy with round glasses and a wide smile, leaned over. “Don’t be shy! We can explore the castle together, my brother told me the best way to sneak extra pudding—”
Again, no response. John’s hands folded in his lap, resting lightly on the folds of his robes. The whispers continued, curious but cautious.
Nearby, a fifth-year prefect—his wand at the ready, robes impeccable—sat at the table, giving John a gentle, expectant smile. She nudged him lightly. “You’re Hufflepuff now, yes? Don’t worry, everyone’s nervous their first night. Why not try talking to us?”
John shifted slightly, tugging the book from the deep pocket of his robes and opening it on his lap instead. He began to read, eyes scanning the pages intently. The energy around him—the chatter, the whispers, the stares—seemed to recede slightly when he focused on the words.
The other first-years, extroverted and curious, leaned closer. “He’s reading already!” whispered one. “He must be smart! Look at him!”
Another waved at him. “Hey, what’s that you’re reading?”
John only flipped a page and murmured softly to himself, almost inaudibly, lost in the text. The book became his shield, a small island of calm in the sea of curiosity and attention.
Food appeared magically on the long tables: platters of bread, fruit, roasted vegetables, and meats, steaming in the warm air of the hall. Several first-years nudged their trays toward him, smiling. “You’ve got to eat! It’s… it’s the first night, you need energy.”
John glanced at the food for a moment, then pressed a finger to the corner of the book, holding it close. The prefect leaned slightly closer, offering a piece of bread. “It’s alright if you don’t want to eat yet. Just… take your time.”
The other first-years continued whispering excitedly among themselves, watching him as if trying to figure him out. “I bet he’s a genius!” one said. “Maybe he’s shy. Or maybe he’s… special.”
John, for his part, remained largely silent, eyes on the book, lips pressed in a thin line. The chatter around him didn’t reach him in the same way it reached the others. Occasionally he glanced up briefly, noting who was speaking or moving, but his focus stayed on the pages.
Even the whispers, the stares, the rare clatter of a plate or spoon—it all faded to the background as he read, as if the book created a bubble of calm and order that nothing else could penetrate.
For now, he did not speak. He did not need to. The words on the pages, the soft glow of the candlelight, and the rhythm of the hall around him were enough.
Down near the middle of the Great Hall, Freddie leaned casually across the aisle, his wild, fluffy hair falling just enough to shadow his face, robes rumpled in his usual stylishly reckless way. He nudged Mary lightly with his elbow, earning a small, exaggerated eye-roll, and whispered toward Brian May, who sat in Ravenclaw robes across the aisle.
“Brian, honestly,” Freddie said softly, voice dripping with amusement, “have you seen that odd first-year yet?”
Brian adjusted his glasses, tilting his head toward Freddie with a faint smile. “I have. Actually… I met him. The quiet long haired one. He’s… reserved, to say the least. Refused to leave his trunk on the train at first, clinging to it like it was some life raft.”
Freddie’s lips quirked into a grin. “Ah yes… I’ve spoken to him. After that blond boy—Roger, yes?—the one who kept pranking people last year and got moved down a year… he bumped into John, and the boy didn’t even flinch. Didn’t react at all.”
Brian groaned softly, leaning back. “Please don’t tell me you fussed over the poor boy.”
His grin widened into a mock pout. “You know I did! What else was I to do? I mean, honestly… naturally, I had to step in.” He tapped a finger on his chin theatrically. “Anyway, I vouched for Ravenclaw. Or tried to, I suppose. I guess I misjudged.”
Brian raised an eyebrow. “So you did… fuss over him?” His tone was exasperated, though the corner of his mouth twitched as if holding back a smile.
Freddie wagged a finger. “Well, yes! But—brace yourself—he spoke!” He leaned closer, whispering theatrically. “He did, truly. Tiny mutters to me, very proper, very polite. Said ‘thank you for being kind.’”
Brian blinked. “He did? Really?” He leaned back, arms crossed, staring down toward the small, silent figure hunched over his book. “Right now he looks… rather mute.”
“He did!” Freddie insisted, nudging Mary with a flourish. “Mary can vouch for me.”
Mary sighed, putting her fork down for emphasis. “I can’t believe you’re at the Hufflepuff table. You’re supposed to be sat with your own house on the first day.”
Freddie tilted his head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I am a Slytherin, dear. And—so far—no one has told me off. Clearly, there is much leniency for style, yes?” He brushed a hand through his hair, letting the floppy waves fall into perfect disarray.
Brian raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly forward, prefect badge glinting under the flickering candlelight. He opened his mouth, clearly about to scold.
The slightly older boy held up a single hand, wagging a finger as if issuing a final, delicate command. “Ah ah, Brizie. We don’t tattle on friends now, do we?” His tone was gentle but firm, playfully admonishing, and Mary rolled her eyes again, muttering under her breath.
Brian hesitated, lips pursed, then let out a soft laugh. “You're lucky I like you."
Freddie grinned, leaning back into his seat, eyes flicking toward John again. The boy’s dark hair hung over his eyes, hands folded over the thick book in his lap. The soft glow from the candles reflected faintly on the pages, illuminating John’s focused expression.
“He’s… different,” Brian said quietly, voice low. “You can see it, can’t you? Something about him… quiet, careful. Observant. But it’s more than that.”
“Exactly!” Freddie whispered, tilting his head, a hand under his chin in exaggerated thought. “He reads, he observes, he doesn’t react unless it’s worth reacting to… but I tell you, Brizie, there’s fire under that calm. Mark my words.”
Mary shook her head, sighing again, but the corner of her lips betrayed a small smile. “You’re hopeless. First day, already scheming for someone else’s attention.”
Freddie gave her a sly grin. “Merely… appreciating talent, dear. One cannot ignore brilliance, even if it is quiet brilliance. And this one,” he added, eyes flicking to John again, “is most certainly brilliant. Just… very, very discreet.”
Brian leaned back in his seat, shaking his head slightly, but his eyes never left the small figure in the corner of the hall. “He’ll be… interesting,” he murmured, almost to himself. “If he ever talks.”
Freddie clapped his hands softly, eyes glittering. “He did talk! And that, my friend, is enough for now. Let him read in peace, and we’ll watch the magic happen.”
The three of them watched quietly across the table, observing John—silent, immersed in his book, oblivious to the whispers, the stares, and the unprecedented attention his Sorting Hat episode had generated.