The Great Hall swallowed them whole.
Not metaphorically—actually swallowed them. The moment the massive oak doors swung open, the sheer impossible vastness of the space seemed to reach out with invisible hands and pull thirty-two gawking first-years across the threshold into something that belonged more in fever dreams than architecture.
The ceiling soared upward into infinity—or what looked like infinity if infinity had decided to cosplay as the night sky with obsessive attention to detail. Stars wheeled overhead in slow, lazy arcs. Clouds drifted past with the kind of casual majesty that suggested they were fully aware they were the most dramatic ceiling decoration in magical Britain and weren't afraid to show off about it.
"Bloody hell," someone breathed—probably James, because of course it was James.
"It's not actually the sky," Lily whispered, her voice caught between scientific fascination and pure wonder. Her green eyes reflected the floating candles like captured emeralds as she craned her neck back. "It's enchanted to look like it. *Hogwarts: A History* says it was one of the original castle charms, designed by the Founders themselves to remind students that magic has no ceiling, no limits—"
"Lily," Sirius interrupted gently, "we get it. It's magic. Can we maybe appreciate the impossible ceiling without the lecture?"
"I was appreciating it *with* context," she shot back, but she was smiling.
Natalia, walking with the kind of poise that suggested she'd been specifically bred for making dramatic entrances, let her gaze sweep across the hall with calculating precision. Four long House tables stretched toward the distant dais, each already populated with hundreds of students in color-coded robes—scarlet and gold, blue and bronze, yellow and black, green and silver—all turned to stare at the incoming first-years like they were exotic creatures on display at a particularly interesting zoo.
"We're being assessed," she murmured, pitched low enough that only those nearest could hear. Her fingers drummed once against her thigh—a nervous tic she'd probably deny having. "Social hierarchy establishment protocols. They're determining threat levels, alliance potential, entertainment value."
"Or," Remus said mildly from beside her, "they're just curious about the new students. Not everything is a tactical calculation."
"Everything is a tactical calculation," she replied without missing a beat. "Some people are just better at recognizing it than others."
Hundreds of floating candles drifted overhead like captured stars, dripping wax that vanished before it could hit anyone—which was either very considerate magic or a lawsuit prevention measure, depending on how cynical you wanted to be about it.
The four House tables gleamed with golden plates and goblets that caught the candlelight and threw it back in warm, welcoming glints. Each table was packed with students—second through seventh years—all twisted in their seats to get a better look at the fresh meat. Some looked welcoming. Some looked calculating. Some looked like they were already composing savage nicknames.
At the far end, elevated on a dais that made it impossible to miss, the High Table hosted what was clearly Hogwarts' teaching staff. They sat in a neat row, looking variously amused, bored, intense, or—in one case—like they were trying very hard not to laugh at something.
And it was *that* table—not the impossible ceiling, not the floating candles, not even the watchful older students—that captured Hadrian Potter's complete attention.
While thirty-one other first-years gawked upward at the enchanted sky with slack-jawed wonder, Hadrian's silver eyes locked onto the faculty like a hawk spotting prey. His expression didn't change—still that easy, confident mask he wore like armor—but something sharp and assessing flickered behind his gaze.
*Focus,* he told himself. *Catalogue. Assess. Remember.*
He'd seen this hall before. Different. The same. A memory wrapped in déjà vu and seventeen years of trauma that technically hadn't happened yet—or had happened in a timeline that no longer existed, which was philosophically complicated and practically irrelevant.
The ceiling had looked exactly like this during Harry Potter's sorting. The tables had gleamed the same way. The candles had floated with identical grace.
But the faces at the High Table? Those were *wrong*. Different. A jigsaw puzzle where someone had swapped half the pieces and expected you not to notice.
On the far left, tiny and cheerful-looking even from this distance, Professor Flitwick perched on a stack of books that made him tall enough to see over the table. His shock of white hair caught the candlelight like a dandelion gone to seed, and even from here Hadrian could see the kindness in his expression. Charms Master. Half-goblin. One of the few professors Harry had genuinely respected.
*Expected.*
Beside him, Professor Sprout—round and rosy and radiating the kind of earth-mother energy that suggested she could probably coax flowers to grow in a volcano if she put her mind to it. Herbology. Hufflepuff Head of House. Exactly where she should be.
*Expected.*
Next to her, looking considerably younger but unmistakably himself, Horace Slughorn held court even while sitting still. His walrus mustache was more ginger than silver, his waistcoat less flamboyantly expensive, but the calculating gleam in his eyes was identical. Potions. Slytherin. Collector of talent and future favors.
*Expected, but younger. Remember—thirty years earlier. Most of them haven't aged into the people you remember yet.*
Further down, Professor Silvanus Kettleburn—and *that* was jarring. The Care of Magical Creatures professor sat with both arms intact, both legs firmly attached, and significantly fewer scars than the version Harry had glimpsed during second year. He looked *whole*. Enthusiastic. Gesticulating wildly at a bemused-looking Slughorn with what appeared to be a story involving hand motions that suggested either dragon mating rituals or interpretive dance.
Hadrian felt something twist in his chest. This Kettleburn still had decades of magical creature mishaps ahead of him. Still had all his original limbs. Still looked at the world with unguarded enthusiasm instead of the slightly manic caution of someone who'd been bitten, burned, and blown up by every magical creature in Britain at least twice.
*Different. Younger. Whole.*
His gaze skipped past Kettleburn to Hagrid—because of course Hagrid was there, massive and beaming, seated at the far end in what was clearly the Groundskeeper's position. Not teaching. Not yet. Just... Hagrid. Solid and unchanged because some people were just *themselves* regardless of timeline.
*Constant. Thank Merlin for constants.*
But it was the middle section of the table—the seats representing subjects Harry had never taken or had encountered through different professors—that made his assessment stutter.
Ancient Runes: A severe-looking witch with steel-grey hair pulled into a bun so tight it probably counted as a defensive charm. Sharp features, sharper eyes, the kind of posture that suggested she could recite the entire runic alphabet backward while correcting your pronunciation. Unfamiliar. Entirely new.
Arithmancy: A wizard with ink-stained fingers and the distracted air of someone mentally calculating impossible equations even during dinner. Thin, pale, looked like he lived in the library and occasionally remembered to eat. Also completely unknown.
Astronomy: A tiny witch—even smaller than Flitwick—with dark skin and an expression of perpetual wonder, like she was seeing the stars even indoors. Had a telescope charm hanging from her neck like jewelry. Another stranger.
Muggle Studies: Middle-aged wizard, comfortable-looking, wearing robes that were just slightly too colorful to be regulation. Had the eager friendliness of someone who genuinely loved their niche subject and couldn't wait to share it. Unfamiliar, but seemed harmless.
Divination: And here Hadrian nearly did a double-take. A woman in her forties, elegant and composed, with dark hair and sharp intelligent eyes that suggested she could see through bullshit with surgical precision. Nothing like the dreamy, shawl-wrapped Trelawney Harry remembered. This professor looked like she could predict your future and judge you for it simultaneously.
*All new. All different. Because of course they are—you're thirty years early and most of the professors you knew are probably still students themselves. Or children. Or not born yet. Time travel gives me a headache.*
And then—
And then there was the Defense Against the Dark Arts chair.
Hadrian's breath caught. Just for a second. Just enough to matter.
Because sitting in that cursed position, looking distinguished and authoritative and *alive*, was Harfang Longbottom.
Frank's *grandfather*.
The man who, in Harry's timeline, had been a respected war hero and long-retired Auror who'd died peacefully in his sleep during Harry's fifth year. The man who'd left Frank a legacy of courage and quiet strength. The man who'd never taught at Hogwarts because—
—because by the time Harry had arrived, Harfang Longbottom had been retired for over a decade and the Defense position had already been cursed into a revolving door of disaster.
But here? *Now*? He sat at the High Table looking competent and confident, surveying the incoming first-years with the sharp assessment of someone who'd spent decades hunting Dark Wizards and knew exactly how to spot future trouble.
Silver hair, neatly trimmed. Strong features that Frank had clearly inherited. The kind of straight-backed posture that came from Auror training and never quite left. Dress robes that were well-made but practical—no ostentatious wealth, just quiet quality.
And judging by the way Frank had gone absolutely *rigid* beside him, he hadn't known.
"That's—" Frank's voice came out strangled. "That's my *grandfather*."
Several heads swiveled. Remus looked curious. Peter looked confused. James looked delighted.
"Your grandfather's a *professor*?" James whispered, somehow managing to make it sound like the greatest scandal of the century. "Mate, that's either the best thing ever or the worst thing ever and I genuinely can't decide which."
"I didn't *know*," Frank said, still staring like he'd seen a ghost. Or maybe like he was trying to figure out if this was good news or a social death sentence. "He never— I mean, he mentioned consulting with Dumbledore about Defense curriculum, but I thought that was just— I didn't think he'd actually be *teaching*."
Alice patted his arm sympathetically. "Look on the bright side. At least you'll never fail Defense?"
"Look on the *other* bright side," Sirius added helpfully. "Everyone's going to assume you're getting favoritism, which means you'll have to work twice as hard to prove yourself, which means you'll be miserable for seven years. Character building!"
"Why are you like this," Frank groaned.
"Natural talent."
Hadrian barely heard the byplay. His attention was still locked on Harfang Longbottom, mind racing through implications.
*The curse hasn't taken hold yet. Or has it? When did Riddle curse the position—during his interview with Dumbledore, which was June 1971, which was two months ago, which means the curse is already active but Harfang doesn't know yet that he can only keep this position for one year.*
*Which means next year's Defense professor will be... who? Someone else. Someone new. The cascade has already started and I didn't even think to check who was teaching Defense this year because I was too focused on—*
"Potter."
Hadrian blinked, refocusing. Natalia was staring at him with those sharp green eyes that missed absolutely nothing, one eyebrow arched in silent question.
"You're staring at the High Table like you're memorizing their faces for a future murder plot," she murmured, pitched for his ears only. "Want to share with the class?"
"Just thinking," he replied smoothly, letting his expression slide back into that easy confidence. "Wondering which of them will be memorable and which will just be... educational background noise."
"Liar," she said sweetly. "But I'll let you keep your secrets. For now."
Professor McGonagall had reached the front of the hall, her tartan robes swishing with dramatic perfection as she turned to face them. In her hands—seemingly produced from thin air, because magic—she held an ancient scroll that looked like it had been used to declare wars in previous centuries.
Beside her, perched on a battered wooden stool that looked older than most countries, sat the Sorting Hat.
And if Hadrian had been expecting the thing to look less ominous than he remembered—well. He'd been wrong.
The Hat was a nightmare of tattered fabric, patched leather, and the kind of ancient, knowing presence that suggested it had seen *everything* and judged most of it harshly. It slouched on the stool like a drunk uncle at a wedding, one pointed tip flopping to the side, what might have been a face (or might have been strategic wear patterns) creased into an expression that looked suspiciously like amusement.
The entire hall fell silent—the kind of profound silence that happened when hundreds of people simultaneously decided that whatever was about to happen was worth paying attention to.
The Hat twitched.
Its brim opened—no, not opened, *moved*, like a mouth forming, like sentient fabric deciding to speak—and then it began to *sing*.
The voice that emerged was surprisingly melodious for something that looked like it had been rescued from a particularly tragic garbage bin. Rich and deep and carrying easily across the vast hall, it launched into what was clearly a well-rehearsed performance:
*"A thousand years or more ago,
When I was newly sewn,
There lived four wizards of renown,
Whose names are still well known:*
*Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,
Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,
Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,
Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.*
*They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,
They hatched a daring plan
To educate young sorcerers
Thus Hogwarts School began.*
*Now each of these four founders
Formed their own house, for each
Did value different virtues
In the ones they had to teach.*
*By Gryffindor, the bravest were
Prized far beyond the rest;
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest
Would always be the best;*
*For Hufflepuff, hard workers were
Most worthy of admission;
And power-hungry Slytherin
Loved those of great ambition.*
*While still alive they did divide
Their students into four—
But how to sort when they were dead?
'Twas Gryffindor who swore*
*To rip me from his head and fill
Me with his wisdom fine—
Each founder added something more
To make this hat divine.*
*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 Hat fell silent, and for a moment the hall was perfectly still. Then thunderous applause erupted—the kind of enthusiastic clapping that suggested the students had either genuinely enjoyed the performance or were just relieved it was over.
Hadrian found himself clapping along with everyone else, but his mind was elsewhere.
*Same song. Different year. Same sentient hat about to root through my skull and pass judgment. Brilliant. Just brilliant.*
*What happens if it recognizes me? What if it knows I'm not supposed to be here? What if—*
"Potter," Natalia murmured beside him, her voice barely audible under the applause. "Stop overthinking. Your face is doing that thing where you look like you're solving complex equations instead of waiting to have a hat placed on your head."
"Maybe I am solving complex equations," he replied lightly.
"About what? The aerodynamics of pointed hats? The philosophical implications of being sorted by sentient clothing?"
"Both. Simultaneously. I'm very talented."
She snorted—a very unladylike sound that she immediately tried to disguise as a cough.
McGonagall cleared her throat, and the hall fell silent again with the kind of Pavlovian efficiency that suggested this woman could probably command armies with nothing but stern looks and impeccable timing.
"When I call your name," she announced, her voice carrying to every corner of the vast space, "you will come forward, sit on the stool, and place the Hat upon your head. The Hat will then announce your House, after which you will join your new family at their table."
Her gaze swept across the first-years, sharp and assessing.
"Remember: the Hat's decision is final. Trust its wisdom. And congratulations—you are about to become part of Hogwarts history."
She unrolled the scroll with a crisp snap that probably violated several noise ordinance laws.
"Abbott, Natalie!"
And with those two words, thirty-two first-years collectively held their breath as their sorting—and their futures—finally, officially, *really* began.
—
A girl with strawberry-blonde hair and nervous energy practically vibrating off her stepped forward from the crowd. She wasn't one of their group—just another first-year whose alphabetically blessed surname had condemned her to go first.
The entire hall seemed to lean forward as one organism, hundreds of eyes tracking her progress toward the stool like hawks watching a particularly interesting mouse.
Natalie Abbott's hands trembled as she picked up the Hat. It looked even more disreputable up close—patches upon patches, leather so worn it was practically translucent in places, and that inexplicable sense of *presence* that made your skin prickle with awareness.
She placed it on her head. It slipped down over her eyes, far too large, swallowing her face.
Silence. Absolute. Profound. The kind of quiet that made you aware of your own heartbeat.
Then—
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
The yellow and black table *erupted*. Cheering, applause, students half-standing to wave her over. Natalie stumbled off the stool, looking dazed and relieved in equal measure, and hurried toward her new family.
McGonagall's lips twitched in what might have been approval before she consulted her scroll again.
"Black, Andromeda!"
A collective intake of breath rippled through the hall. The *Blacks*. Everyone knew the name. Ancient. Noble. Powerful. Slytherin to the core for generations.
Andromeda walked forward with the kind of graceful composure that came from a lifetime of etiquette lessons and social performance. Dark hair perfectly arranged, robes immaculate, posture flawless. She looked like she was gliding rather than walking.
But Hadrian, watching closely, caught the slight tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers curled briefly into her palm before she forced them to relax. The micro-expression of anxiety that flickered across her face before she smoothed it into aristocratic calm.
The Hat settled onto her head. Seconds ticked by. Then more seconds. A full minute.
The hall began to murmur.
"What's taking so long?" someone whispered.
"The Hat never takes this long unless it's a really difficult case..."
"But she's a *Black*. Where else would she go?"
Finally—
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
The silence was *thunderous*. Then chaos.
The Hufflepuff table looked shocked. The Slytherin table looked *scandalized*. Several older students who were clearly related to the Blacks themselves went pale, their expressions cycling through disbelief, horror, and what might have been fury.
Andromeda removed the Hat with steady hands, her face carefully blank. She walked to the Hufflepuff table with her head held high, ignoring the whispers that followed her like a wake. The yellow and black students, after their initial shock, began to applaud—cautiously at first, then with genuine warmth.
At the front of the first-year group, Narcissa had gone white as parchment. Bellatrix's eyes were wide, her expression unreadable.
"Did that just—" Sirius breathed, looking genuinely stunned. "Did a *Black* just get sorted into *Hufflepuff*?"
"Apparently bloodlines aren't destiny after all," Natalia murmured, her voice carrying a note of savage satisfaction. "How delightfully subversive."
McGonagall, looking unsurprised—which was itself interesting—continued with barely a pause.
"Black, Bellatrix!"
If Andromeda's sorting had caused whispers, Bellatrix's walk to the stool generated absolute silence. She moved like a predator, all coiled energy and barely restrained intensity. Her wild dark curls seemed to crackle with electricity, and her eyes held that fevered brightness that suggested she found the entire situation deeply entertaining.
The Hat barely touched her head before—
No.
The Hat settled. Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then *two* minutes.
The hall was collectively holding its breath. This was unprecedented. The Hat *never* took this long.
"What's it doing?" Peter whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Arguing with her, probably," Remus replied just as quietly. "Bellatrix doesn't strike me as someone who takes orders without negotiation."
Finally, after what felt like approximately seventeen years, the Hat's brim opened.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The explosion of sound was immediate and split down house lines. The Gryffindor table erupted in shocked cheering—partly because they'd just gained someone who looked like she could probably duel a dragon and win, partly because *what*. The Slytherin table looked like someone had just announced the apocalypse. Several older students who were definitely Blacks looked ready to storm the dais.
Bellatrix yanked off the Hat with a wild grin and practically *strutted* to the scarlet and gold table, looking absolutely thrilled by the chaos she'd just caused.
"Two Blacks," James breathed, looking between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables. "Two Blacks in houses that aren't Slytherin. Their family is going to *lose their minds*."
"Good," Sirius said with fierce satisfaction, his grey eyes blazing. "Let them."
McGonagall's expression suggested she'd expected this. Or at least wasn't surprised. Which raised interesting questions about exactly what criteria the Hat used and whether the adults had known this was coming.
"Black, Narcissa!"
The third and final Black sister approached the stool with regal composure, though Hadrian noticed her hands were trembling slightly. She'd just watched both her sisters sorted into houses that would probably get them disowned. The pressure on her to restore family honor must be crushing.
The Hat settled onto her platinum hair.
Thirty seconds. A minute. The whispers started again.
"RAVENCLAW!"
The blue and bronze table cheered with genuine warmth, clearly delighted to have gained someone of Narcissa's obvious intelligence and poise. Narcissa walked to her new table with perfect composure, but Hadrian saw the relief in her shoulders. Not Slytherin—which meant she'd probably avoided the worst of her family's fury—but not Hufflepuff or Gryffindor either. A compromise that saved face.
"All three Black sisters," Remus mused quietly. "All three in different houses. That's either historically significant or socially catastrophic."
"Both," Lily said firmly. "Definitely both."
"Black, Sirius!"
The hall held its breath. Another Black. After the sisters' unprecedented rebellion, what would happen to the heir?
Sirius walked forward like he owned the castle. The Hat settled onto his dark hair.
Two seconds.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor table *exploded*. The Slytherin table looked ready to riot. Somewhere in the crowd of older students, multiple Blacks appeared to be having apoplexy.
Sirius sauntered to the lion table with a grin that could only be described as triumphant, passing by James and Hadrian and sliding in on the Gryffindor table like he belonged there—which, judging by his expression, he absolutely did.
"Family's going to murder me," he said cheerfully. "Best decision I ever made."
The sorting continued with surprising efficiency after the Black sister drama. Names were called, students were sorted, houses cheered or groaned depending on the outcome.
"Bones, Amelia!"
The sharp-eyed girl who'd been taking mental notes all evening walked forward with confident purpose. The Hat barely touched her head.
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Evans, Lily!"
Lily walked forward with her chin up, green eyes bright with anticipation. The Hat settled onto her red hair.
Fifteen seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Lily joined the growing lion pride with obvious pleasure, immediately finding a spot near Marlene and the other girls.
"Evans, Natalia!"
Natalia approached the stool with predatory grace. The Hat dropped over her auburn hair.
A minute passed. Then another. The hall began murmuring.
Finally—
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Natalia looked faintly surprised as she joined her sister at the scarlet and gold table. "Wasn't expecting that," she murmured, settling in beside Lily.
"Why?" Lily asked. "You're brave enough."
"Brave or reckless. There's a fine line."
"Fortescue, Alice!"
The warm, optimistic girl practically bounced to the stool, her excitement palpable.
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
She immediately sought out Amelia, and the two girls grinned at each other from opposite ends of the table.
"Gappleford, Rosmerta!"
Hadrian glanced over, as Rosmerta walked over.
The Hat considered for a long moment.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Rosmerta looked surprised but pleased, joining students at the green and silver table.
"Longbottom, Frank!"
Frank walked forward looking like he was heading toward his own execution, his eyes darting briefly to his grandfather at the High Table. Harfang Longbottom's expression was carefully neutral, but there was warmth in his eyes.
The Hat considered for a long moment before—
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Frank looked simultaneously relieved and terrified. He hurried to the scarlet and gold table, where Bellatrix immediately made space for him with a grin that probably should have been more reassuring than it was.
"Lovegood, Xenophilius!"
"RAVENCLAW!"
The pale-haired boy immediately found his way to Pandora, and they began what looked like a deeply philosophical conversation before he'd even fully sat down.
"Lupin, Remus!"
Remus walked forward with careful composure, his expression betraying nothing of the anxiety Hadrian knew he must be feeling. The Hat settled onto his sandy hair.
Thirty seconds. Forty-five. A minute.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Remus's relief was palpable as he joined Frank and Bellatrix at the table. The lion group was growing.
"McKinnon, Marlene!"
A girl with dark curly hair and freckles across her nose walked forward with the kind of confidence that suggested she'd been looking forward to this moment all her life.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
She joined the growing group at the lion table, immediately introducing herself to everyone within reach with infectious enthusiasm.
"Pettigrew, Peter!"
Peter looked like he might actually faint as he stumbled toward the stool. The Hat slipped over his entire face.
The pause was longer than average. Not as long as Bellatrix's epic negotiation, but enough to make Peter's hands clench white-knuckled on his knees.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Peter nearly collapsed with relief as he hurried to join Remus, looking like he'd just survived a near-death experience.
"Potter, Hadrian!"
The hall erupted in whispers. *Potter*. Everyone knew that name too. Different reasons than Black, but no less significant.
Hadrian walked forward with easy confidence, very aware of hundreds of eyes tracking his progress. He could feel Dumbledore's gaze from the High Table—sharp, assessing, too knowing.
The Hat settled onto his head, cutting off the world in a bubble of leather and darkness.
*Well, well, well,* came a voice directly into his mind—dry, amused, ancient beyond measure. *Hadrian Arcturus Potter. How very interesting you are.*
'Interesting how?' Hadrian thought back carefully.
*You have the mind of someone far older than eleven. Memories that don't quite fit. Knowledge you shouldn't possess. Curious. Very curious indeed.*
Hadrian's mental shields—learned painfully over years of Occlumency training that technically hadn't happened yet—slammed into place.
*Ah,* the Hat chuckled. *And defensive mental barriers sophisticated enough to impress Severus Snape himself. You're quite the puzzle, Mr. Potter.*
'Can we skip the psychological analysis and get to the sorting? I'd rather not spend twenty minutes up here while you psychoanalyze me.'
*Very well. Let's see... Courage, certainly. You've got Gryffindor written all over you—the kind of reckless bravery that makes you think you can change the world through sheer force of will. But there's cunning here too. Ambition. The strategic mind of a natural Slytherin. And wit—oh, quite a bit of wit. Ravenclaw would sharpen that brilliantly.*
'So pick one.'
*I'm *thinking*. You're a Hat Stall, boy. Could go anywhere and thrive. But where will you do the most good? Where will you—*
The Hat paused, and when it spoke again, there was something almost wondering in its mental voice.
*Oh. Oh, I see. You're not just trying to survive Hogwarts, are you? You're trying to *change* it. Change the future. How fascinating. How *dangerous*.*
'Are you going to help or just provide commentary?'
*Both, naturally. And my answer is: GRYFFINDOR!*
The last word boomed out across the hall to thunderous applause. Hadrian removed the Hat and walked to the scarlet and gold table, where James was already making space and grinning like Christmas had come early.
"Mate!" James said enthusiastically, clapping him on the shoulder. "We're going to have *adventures*."
"Undoubtedly," Hadrian replied, settling in beside him. "Try to make sure they don't get us killed in the first week?"
"No promises."
The sorting continued:
"Potter, James!"
James practically *bounded* to the stool.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The Hat had barely touched his head. James's grin could have lit the castle as he joined Hadrian and the others.
"Rosier, Pandora!"
Already sorted—she waved cheerfully from the Ravenclaw table.
"Snape, Severus!"
The dark-haired boy walked forward with careful dignity, his expression betraying nothing. The Hat barely touched his head.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Severus walked to the green and silver table with visible relief, joining his new housemates with reserved composure.
"Tonks, Edward!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
The sorting concluded with the remaining students distributed across the four houses with reasonable balance. When the last name was called and the final student sorted, Dumbledore rose from his seat at the High Table.
The Headmaster was exactly as Hadrian remembered—or would remember, or had remembered in a timeline that no longer existed—tall and thin, with silver hair and beard that seemed to catch every bit of light in the hall and reflect it back twice as bright. Half-moon spectacles. Robes of deep purple that somehow managed to look both wizardly and vaguely eccentric. And those eyes—bright blue and far too knowing, like he was seeing layers of reality that other people couldn't access.
When Dumbledore spoke, his voice carried effortlessly across the vast space without seeming to raise in volume.
"Welcome!" he said simply, spreading his arms wide. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
He sat back down.
There was a moment of confused silence, then uncertain applause.
"Is he..." Peter began.
"Mad?" Sirius finished. "Oh, absolutely. Brilliant, but completely off his rocker. I like him already."
James was grinning. "This school is going to be *amazing*."
And then—
The golden plates filled with food. Not appeared—*filled*. Roasted chicken, beef, pork, lamb, sausages, bacon, steak, joints, chops, and more appeared as if by magic (because it was, obviously), along with potatoes roasted and mashed, chips, Yorkshire puddings, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and for some inexplicable reason, peppermint humbugs.
The first-years stared in collective amazement.
"Bloody hell," James breathed. "Is this what every meal is like?"
"If so," Sirius said reverently, already loading his plate, "I'm never leaving."
Hadrian found himself laughing despite everything—the weight of memories, the complexity of being eleven again, the impossible task of changing a future that was already diverging wildly from what he remembered.
Because in this moment, surrounded by friends (old and new), watching Bellatrix argue enthusiastically with Frank about the best way to tackle a particularly fierce Yorkshire pudding, listening to Lily and Natalia's rapid-fire conversation about the enchanted ceiling, feeling James's infectious enthusiasm and Sirius's wild grin—
In this moment, he was just an eleven-year-old starting his first year at Hogwarts.
And maybe—just maybe—that was exactly what he needed to be.
For now.
---
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