Chapter Four: arrival

1 September, 1991

Sometimes I feel like there's something very slightly broken about me. Not in some pretentious, attention-seeking way, more like there is genuinely something amiss about my head. Everything feels dulled, like there's only so much of one emotion I'm allowed to experience before it stalls out like a dodgy engine. Certainly, that's the Dursley's work. Too sad? Quit complaining, go to your cupboard. Too happy? What are you smirking about? Go to your cupboard. Angry at every second of my life being one injustice after the other? Here's a backhand, now get to your cupboard.

When every attempt to express yourself is met with remorseless punishment, you learn to mash it all down, train yourself to hide it away, store it in the dark matter of your brain until it just languishes to nothingness. I wasn't allowed to feel, so I had to forget.

Lately, though, it feels as though I've been running out of room, out of hiding spots. When I try to push things down, something's pushing back, something that feels very much like me but isn't quite. There's a fracture, like looking into a broken mirror and seeing two versions of the same face.

They're both me, heads and tails, Harry and…

Tom?

Maybe I shouldn't give him a name.

In any case, at least there's nothing to mash down anymore, is there? The Dursleys are well in the past, and I'm off to what has been universally referred to as the finest institute of magical education in the British Isles. It's also the only one, but surely their staff are professional enough not to heap on loads of emotional abuse.

Right?

-H

…

Albus,

Saw the kid go into the station with two males, ages 25 – 35. Referred the them as his regents. Old pureblood phrase, weird thing for a kid to use. Looks in good health, dressed like a muggle bank teller, found the platform with no issues. Two regents disapparated once he'd gone through.

-Moody

Albus heaved a profound sigh of relief as he set the letter down, leaning back in his seat and reaching up to rub at his temples. He had never been one to worry over things, preferring a plan of action to sitting and fretting. However, over the past month, there had been little to no action he'd been able to take, short of pestering every connection he had asking if they'd seen Harry Potter. The boy had been staying at the Leaky Cauldron briefly, but by the time word had gotten to Albus, he had gone, as abruptly as though he'd dropped off the face of the Earth.

It had been and still was a conundrum; where had he gone? After the incident in 1989, Albus had taken great measures to ensure that Harry remained with the Dursleys, but his introduction to the magical world seemed to have acted as some sort of catalyst. Against all of Albus's expectations, he was smart, shrewd, able to not only determine that Albus had been in possession of his invisibility cloak but figure out exactly the avenues necessary to see to its return.

Then there was his glowing endorsement of Fulton Finster's fumigation business, which had flummoxed the headmaster. What would a runaway child be doing striking an advertisement deal with a magical pest-removal service? He certainly didn't need the money, as he had apparently gained access to both the Potter and Black family vaults at Gringotts, both of which were bursting with piles of gold and other valuables.

Including the deeds to the family properties…

"Oh…bother," Albus chided himself, standing. "Phineas. …Phineas!"

On the walls around him, the headmasters began to shuffle and stir, but one remained resolutely focused on a game of solitaire that he seemed to be quite invested in. As Albus rounded his desk and crossed his office, the other portraits began to shout as well.

"Phineas!"

"Phineas Nigellus Black!"

"Oi! Phineas!"

Finally, Phineas Black placed the card he'd been contemplating for the better part of five minutes, glancing up with theatrically raised eyebrows, as though only just noticing the cacophony of shouts around him.

"Yes?" he asked placidly.

Swarthy and handsome, Phineas Nigellus Black's dark hair was kept swept back away from his angular face, which was complimented by a pointed black beard. Albus had been headmaster of Hogwarts during the tenure of several of his descendants, all of whom had had a varying penchant for mischief.

It was most certainly a hereditary trait.

"Phineas, when was the last time you visited your portrait in Grimmauld Place?" Albus asked, and Phineas made a show of looking quite thoughtful.

"Oh, let me think," he said. "It must have been…three weeks ago. Talked to two nice blokes who were cleaning the place up for their boss."

"Their boss?" Albus asked.

"Smartly-dressed little lad he was," Phineas said with a nod and a fond smile. "Good head on his shoulders. Glad to see my family home in the hands of someone with such good business sense."

"And your portrait is still there?" Albus asked with what he thought was a commendable amount of calm in his voice.

"Oh, heavens no," Phineas chortled. "Soon as he found out I had another portrait I could pop between, he had me yanked right off the wall. I think I'm in his vault at Gringotts, has me under a soundproof drape and all. I do hope he visits soon. Fine kid."

"And pray tell why you didn't see the need to inform me that all of his had transpired sooner?" Albus asked, calling on his decades of teaching experience and the resultant patience with which they had imbued him.

"Well, you didn't ask, of course," Phineas said as though it were only obvious. "I assumed you remembered about my other portrait and wouldn't be so foolish as to forget that Hardwin James Charlus Potter II is the legal heir to Number 12 Grimmauld Place."

Albus hadn't forgotten, per se. It had just never occurred to him that Harry would find this fact out and somehow obtain passage to Grimmauld Place without going through a channel that Albus himself wasn't aware of. Up until now, the entire scope of Harry's life had been within his circle of influence; to imagine him slipping free so quickly and effortlessly had been so removed from what Albus had believed possible that he had never entertained the notion.

Clearly, he would have to start doing so.

A knock sounded on his door, and Minerva didn't even wait to be allowed in before she brusquely threw it open, striding in with a stack of letters clutched in her hand. She saw that Albus wasn't at his desk, glancing wildly around before adjusting course and beelining for him.

"Twelve more, Albus," she said, brandishing the letters at the headmaster as though attempting to ward him off with them. "Twelve more withdrawals, all citing a plethora of reasons. The poor handling of the Ravenclaw common room, the abysmal treatment of students by certain members of the staff, the fact that five aspiring potion-makers now have to seek their education elsewhere in order to continue their life's ambition, and let's not forget that the wizarding world itself is now experiencing a dearth of historians because our History of Magic professor has managed to take our rich and storied heritage and make it boring."

"Our teaching practices cannot please everyone, Minerva," Albus said.

"They are pleasing no one, Albus," Minerva said. "We are hemorrhaging students. Nine students, nine Albus, will not be returning for their second year. Last year, a little first-year girl came to me in tears saying she didn't feel welcome in Ravenclaw because she was too stupid to get into her own common room. She left the school a week later and decided to commute to America for her education."

"Ilvermorny is a lovely facility," Dumbledore said, and Minerva looked at him askance.

"Albus, Ilvermorny shut down seventy-three years ago," she said. "Everyone goes to the schools in those floating cities of theirs."

"I've heard they're breathtaking to see," Albus said.

"You are entirely missing the point, Professor," Minerva shot. "Our world, the magical world of the British Isles, is dying, and it has its own insular nature and complete aversion to progress to blame. You could change this from the ground up, and you choose to – "

"That will be enough, Minerva," Albus said, staring out the window unseeingly. The view was essentially unchanged from the very same he'd seen the numerous times he'd been called in as a student, when this office had belonged to Professor Dippet. The trees were a bit taller, but that was that. Nature took so long create even the smallest lasting change, but man was constantly in violent, brutal flux, moving almost too fast and squandering their best years.

And that included Albus himself.

"This school," Minerva broke the silence, "is a place of education, of growth. When you asked me to return as your Transfiguration professor and deputy headmistress, I did so gladly, knowing that I would be working under the most dedicated headmaster Hogwarts had ever known. A man committed to the continuing Hogwarts's legacy of the instruction and protection of its students. Is that still your first priority? Is it, Albus?"

"Everything that I have done, everything that I continue to do, was and is for the sake of the protection of our people," Albus said. "Students, adults, men and women. Everyone, Minerva. I have no doubt that there will be many divided opinions on how I have handled things, but so long as witches and wizards everywhere are free to have those opinions, I will be satisfied."

"You are not the only one interested in the preservation of our world," Minerva insisted.

"Perhaps not," Albus said. It would have been the height of conceit to voice his opinion that he was the only one capable of it, so he didn't.

Minerva, astute as ever, likely inferred it, judging from the thinning of her lips. She said nothing more, however, merely turning and striding from the room. The door slammed behind her with much more force than was necessary, and Phineas's voice chuckled from behind him.

"Nearly knocked me off the wall with that one," he said. "How dare she try to run this place like a school? The nerve of her."

"That's quite enough from you as well, Phineas," Albus said.

"But I'm speaking in your defense, Albus," Phineas said in lofty tones. "Who has time to run this place like it's a school when there are ghosts to chase, lives to disregard, students to endanger?"

Albus sighed, rounding his desk and sinking back into his chair. He regarded the stack of letters, all students that had seen fit to pursue their education elsewhere, had felt forced to do so. A few lives derailed, a few plans changed, but perhaps (optimistically) for the better. What were a few lives measured against every life? The ends, in this case, more than justified the means.

Whether or not anyone agreed with him was moot.

"Who indeed?" he asked Phineas.

…

"Coming, Freddy?"

"Have I ever not been two steps behind you?" Fred asked.

"Sometimes you're just one," George said. "Stepping right on my heel—ah, just like that, you utter prat."

"Did you know the muggles call that a flat tire?" Fred asked with an impish grin. "Like a car tire."

"I did not know that," George said, turning and reaching up to slowly slap his hand into his brother's cheek. "Thank you for sharing that crucial bit of insight into muggle culture. I'll be sure to wow Professor Burbage with that one."

"Well, let's get a move on, you're holding up the flow of foot traffic, here," Fred told him with a gesture at the mostly empty train corridor. In fact, there was only one girl, lugging along a carry-on bag while standing and waiting patiently behind Fred. When she realized she was "the flow of foot traffic" in this exchange, her eyes shot wide, her shoulders hunching up shyly.

"Um…I wasn't…"

"Fred, what have I told you about pulling strangers into our madness?" George said, looking past his brother and raising a hand in a wave to the girl. "Sorry about him. He's deficient."

"Only 'cause I spend so much time around him," Fred said with a smack to George's shoulder. The girl smiled at their antics, reaching up to tuck a lock of bushy brown hair behind her ear. Crickey, but she had a lot of hair, a bushy mass of it that had to have eaten at least one hairbrush in her time. From underneath, her face was all big brown eyes and a toothy smile, with a button nose that was positively cute.

"First year?" George asked while Fred tore his gaze away from the girl. Oblivious to his stare, she nodded and hitched her bag up on her shoulders. "Would you like to sit with us?"

"Seats fill up fast," Fred said.

"And if someone sees you all by your lonesome, they're likely to take advantage of your naivete," George concluded.

"Isn't that what you two are doing right now?" the girl asked, her voice small but surprisingly strong.

"We would never," Fred said in mock-scandalized tones. "Our mother raised us to be proper gentlemen."

"Upstanding."

"Sterling."

"Incorrigible."

"Emulsified."

"Fred, that's salad dressing," George pointed out.

"She makes excellent vinaigrette," Fred nodded.

"I will sit with you two if you promise to be quiet for two minutes," the girl finally conceded.

"No can do," Fred said with a shake of his head. "Follow us."

…

The girl's name was Hermione Granger, which she made sure they were aware of in the form of the most polite and formal introduction Fred had ever heard. He half-expected her to stick her hand out for a businesslike shake and begin some interview process, but instead she just peered at the pair, her eyes darting between them. Fred knew that look, the desperate search for some sort of dissimilarity, some even minute difference between them. So far as he could tell, though, he and his brother were completely identical. Both had the same ginger hair (a staple among the Weasley family), the same stocky build, and the same pale skin dotted with an identical assortment of freckles. They even found they preferred the same hairstyle.

It was all the same.

"I'm Fred," Fred said.

"That's George," George said with a gesture at Fred.

"No, I'm George," Fred said.

"You were George yesterday, it's my turn," George insisted.

"My, would you look at the time," Hermione said with a look at her bare wrist. She was halfway to standing when George spoke up.

"Alright, alright, sit, we'll try to make a bit of sense if we can," he said. He pointed at himself. "George. That's Fred."

"If you'd like, we can get nametags," Fred added.

"Are you always this difficult to talk to?" Hermione asked.

"We like to think it's rewarding once you've gotten used to it," Fred said.

"We've much wisdom to offer," George nodded sagely. "About Hogwarts."

"The castle."

"The classes."

"The houses."

"The secrets," they finished in unison, just as the train lurched to life beneath them.

"Oh, that was timely," George said, sounding pleased.

"Atmospheric, I was rather shook myself," Fred said.

"Are we moving?" Hermione said, hopping to her feet and heading to the window to peer out. The platform was gliding past, parents and siblings waving off the students aboard. Through the crowds, Fred could make out Ginny, their dear youngest and only sister hurrying along to try to keep up. George leaned over him, and the pair waved as she was forced to stop at the edge of platform, shrinking into the distance and still waving her arms frantically.

"Is that your little sister?" Hermione asked.

"Ginny," Fred said.

"Still got one more year until she joins us," George said. "Blimey, don't envy her, though. All alone with Mum."

"She fusses over her enough when the house is full of us boys," Fred said. "Now Ron's gone, she doesn't have to ignore him anymore and can focus all that energy on the daughter she always wanted."

"Ron?" Hermione asked.

"Our little brother," George said. "Starting this year as well. Kind of got lost in the shuffle, what with six siblings."

"Your mum and dad had seven children?" Hermione asked in dubious tones.

"Popular theory is, Mum really wanted a daughter," Fred said.

"As in, really wanted one," George added flatly. "So she just kept going until she got one."

"I imagine we were a real slap in the face," Fred chuckled. "You wanted a daughter, here's two more sons at once."

"And so troublesome, no doubt," Hermione observed.

"'Troublesome'?" George asked with a slight frown. "Fred, do you hear the things she's insinuating about us?"

"We're perfect twin angels," Fred harrumphed. "We share a halo and everything."

"So where is Ron?" Hermione asked, and Fred shrugged in time with his twin.

"He ditched us as soon as he got on the train," George told her.

"We offered to be the charming tour guides," Fred said.

"But he said he'd rather find his own way," George added. "Admirable, really."

"Wants to come out from under his brothers' many shadows," Fred said. "Can't blame him. Two Head Boys, a quidditch captain, and a prefect. Can't do much after that."

"It's why we decided to direct out efforts elsewhere," George said with a solemn nod.

"The crippling fear of success," Fred concluded.

"Obviously," Hermione said with a smirk.

…

Fred and George Weasley were entirely too charming for Hermione's good.

Worse still, they were frighteningly knowledgeable on Hogwarts and those "secrets" they had spookily alluded to. Like any castle, it had its share of hidden passages and mysterious corridors, and like any self-respecting troublemakers, Fred and George knew every single one like the back of their matching hands. Hermione had spent the last couple of hours enraptured, listening to story after story of the twins' various misadventures.

And they had plenty.

"It's no surprise we wound up in Slytherin, honestly," George said with a grin.

"Mum was expecting us to redeem the family after Percy got put in with the snakes," Fred said.

"As if we're model citizens," George scoffed.

"Does your mum not think Slytherins are any good?" Hermione asked.

"Most people don't," George said. "Granted, Salazar Slytherin was a piece of work. Hated muggles, hated muggle-borns. Thought anyone that wasn't the child of two purebloods was lower than pond scum."

"But," Hermione's lips turned down thoughtfully, "sooner or later you run out of purebloods to have children together and then you get – "

"Inbreeding," Fred said.

"Lots of it," George agreed.

"The whole notion of it is backwards," Fred said. "The only ones that buy into the whole pureblood supremacy ploy are the psychos that just want any bit of manufactured superiority they can cling to."

"That's what Dad always says," George insisted. "He's not that profound all on his own."

"You could have let me have that," Fred said in a huff. "She didn't need to know that."

"It was a little obvious you were quoting someone," Hermione admitted with a shrug, enjoying the way Fred's face went the slightest shade of pink.

Entirely too charming.

"Why's Ravenclaw so bad?" Hermione asked. She'd been honestly leaning toward Ravenclaw as her potential house, given what she'd read in the pamphlet about their passion for intellectual and scholarly pursuits. "You mentioned that."

"So, Gryffindor and Slytherin, their common rooms are password-secured," George said.

"Changes every week," Fred said.

"You can get into big trouble for giving away the password, too," George added. "Lose points, detention, social ostracizing, like."

"Ravenclaw, their 'password' is a riddle," Fred said. "And contrary to popular belief, not every brainiac in the world is very good at riddles."

"About half the Ravenclaws can't get into their own tower most of the time," George said. "The riddles that get cooked up are sometimes just downright stupid."

"Every year, we lose about two or three first-year 'Claws," Fred told her. "The ones that do get into the common room on a regular basis are impossible, they're so smug about it. It's one of the most pretentious groups I've ever seen."

"They act so smarmy, lording it over everyone else," George said. "'Oh, you couldn't figure it out? It was so easy for me.' Get bent, Simon Webster."

"What about Hufflepuff?" Hermione asked. "How do they keep their common room secure?"

"They don't," Fred said. "No password, no security, anyone can go in. It's where a lot of Ravenclaws kip when they can't get into their common room."

"Don't they get vandalized?" Hermione asked. She wanted to believe wizards above such notions, but teenagers were teenagers, magic or not.

"No, Hufflepuff is hands-off," George said. "Everyone else is free to pick on each other, but 'Puffs are neutral parties."

"They're just so relentlessly kind to everyone, no one wants to bother them," Fred said. "Always got a kip for someone in need and food they've scrounged up from the kitchens. If anyone does try to pick a fight, well…the badger has claws."

"And if they can't see to the offending party on their own…"

"Everyone else sure will."

"That's actually sort of sweet," Hermione observed, and Fred nodded.

"Inspiring, it is," he said.

"In any case, if you're looking for your future home, look no further than Slytherin," George said.

"Lovely place," Fred said.

"You mean the house founded by the man who detested all things muggle?" Hermione asked. "Do you really think that would be a suitable place for a muggle-born?"

"Oh, that's ancient history," Fred said.

"Mostly," George added. "You get the occasional rotter who comes along and parrots all the muggle-born hate their parents believe."

"Did you hear the new one they're throwing out?" Fred asked George. "It seems, every time a muggle-born is born, it's because they've stolen their magic from a pureblood, and that's why squibs happen."

"Wouldn't we be swimming in squibs, then?" George asked.

"Don't you assign your logic to their arse-pull arguments," Fred said, pulling an exaggerated look of affront. Hermione giggled, and Fred shot her a little wink. "All you need to do well in Slytherin is two or three friends to watch your back."

"And you've two right here," George said.

"Oh," Hermione said, feeling a smile spread as warmth bloomed in her chest. Friends? Hermione had never really had friends before. Was this how that worked? You met someone (or two someones), bonded with them, and that was that? You were friends?

That felt nice.

…

As the day wore onward, the snack trolley rolled past their door, pushed by an elderly woman with a warm smile and a carrying voice.

"Aaaaanything from the trolley!?"

"Could go for a pumpkin pasty," George said, digging in his pocket and producing a single silver sickle. "Bugger. Freddy?"

"Skint," Fred said with his hands deep in his own pockets. "Think she'll accept an IOU?"

"Two packs of pumpkin pasties," Hermione said to the woman, fishing into her carryon bag and holding out a galleon.

"Oi, she's trying to buy our affection," George said while Hermione accepted her change and two large paper packages, each adorned with a grinning jack-'o'-lantern and large blocky serif font proclaiming them to be 'Pumpkin Pasties!'.

"It's working," Fred said, reaching out to accept a proffered pasty from Hermione. "Nothing for you?"

"I don't really care for sweets," Hermione shook her head as the trolley woman's shouting faded into the distance. "My parents are dentists."

"Hey, I read about them," Fred said. "They help muggles keep their teeth healthy. Poke at them with tools and picks and stuff."

"Lot easier with magic," George said. "Mouth-Cleanse potion every morning and night. We don't even need to use a…tooth scrub?"

"Toothbrush," Hermione said, promising herself on the spot that she would never inform Mum and Dad that their entire profession was evidently meaningless in the face of the easy magical solution. "What about braces?"

"…Suspenders?" George asked.

"No, like on teeth," Hermione said. "They use a cement-like mixture to affix metal brackets to your teeth, and then they use wires to pull the teeth straight."

"That sounds horrifying," Fred muttered. "Tooth-Straightening Spell, maybe a Mini-Molar Charm to shrink down any that are too big."

"You can just…shrink teeth?" Hermione asked, unconsciously running her tongue over her own rather large front incisors.

"You can use magic to shrink just about anything," George said.

"There was a Hufflegirl girl, sixth year, she used a spell to shrink her…" Fred trailed off an made a motion in front of his chest.

"Does she really need to know that, Freddy?" George asked.

"But they were massive," Fred said while Hermione felt her face heat up.

"New topic," she said in time with George, who shot her a grin.

"She's syncing up with us already," he said to his twin.

"That's a scary thought," Hermione said in a low voice.

…

The train ride to Hogwarts was a long one, spanning several hours and always eliciting several suggestions from students that an in-ride meal would be universally well-received. It also wasn't uncommon for the first-year crowd (having generally been unable to sleep the previous night for the indescribable anticipation) to doze off.

For Fred Weasley, this inevitability manifested in the form of a sudden, feather-light presence on his shoulder, sometime around four. With Hermione having scarfed down some sort of sugar-free brownie made by her mother, she had chattered on for upwards of an hour about her favorite fantasy book series called The Lord of the Rings (Fred wasn't an avid reader, but it sounded interesting for muggle literature) before apparently finally running out of steam. The excitement and energy of new discovery had worn off in the face of a monotonous train ride, and now Fred was dealing with the presence of a bushy mane of hair draped over his left side.

"Oh, isn't that just precious?" George said in a quiet voice, not wanting to wake the girl. "She's all tuckered out."

"Poor little firstie," Fred said with a grin. "No idea what's in store for her."

"I've known her for five hours, and I'd probably kill a man for her," George said.

"We might have to if she does get sorted into Slytherin," Fred pointed out. "A lot of little junior Death Eaters are starting this year, and I bet they try to bring back the old Slytherin."

"Well, we've made enemies before," George shrugged.

"It just doesn't feel like a productive year if we haven't," Fred said.

"If we make a few more because someone tries to pick on her…"

"Not like we can lose points," Fred said. "Snape loves letting the snakes fight amongst themselves."

"So we can keep her?" George asked, sounding for all the world like a little moppet with a grubby cat he'd found in the garden.

"Oh, fine then," Fred said in a passable imitation of their mother. "But you're feeding her."

…

As the sun dipped closer to the horizon, the mountains brought an early twilight across the wilds of Scotland, and the Hogwarts Express began to slow before finally to a stop in Hogsmeade Station. Hermione had been embarrassed to discover she'd fallen fast asleep on her new friend, who had taken it in stride and simply stepped out to allow her to change into her robes. Thus, Hermione was properly attired as she stowed her carry-on bag in the overhead rack. It would apparently be transported, along with the rest of her luggage, to her dormitory once she was assigned a house. Empty-handed, she followed Fred and George as they joined the throng of students leaving the train.

As she stepped down into a cool late spring evening, a booming voice rang through the chill, carrying easily over the din of babble among the students.

"Firs' years, this way! Firs' years, follow me!"

A literal giant of a man loomed over the crowd, his massive figure wrapped in a lumpy brown coat that was half-hidden beneath a burly beard and long hair that left his eyes and nose his only visible features. If the other students hadn't seemed so unaffected by his presence (some were even greeting him like an old friend), Hermione might have thought he was some wild man that had wandered into their midst and was attempting the least-subtle kidnapping ever.

"Who is that?" she asked Fred.

"That's Hagrid," he told her. "Don't let his looks scare you, he's a big softy."

"You lot get to take the scenic root while we ride in style," George said. "Go on with him, and we'll see you soon enough."

"Oh?" Hermione felt a flicker of fear as she contemplated losing her new friends and tour guides so quickly. "But – "

"We'll see you," George repeated with a smile. "Deep breaths. You'll do great."

"And if you don't, we'll still be friends with you and just take the mickey once in a while," Fred said.

With that lovely parting assurance, Hermione made her way over to the large man, falling into step next to a boy with glasses and a round-face boy clutching fast to a toad while attempting to stuff it into a pocket of his robes.

He was having little success.

Hagrid led them down a wooded path that was lit with an insubstantial yellow glow cast by evenly-placed lanterns. It was quiet save for the sounds of the forest around them and a few snatches of whispered conversation that made it above the wind, but not much was said. Eventually, the path led to a stone set of stairs, and Hermione was careful not to slip on the wet rock as they made their way down toward a sizeable dock on the edge of a vast mirror-black lake. Clustered along the dock, a small fleet of rowboats awaited them, though not a single one had any actual oars.

"No more'n four to a boat, mind," Hagrid said, and the various first years began to cluster together like the teacher had just assigned a group project. Hermione found herself sharing a boat with the round-faced boy and Glasses, the trio joined by a girl with straight blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. No introductions were made for the moment, the round-faced boy looking too nervous to speak and the other two merely uninterested.

Once they were all seated, the boats took off of their own accord, gliding silently along the water. The view as they crossed the vast lake was nothing short of breathtaking; the water was such a perfect reflection of the sky above that it looked like they were floating through the stars.

"And there's th' castle," Hagrid said, pointing ahead as the boats steered themselves around an outcropping of rocks that had previously been blocking the view. A chorus of gasps rang out, and Hermione's joined the rest as she caught sight of the place that would serve as her school.

Hogwarts was an actual castle, a massive one that looked like it had been built thousands of years ago and meticulously maintained ever since. Far from the crumbling ruins tourists visited, this was a castle in its prime, with jutting turrets, massive courtyards, and windows lit with a welcoming orange glow that shimmered off of the lake's surface. Out here in the chilly evening air with a cold wind blowing off of the lake, Hermione yearned to be inside, preferably tucking into a hot meal.

The castle soon disappeared overhead as they passed into a small cove. A flat stone landing served as the dock, and they all disembarked. Glasses climbed serenely off the boat first and made sure to help Hermione out, which she thought was quite polite of him. He stayed and helped the rest along while Hermione joined the crowd near the lone wooden door. Once everyone had gathered, Hagrid raised a hand the size of a small child and rapped it twice against the door, which Hermione was surprised didn't even crack under the force.

Seconds later, Professor McGonagall opened the door, peering imperiously down at the gathered children. Hermione wasn't the best at reading faces, but it looked like she was annoyed at something.

"Professor McGonagall, ma'am," Hagrid said with a flourishing movement of his hand that nearly batted one of the children across the cave, "the first years fer yeh."

"Thank you, Hagrid," the professor said, her voice as prim and crisp as Hermione remembered. "I will take them from here. Everyone inside, if you please."

She moved back to usher the gathered children into the room beyond, and Hermione took her first steps into Hogwarts.

…

This one felt a bit rough, but hopefully it satisfies. Fred and George are fun to write.

Reviews are always appreciated.