"Let's talk about this man, for a moment," Orson's voice kept the crowd around him silent, even Harry, who had made sure to sit more than a good few stools away.
"He graduates from Hogwarts in 1914 – two Outstanding NEWTS, and he exceeds expectations on the rest. Then," Orson sipped his bottle of Ogden's, "he starts working for Hawthorn of all people. And it doesn't make a lick of bloody sense."
"For a decade or so he stays. Under disguise, of course. It's during that time the bookstore is at its busiest - even students begin going to Hawthorn for their supplies. Flourish and Blotts goes on the downturn and starts accusing Hawthorn of stealing their bloody shelving system,and within a month they stand before the Wizengamot. Malfoy leaves right then, the case is open and shut within two weeks, and Hawthorn's store shrinks to a third of what it used to be."
"I'm not buying it," one man spoke up. "No Malfoy takes a job from a noname foreigner. What's the catch?"
"Oh, grow up," someone shot back. "Everything happens for a reason. Family prestige isn't everything, you know."
Could've fooled me.
"That isn't the point!" snapped Orson. "Focus, gentlemen – why would the Ministry feel the need to side against Hawthorn's business, where one of their biggest supporters' son works – who, despite the disguise, they likely knew about?"
"Well, Orson," a round-faced man with square glasses stood. "Isn't it all the more likely that Alden Malfoy was an insider? That Hawthorn was stealing Flourish and Blotts that famously efficient shelving system? It was – is, no simple invention. The years of magical study and refinement must've been enormous, don't you think?"
"That, Mr Warren," Orson said flatly. "Is a stupid fucking idea."
"Well, I would think that an official of Mr Warren's calibre-"
"Would you shut your goddamned mouth?"
"How about we calm it down, gentlemen-"
"You think this group of halfwits is fit to talk about this shite?"
"I couldn't agree more," Harry murmured under his breath. He, of course, should not have been surprised. It was he who asked Orson to fish for information on the woman and her mysterious bookstore, after all.
So far, he had ascertained less than he had wanted about Hawthorn and her business, but it was a start. He'd get little more out of this, however. It wasn't like Harry had much trust for the old man, anyway.
"Say, what do you think about all this, kid?" A man asked him. "You read the news every day here like a damn hawk. You're probably more qualified than the rest of us."
Warren sniffed.
Harry had the urge to wipe the smug smirk off of Orson's face, especially as the group of men turned to stare at him.
"Well?" an unknown man prodded.
"I think that we should have more than two options for bookstores in a country that spans nearly 250 thousand square kilometres," Harry said, in his best impression of Warren's obnoxious sniff.
Some frowned at his evasive response, but it was truthful – and something Harry had always wondered about. Does one shopping district take care of the needs of every British wizard? It mattered little for now.
Within twenty-four hours, he would be back at Hogwarts.
Out of all the great magical feats of history, and in spite of all the grand advancements in Wizarding Disciplines, Wandlore and its study remain the crowning achievement of magical society. To study wandlore is to study how to seize magic itself – and make its very essence bend to you.
Perhaps that surmises why such an endeavour is so enticing to what I'm sure are young, ambitious students who sought out this text, and yet, why Wandlore remains profoundly understudied. Even disregarding the required understanding of several other obscure and arcane magics to begin understanding the wand's nature, the path of a wandmaker is a path that guarantees only the suffering of its undertaker - it is a path that carries only a minimal chance at reward.
To gain the rudimentary understanding of wandlore that this book seeks to provide by its end, we will first find that its history is just as alive, mysterious, and complex as the wands themselves. How the first wands were crafted remains a mystery, along with the supposed prevalence of wandless magic beforehand. And while we don't promise answers, we promise to arm you with the tools you need to hunt for the answers to these age-old questions for yourself.
One thing remains clear, however – wands exist in spite of magic, just as magic exists in spite of the world around it. Magic does not like to be controlled. Magic does not like containment, and magic is rebellious.
Many a young wizard has heard that magic is sentient. To any practised wizard or academic, however, this is demonstrably untrue. Just because something is volatile, rebellious, and hard to control does not mean it has a mind of its own, let alone the ability to feel. There is no such thing. More precisely, magic feeds off of the sentience of its practitioner.
When casting, one is simultaneously gaining control over magic and relinquishing control of themselves….
Harry had a headache.
He had arrived perhaps a bit too early to Kings Cross Station – hours before, which had proven to be overkill. At least that had given him time to feel better before boarding.
"Wait," Harry murmured. The habit of talking to himself had gotten out of hand, he noted. Still, he reread the same paragraph as before.
Magic feeds off of the sentience of its practitioner.
"But what does that even mean?"
Harry pulled out his wand and stood from the bench on which he had sat, twirling it in his thumb. He felt the familiar pulsing sensation, asking to be used, to cast once more. Harry was barely able to ignore it.
Part of him was able to believe that such a misconception had proliferated so strongly throughout the Wizarding World's excuse for an education system – but his professors, people like Dumbledore; they would work to correct that misconception, wouldn't they?
Then again, he supposed thinking about magic itself was discouraged all around. You were taught to accept that magic simply is, and no more.
Maybe they were right, and thinking too much would only lead to madness.
Well, since when has that stopped you?
It didn't stop Harry this time, either. He kind of knew what it meant to be sentient, but he knew for sure it required consciousness, and magic having a mind of its own – well, that was just silly.
If magic fed off of his sentience, then did his personality change as a result? Was that why it was so hard to control?
No. That was too simple, too easy.
Did it mean that every time Harry cast, he… lost some of himself to magic?
What the fuck?!
Harry froze. He felt his chest get heavy. His pacing around the platform grew faster, more frantic.
Does magic take away who I am?
But magic is a part of me…
That was true enough. But what would that even mean? To 'lose himself' to magic? Harry felt safe around magic – it was something he had that the Dursleys never could dream of; it had given him power, and control over something. Control he was never allowed when he was younger.
Some of the people who are the best at magic are the most controlled. Magic doesn't take away who they are. Dumbledore, and…
"No one else," Harry whispered out loud, his heart dropping in his chest.
Riddle, Grindelwald, the Death Eaters, the million and one different dark wizards that Binns had droned on about, the Founders – but how, why would the book be so casual about something so —
"No one else, who?"
Harry spun around awkwardly in the middle of his pace. His eyes met the eyes of the last person he wanted to see.
He still said nothing.
"An interesting read, it looks like," Riddle commented, nodding towards the open book on the bench. She strolled towards platform 9 ¾. She looked bemused, if nothing else. Not that it eased him.
"Very interesting," she said again as Harry summoned the book, snapping it shut with a loud thump.
"The book was expensive, I'm sure you understand," he said. His voice was shaky, and his mind was far removed from the fact that bloody Riddle was in front of him, too busy racing at a thousand kilometres per hour because of the very same text he'd just been so protective of.
"Are you quite alright?" she asked. "You're very pale."
"I am fine," Harry said through gritted teeth.
"Do you care to follow?" Riddle carried on – she had turned her voice down to a surprisingly soft level. "You are allowed to board the Express, even now, you are aware?"
"No…" Harry trailed off, somewhat dizzy. "No… I was not." Following Riddle, on the other hand, was something he had no intention of doing.
If he really could board the train already, though…
He murmured uncaringly, momentarily questioning why Riddle didn't appear to have any supplies with her, but there were more curious things to worry about.
He charged through the platform wall, barely stopping himself from tumbling onto the ground, Riddle following a few moments later.
She wasn't lying – the train was up and running this early.
Riddle's going to wonder how I already knew about the platform.
Harry decided to ignore the matter altogether; instead, working his way onto the train where compartments were empty. Hopefully, the one he sat in wasn't a target destination for other students.
After a brief moment of hesitation, he opened the book once more, starting to hunt for the page he had stopped on. The phrase had adamantly stuck in his mind.
Magic feeds off of the sentience of its practitioner…
Maybe – maybe he had just misinterpreted things. That would've been of comfort if Harry had been able to think of any other possible way to reason through what the book had told him.
Magic lives off of human sentience, the book continued. Magic lives and breathes it. Perhaps it is because only through human will and emotion that magic can come to life. Perhaps we are wrong. Perhaps we are not. The point is that magic's nature – parasitic to some readers, I'm sure, must be understood before proceeding in the study of wandlore.
"Comforting," Harry spoke aloud. How was he supposed to grapple with this?
He shut the book with another thump, staring out the window of his compartment. A more calm, reasonable voice in his head whispered that he ought to have been reading on – trying to understand what he had learned instead of freaking out as he was. But he was too far gone now.
Would he do anything about it?
Magic chipped away at his free will, supposedly in some way that he didn't understand. Maybe in a way he never would – or that no one did. Drawing upon only his knowledge – it meant nothing because it felt like he could still make his own decisions. Or maybe it didn't – what did it mean to feed off of sentience, anyway?
But Harry liked casting magic; he was good at it, even. More than good. Great.
He wouldn't just give that up. Could he? It seemed unfathomable.
He suspected that this book was entirely beyond him. It may have been written in a way that made it easy to read, but on top of his inability to comprehend the actual text, he had no idea where to start.
Not that he would stop.
Maybe I'll feel something if I cast now?
Harry raised his wand, aiming it nowhere in particular. "Lumos."
Bright, white light shot from his wand, drowning his compartment and draining his vision. He felt nothing besides the strain of his eyes.
Cancelling the light, he tried again. Think about what you feel the moment you cast.
Harry underpowered the charm, with only a ball of light manifesting above the seat ahead. Still, he felt nothing. The idea came to him to cast something more involved and impactful – but Harry didn't want to be blasting compartments on his ride to Hogwarts.
Perhaps that was the answer; he needed to try something with more involved magic.
Harry's mind wandered alongside a newfound respect for the fashions of his time – the train compartment he sat in bore nearly zero similarities with the one he had grown used to. It wasn't worn, per se, but it looked different. Uncomfortably so. It was decorated with a floral pattern that looked more like an optical illusion, and worn leather, by design. Even the wood that outlined the windows smelled and looked different, and Harry wasn't sure he was a fan.
A knock came at said compartment.
The worry was immediate that Riddle had followed him, but Harry was surprised and relieved to see an oddly familiar-looking girl – she was tall, with thick glasses and a pimpled, scarred face, though it seemed she had gone to great effort to hide it.
"Oh!" she said in surprise. "I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone was already here."
Why did you knock remained a question Harry didn't want the answer to.
"No one else is sitting here," said Harry. "I wouldn't mind company," he forced a smile.
He genuinely wouldn't, but the girl seemed to be of the opposite inclination. Nonetheless, she sat opposite him, picking nervously at her fingernails.
"I'm Harry Evans," he introduced.
"Myrtle," she said. "Myrtle Warren."
He blinked.
No way. Harry felt the colour drain from his face all at once; he did his best to look at the window and appear uninterested, but unless Myrtle was being willfully oblivious, there was no way she didn't notice either.
Riddle hasn't gotten to her yet, then. There's time.
"Are you new here?" She asked him rather crudely. Harry raised an eyebrow, but he figured no use in lying.
"I am," he said. "I'm told I'm Hogwarts' first transfer student in decades."
"A transfer student?" she said surprisedly. "I suppose that makes sense." At his silence, she spoke again. "I can – help you," she said. "I don't know many people, but I know my way around. I think," she added, tapping the window next to her.
Harry forced another smile, his face still lacking all colour. "I appreciate the offer."
His first instinct was to be suspicious of the almost immediate offer of help, but given that the girl was a victim of merciless torment by the student body until getting murdered by a Basilisk, Harry understood. If that was still the case, of course.
Plus, she was the first person Harry had met who had not instantly questioned his status as a transfer. Besides Riddle.
Should I join Slughorn? Was another thought that came into Harry's mind, but the idea of doing so involved meeting more people than he wanted to. Riddle amongst them, most likely.
He continued to make small talk with Myrtle, trying to gauge anything else about the current climate at Hogwarts and how the professors would be, but he got little. Harry was delighted to hear further that Myrtle was no fan of Dippet herself, but he was far from coming up with a plan to deal with what Harry thought of as far too much power in the hands of one man. Granted, his mind was elsewhere, and talking to the real, alive Myrtle Warren felt very strange indeed.
Harry hoped that Slughorn had gotten any of his legal affairs in order – if not, Harry would have to get forging quick, but he suspected that a man like Slughorn had no problem coming up with some nonsense that proved he was who he claimed to be.
Another more reckless urge also called to him – the urge to return to the Department of Mysteries and try to gauge what had happened… see if the prophecy was still there. After the wand mix-up with Ollivander, he could not be sure about anything. He'd had two months to panic and make mistakes – now was the time to step back.
He would eventually have to revisit the mysterious Ministry sector, but that would be only after dealing with his first two priorities: Dippet and Riddle.
"Why did you transfer?" Myrtle eventually asked, and Harry sighed. He had hoped that she would never ask.
"I don't wish to speak about it," Harry said, dropping his voice. He really didn't – he needed a better lie than the one he had told Slughorn and formulated earlier. Anyone poking holes in his story would not bode well for him.
"Oh," she said, sheepish, though curiosity still shone in her eyes which glanced at the book in his hands. "What are you reading?" The way this girl moved from one line of questioning to another reminded Harry a bit too much of Hermione.
"A textbook on Wandlore," said Harry. "Getting a new wand from Ollivanders' made me curious, to say the least."
"Dad's been trying to get his hands on one for ages," Myrtle murmured, more to herself than Harry, who raised an eyebrow. Wasn't Myrtle a muggle-born? "Where did you get it?"
"A friend lent it to me," said Harry cryptically. "Flourish and Blotts has a painfully dry selection," he continued in his best pompous drawl. That seemed to get a short laugh out of the girl, who seemed to be analysing his every word and move, yet sheepish all at once. A far cry from the miserable ghost in the girl's bathroom.
Harry remembered the argument in the pub this morning – and the involvement of a certain Mr Warren. The colour drained from his face once again. If she was a muggle-born, what would a muggle be doing in a Magical pub? It wasn't that common of a last name, but part of him hoped it was a coincidence.
He was tempted to ask her about her blood status, but Harry didn't know how to not suddenly dumb himself down and make her suspicious… bluntness was best, he decided.
"Does your father frequent the Leaky Cauldron, by any chance?" asked Harry, to which Myrtle's face flashed with surprise, which turned to anger.
"He isn't supposed to," she hissed. "Does he wear square glasses? Velvet robes? Really short?"
Harry nodded, shifting uncomfortably. Myrtle said nothing more but took out a quill and ink, beginning to write furiously. Harry didn't dare peak.
It was only after a few minutes that students began to board the express in waves. The sound of chatter filled up even his locked compartment, and Harry knew that it was soon he would return to Hogwarts. He took out the letter he had received from Slughorn, double-checking his offer.
… Meet me in compartment C when you board the Hogwarts Express. I think you will appreciate the networking opportunity.
No, he decided. Harry had no story ready, no lies to weave. In any case, Riddle would also be there, who he needed to avoid for now.
Harry chose to return to silence, opening his book on Wandlore again.
Every wand has a few key components – the most notable being the wand core and wand wood. Yet a curious fact is that one could construct a wand of the exact same material from the exact same source in the exact same manner, and produce drastically different results. Speaking from the perspective of an Arithmancer, one can predict the attributes a wand will have based on its composition, but it is only that – an estimate. Too inaccurate to make definitive claims about any particular wand but too accurate to dismiss as mere probability.
Harry stopped to wonder how true Ollivander's claims about his Aspen wand were, or even his old Holly wand. Surely the man was aware of what appeared to be a basic truth of Wandlore, but Harry supposed that it helped more than hurt business. To have a wand whose identity supposedly reflected yours was a powerful source of affirmation. Affirmation of one's identity…. Or the creation of one, since children didn't have fully developed personalities, all things considered.
Magic feeds off of the sentience of its practitioner.
The phrase rang again and again in Harry's head, downright ruining his ability to concentrate or truly focus on anything else – that and the trepidation about fitting into this strange, foreign Hogwarts.
"I'm sorry," blurted Myrtle, stunning Harry out of his stupor. "My father… isn't supposed to be drinking, if you couldn't tell."
Harry nodded respectfully. "Does he work for the Ministry?"
"Yep," Myrtle said with what seemed like strained pride. "He works in foreign affairs – Gringotts in particular. Deals with a lot of grumpy goblins all day."
'I wonder why,' thought Harry. What was more concerning was that this suggested Myrtle's father was a wizard, which meant she wasn't a regular Muggleborn as in his time.
His hand twitched – all too often an occurrence, he found, but Harry wondered what else would have changed. He had done his best to seclude himself these past two months.
"What house are you in?" asked Harry with no small amount of dread. He desperately hoped his knowledge of the past wouldn't be completely useless, but said turmoil was derailed when Myrtle answered, "Ravenclaw."
She had replaced the angry letter she had been writing with a piece of parchment that appeared to be an essay for class – last-minute homework, Harry guessed. He was guilty of doing the same many times.
"I wish Hogwarts would hire an actual History of Magic professor," she complained. "Binns and his stupid current events… "
"Current events?" inquired Harry. Since when did Binns teach current events?
"Binns started teaching current events ever since Grindewald's war broke out," said Myrtle. "You'll get top marks as long as you convince him you have the correct opinion of the conflict," her sarcastic drawl made Harry resist the urge to wince.
"Pray tell," said Harry – he'd never actually heard of Binns doing anything – "what is the correct opinion?"
"That Grindelwald will fail as soon as the upstanding purebloods of the continent coordinate and that our own Ministry should stay out of it."
Talk about cognitive dissonance.
"And that?" Harry nodded towards the parchment.
Myrtle's face turned serious. "This is an essay about Isa Ulbricht, daughter of Edward Blackburn." She stopped speaking as though Harry would immediately understand.
"And that is…?"
Myrtle adopted a shocked look. "Edward Blackburn?" she said as though he were an idiot. "You truly don't know who he is?"
Harry shook his head. Myrtle turned to begin rummaging through her bag, eventually pulling out a crinkled, dated copy of Mage Affairs, a publication that reviewed foreign affairs monthly and one that Harry had frustratingly found no copies of during his stay at the Leaky Cauldron. She handed it to him.
Nearly a third of the front cover was dedicated to the figure of an unfamiliar man: standing tall, big and burly, with his wand twirling in hand as the figure moved across the page, blue eyes flashing momentarily.
He wore black robes and a head full of untamed brownish hair. Harry began to read just as Myrtle spoke once more.
"He's Grindelwald's right-hand man – his top general," she said, finally. "If there's a major assault or breakthrough, you can bet he's the man behind it."
Harry quickly learned that most did not refer to the man by his actual name, but rather, one of the many monikers that had been coined as word of his exploits spread… the Butcher of Bucharest, some called him, for a massacre in the city that razed the Romanian Ministry to the literal ground. Europe's Terror, The Hidden One, Warsaw's Monster, or most commonly, according to the paper, the Black Cascade. Never had this man been bested in battle, apparently.
Harry would be the first to admit he had not delved all that deep into the war with Grindelwald during his time, but he had no memory or recall of this Blackburn figure. So what happened to him? Or had he never existed before?
Myrtle was looking at him curiously – a blank look had adorned his face now, though his mind was racing. Handing back the copy of Mage Affairs, Harry mused inwardly. The hours dragged on, as did the express, and Harry remembered taking in the rustic greenery of the Scottish highlands before his eyelids grew heavy, and sleep claimed him.
An announcement came overheard, declaring that the Express was arriving and waking him at a moment's notice. With a wave of his wand, Harry shrunk the trunk that held his things, however few they were.
Part of him declared that he was returning home, albeit under the strangest of circumstances. The other argued that this was a foreign place, one he had to tread lightly in, and that he was only just starting to get his bearings.
He tried as quickly and as politely as possible to make his way through the crowd of people and out the front door. The cold night's breeze was welcome, and Harry couldn't help but smile as Hagrid's familiar voice called out. It was followed immediately by confusion, however.
Shouldn't Hagrid still be in Hogwarts? What's he doing as Groundskeeper already? Did Riddle already get to him? But Myrtle appears to be fine…
"Firs' years over here!" his voice interrupted. Silence, for a moment, as a crowd of young students rushed over to a narrow path he was to lead them down. "Firs' years and transfers!" he corrected, his voice bellowing again. Myrtle had wandered to where the others' had gone, and he lost sight of the girl.
It was one of the more awkward experiences he'd had, Harry would admit. He was a good two and a half heads taller than most first years, who stared at him unabashedly as he made his way down the path. Hagrid looked younger, with less facial hair and a more commanding attitude, but sounded just the same, adding to Harry's confusion. The man was a half-giant, he remembered.
He also wondered why Hogwarts didn't get many transfer students to begin with. Perhaps geography? If one lived on the continent, it'd be much easier and more practical to go to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang.
Despite all the differences Harry had picked up on over the past two months – peoples' attitudes, the even stranger political climate and old fashion tastes, Hogwarts looked just as wondrous as it always did. The castle shined in the night sky, glowing and emanating magic from all sides. The lake sat in front, with boats that would be too small to hold him and three other first years.
"No more than four to a boat!"
Harry allowed the first years to get into their boats before he made his way through, and Hagrid spoke again, very awkwardly. "Errr… 'orry about that, you 'an go with me," said Hagrid, pointing to the bigger boat he would sail in.
"It's no problem," said Harry, smiling brilliantly – and he did mean it. Hagrid would always mean a great deal to him. Still, he wanted to show off a little.
"Ad vitam," he waved his wand in a relatively intricate motion, ending with a swirl and swish.
A boat, whose design exactly matched those of the First Years' and could carry a little more weight came to life, forming slowly as chunks of wood seemed to come out of nowhere and conjoin together. Hagrid's eyes nearly bulged out of his skull, and the First Years', despite not understanding the full extent of what he had done, stared at him in wonder.
"FORWARD!" Hagrid called as the First Years' boats began to sail to the castle. Harry pushed some magic out of his wand and into his conjured boat, moving at a similar pace. While he lacked precision and went a little faster than everyone else, he could still hear and talk to the First Years.
"Will we learn to do that!?" asked a young boy with a freckled face and big, round glasses.
"I don't know the Hogwarts curriculum," said Harry slowly. "But if you work hard at Transfiguration, there's no reason you shouldn't be able to in a few years' time."
"But that's so long from now," complained one first-year girl sitting in the same boat, also staring. Another girl, with very neat, braided hair looked at him curiously. "What does currcuilium mean?"
"Curriculum," Harry corrected gently. "It's just the things you're going to be learning and the order they're in."
"Hm," she frowned. "I don't like this curriculum if it won't teach us to do that," she jabbed her wand at the boat Harry was sailing in and had conjured.
Harry laughed. It will, he wanted to say, though it'd give away too much.
"What are your names?" he asked.
"Elin Warrington," said the girl who had complained earlier. The other girl introduced herself as Mia Selwyn, and the freckled boy introduced himself as Orion Prias.
Harry only had the attention of a few kids in the three boats nearest to him, so he was a bit surprised when another voice cut in. "Excuse me," said another boy with gelled hair, adorning what Harry knew had to be expensive and exquisite robes. A pureblood, no doubt.
"I am Leo Yaxley and what you did was really impressive," his voice dropped. "But I didn't catch your name."
He's trying to see if I'm a 'respectable' pureblood, Harry deduced in his mind. He hoped that the kid hadn't been completely brainwashed.
"Harry Evans," he said. Leo seemed to rack his brain to see whether or not he recognised the surname. "Are you a mudblo-" he tried to say but was elbowed by Mia. "Leo!" she chided. "He knows what you're doing! And don't say that word here!"
Harry actually didn't, but he had a good enough idea. Many purebloods instructed their children to make connections and friends as soon as they got near Hogwarts, but their attempts to instil political instincts into their children almost always failed miserably. Some succeeded more than others, but in the end, no child could go full heartless politician at the age of 11.
Elin snorted, bringing him out of his thought process. "Leo thinks he's subtle," she said to Harry. Said boy was now beet red, but Harry gave his best encouraging smile in spite of his anger at the slur. He hoped whoever had taught him hadn't gotten completely to his head.
"There's nothing wrong with making connections, though saying the wrong things will only hurt you," said Harry measuredly. "Remember this, Leo: names are powerful, but magic even more so."
As though to prove his point, he stepped out of the boat and onto the small platform that Harry knew led to the Castle's doors, and with a flick of his wand, he vanished it. None of the First Years he had been around spoke again, while most others continued their idle chatter.
Harry mulled in silence – he had gotten off a little early compared to the others, who slowly got onto the platform with Hagrid close behind.
"I'll take them from here, Rubeus."
Harry's breath caught in his throat. He turned his head towards the man that could only be Albus Dumbledore, standing in front of a set of large, familiar, and worn oak doors.
Hagrid grunted in appreciation, giving the Deputy Headmaster a hug that had to have been at least a little bone-crushing before wandering off somewhere else, lantern in hand.
"First Years and Transfers," said Dumbledore, a genial smile on his face. "Welcome to Hogwarts."
He lead them down an entrance hall that Harry knew all too well before they found themselves right outside the Great Hall.
"All things wither with time," said Dumbledore passionately. "But Hogwarts stands today because of its four houses – Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Collectively, they embody the values that guide all of us. You will be sorted into one of these noble houses, and they shall become your family, but never forget that Hogwarts is one. The Sorting Ceremony begins," Dumbledore stopped, wandlessly throwing a tempus into the air. "Now."
They followed the Deputy Headmaster into the Great Hall. Ghosts tried to make idle chatter, as they always did. Harry caught the eyes of both Myrtle, who was sitting far away from anyone else at the Ravenclaw table, and Jules Lockhart, at the Gryffindor table, who winked at him and gave a thumbs-up. The tables were even more crowded than Harry remembered – there had to be at least three hundred or so students per house.
"New students!" came the excited but worn voice of who Harry guessed to be Armando Dippet. "How wonderful! Make your way, make your way now – let's see some new faces!"
He was of average height, likely shrinking because of age. The man's face was wrinkled but betrayed how old he really was. Even for Harry, it was hard to believe this man was one of the most politically powerful in the country from the way he acted.
Then again, you could say the same for Dumbledore.
"Annord, Lily!"
On the stool, she sat, and the hat quickly proclaimed her a "RAVENCLAW!"
"Apim, Quent!"
On the stool, he sat, and the hat declared "RAVENCLAW!"
The next three students were sorted into Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw, respectively. In the meantime, Harry turned his attention towards the Slytherin table, attempting to make sight of Riddle, but found none.
"Evans, Harry!"
That snapped Harry out of his stupor. He'd been acting as though he were still a Potter and as though his name would be called later – foolish, he chided himself.
He sat on the stool entirely too small for him but caught wind of the murmurs across all four tables.
"What's he doing with the firsties?"
"I heard he was a transfer."
"Hogwarts doesn't get transfers…"
"Late bloomer?"
"Don't be ridiculous..."
"Grindelwald…"
'My, my,' said the hat. 'I sense two possibilities here.'
And they are?
'The first is that someone has dove into your mind with such skill and efficiency that even I am unable to detect, planted false memories, convinced you that you're a time-traveller, and driven you insane.'
Harry fought the immediate indignation he felt at the suggestion, but part of him suggested that wouldn't be so surprising after all that had happened in such a short time span.
'Neither would I, Mr Potter,' amusement trickled from the hat as Harry tensed at the reminder of his real name. 'Do not worry, your secret… secrets are safe with me. How utterly fascinating you are!'
Harry gripped the edges of the stool like he had all those years ago.
'Not Slytherin, eh?' taunted the hat. 'How people change.'
Are you going to do your job? Harry thought snidely.
'I apologise, Mr Potter,' Harry once again tensed at the mention of his real name. 'Your memories fascinate me.'
Gryffindor? Harry thought hopefully.
'Oh no,' laughed the hat. 'You may be bold, you may be brave, but you do not fool me, Harry – everything you do, you do for a reason. Sometimes you succeed, sometimes you fail, but you ought to remember that the best-laid plans are sometimes the simplest ones. Take care in SLYTHERIN!'
The house of snakes clapped appropriately as Harry made his way to the table. He was numb and frustrated: things just became a whole lot more complicated. At the staff table, Harry noticed Slughorn shooting him a friendly wink, mouthing something like 'Knew you'd make it!' And he felt Dumbledore's eyes all but burning into his back.
And the hat knew.
Bastard.
Mia Selwyn joined him in Slytherin, while Leo Yaxley and Elin Warrington got into Ravenclaw.
"Mind if I sit here?" asked Harry to a black-haired boy around his age.
"Not at all," he said smoothly. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Evans."
"Who might you be?" asked Harry.
He smiled. "Call me Arcturus."
The smile seemed much more predatory now.
The last first-year – Zoran, Gregory – went to Gryffindor, and Harry noticed that Arcturus and a few others hadn't stopped staring at him since he'd taken his seat.
"Welcome!" Dippet's powerful voice boomed through the hall. The old man tapped his wand on his leg a few times. "Another year, another term at Hogwarts. I take care to remind you that despite recent Ministry decree, magic may not be cast in the halls of this institution, the Forbidden Forest may only be visited with the approval of your Head of House, and you remain liable for any personal injury or damages and that First Years are still not allowed their own broomsticks! Thank you, and now we FEAST!"
"I wonder if that last rule applies to you too, Evans," joked Arcturus.
Harry snorted. "I'd hope not. And call me Harry."
Something crumpled in the back pocket beneath his robes, making Harry still. A frown appeared on his face as he dug out a paper that most certainly hadn't been there. Arcturus looked at him curiously.
Your unique circumstances place you in a position that must be discussed immediately. Meet me in my office 30 minutes before curfew tomorrow.
- Albus Dumbledore.
But how? He wanted to splutter. The headmaster, no, the future headmaster, had only seen him for a handful of minutes. Harry had only barely turned his back to the man, and here was a note in his pocket, and no one knew any better.
"Ahhhh." came the sardonic drawl of another boy sitting in front of Arcturus – Albert Rosier, he learned. "The woman of the hour has arrived. Care to tell us where you were, Riddle?"
Harry snapped his head back to see Emily Riddle asking the person next to him to scoot over, taking a very unpleasant seat right next to him. She tsked. "Such distrust. A little bit of this and that, if you must know."
Harry attempted to eat his food in silence, taking in the situation around him, but Riddle turned to him and smiled. "Hello, Harry."
"Riddle," he grunted in acknowledgement. Arcturus raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"
"Why would I not?" she shrugged uncaringly. "He's Hogwarts' first transfer in decades – I met him during the summer. We know each other very well, don't we, Harry?"
He didn't know what she was getting at, but a memory of their meeting flashed in his mind. Then we'll know each other very, very well, she had said.
"That I am," he spoke, finally painting a fake smile on his face. "Say, Riddle, we were talking about a book earlier, but I can't remember for the life of me what it was. Care to help a friend?
Two can play this game.
"I think I remember," she said casually. "Something about listening charms?"
Harry resisted a grimace at the reminder of his choice to try and shoot Riddle with a charm, but he pressed forward. Those around them watched their conversation with some level of interest.
"Ah," he said. "I remember."
"Glad to help," she gave an insincere smile – but then again, Harry didn't think Riddle was capable of giving a sincere smile.
"Well, Harry," interrupted Arcturus. "We're here to help if you need to get settled in. Just… watch your step," he finished carefully, and Harry had no doubts about what he was referring to. His blood status.
Names were powerful; magic even more so. Harry really ought to heed his own advice.
And, whispered a traitorous voice in Harry's mind, magic feeds off the sentience of its practitioner.
He looked around himself – beyond Riddle and the mess of it all – hundreds of students, possible connections, the Chamber, the Department, Dippet, and the need to establish himself.
He looked back at the note Dumbledore had slipped him somehow. He remembered his little show to the first years – undoubtedly, some already looked up to him. He could do this. Riddle couldn't have all of Slytherin under her control, and Harry suspected that Arcturus and Rosier were two people whose trust she did not have.
Let the games begin.
A/N: Very glad to be publishing more of this again. Thanks for reading, everyone! Big, big thanks to Gladiusx for editing this chapter!
Having rushed… hope to see more soon…
I'm glad you've enjoyed these first chapters! This chapter marks a turning point where there'll be a less drastic shift in scene focus, so it's nice to see someone pick up on that.
I've really enjoyed… better headspace btw.
I am, and your interest is appreciated greatly! I hope I maintain it.
This is quite a… short as it was.
I'm glad you enjoyed Harry and Emily's interactions; I certainly had fun writing them. The pre-Hogwats portion is now officially over as well. :)
Plot… such inconsistencies.
It's interesting to see so many takes on Harry's character. He is impulsive, as in canon, though a bit more crafty, magically talented, and somewhat arrogant. That is intentional.