As the train pulled into the station, the first-years scrambled to catch a glimpse of Hogwarts. The castle loomed in the distance, towering over the grounds with its stone spires and flickering lights. Harry took it in with a mild curiosity, noting the details without the awe that gripped his peers. Compared to some of the ancient magical sites he had visited with Grindelwald, Hogwarts was grand, but not overwhelmingly so.

The boat ride across the dark lake had been calm, the water eerily still beneath the towering figure of Hogwarts. The first-years around Harry whispered to one another, craning their necks to take in the sight of the castle. Harry, however, remained unimpressed. He'd seen older, grander places during his travels with Grindelwald. Hogwarts was imposing, sure, but he was here for something more than architecture.

When the boats docked, they were led into the vast Entrance Hall. It was impressive, if only for its size. As they waited, a chill filled the air, and suddenly, ghosts began to glide through the walls. Some of the students gasped, pointing at the specters in amazement.

Harry narrowed his eyes, more intrigued than shocked. Ghosts? In most of the places he had visited with Gellert, the dead were treated with reverence, guided to rest. Yet here, they floated aimlessly, mingling with students as though they belonged.

"Restless spirits, just floating about?" Harry mused quietly, suppressing a smirk. "Strange… they'd never let this fly in Tibet or Cambodia."

In Tibet, the monks chanted for days to ensure a soul's peaceful passage, their magic woven into the air itself, a harmony between spirit and nature. The dead moved on, their presence a fleeting echo. In Cambodia, he'd watched sorcerers bind spirits to sacred urns, their magic heavy with purpose. The dead remained guardians, tethered by duty to their families and lands.

But here, the ghosts wandered freely. Harry's gaze followed one as it drifted past, its form pale, flickering in the candlelight. No ritual, no higher purpose—just an aimless shadow, as though forgotten by time. Hogwarts treated its ghosts like relics, remnants of something half-remembered.

Tibetan shamans would think this place is a den of necromancers, Harry thought, almost amused by the contrast.

He shook his head. In the places he had been, spirits were tied to something greater, bound by powerful rites. Here, they felt like echoes with no guide, no destination. What's keeping them here?

Soon after, they were led into the Great Hall for the Sorting. The enchanted ceiling, the floating candles—none of it took Harry by surprise. He'd seen magic used in more creative ways before. Still, he noted everything, cataloging the intricacies for later.

When his name was called, a murmur rippled through the hall. Harry didn't mind the attention. He walked calmly to the stool, sat, and felt the familiar weight of the Sorting Hat slip over his head. The hall seemed to grow quieter as the hat adjusted itself, slipping just over his eyes.

"Ah… Harry Potter," the Hat murmured, its voice low and thoughtful. "Curious. Very curious. I've seen many minds over the years, but yours... yes, you are different."

Harry sat still, eyes unfocused as he kept his thoughts deliberately guarded. He wasn't surprised by the Hat's observation, nor did he allow himself to react. This was part of the ritual, and Harry knew how to play his part.

"Different how?" he asked.

"There's ambition in you," the Hat continued. "Sharp, well-formed, much like those in Slytherin. But ambition, for you, is not an end in itself, is it? You see power as a tool, a means to something greater."

Harry's lips quirked at the Hat's circuitousness. "And what would that be?"

The Hat paused, as though weighing its response. "That's the question, isn't it? Most crave power for security, for control. But you... you have a different perspective. Power without purpose doesn't interest you. You want something more... deliberate."

"I know what happens when power lacks purpose," Harry thought, his mind briefly flashing to memories of lessons with Grindelwald, discussions of the great leaders of history. "Purpose is what defines control. Slytherin can't offer me that?"

The Hat hummed in response. "Slytherin offers paths to power—direct paths, ones you could walk. But you've already seen their flaws, haven't you? There's no challenge in the obvious."

Harry's mind sharpened. "Subtlety wins where force fails. Slytherin's too obvious."

"Indeed," the Hat chuckled softly. "You'd be well-matched with those who walk that path—the Malfoys, for instance. But their ways, predictable though they are, don't entice you."

"I've no interest in playing their games," Harry's thoughts were cold, detached. He could respect ambition, but not if it was rooted in arrogance or short-sightedness. "They mistake influence for power."

"And you don't?" the Hat asked, its tone probing deeper now.

"Influence can be fleeting," Harry countered. "Power is only true when it endures. When it's rooted in understanding, not just strength. Slytherin teaches control over others. I need control over myself."

"Ah..." the Hat's voice turned thoughtful again. "Now, that's a subtlety Slytherin lacks. You see, Ravenclaw values knowledge above all—true understanding. Not just to gain an edge, but to grow."

"I've seen power fail," Harry countered, thinking of his travels with Grindelwald, to the ruins of civilizations long forgotten. "Without understanding, power destroys itself."

"A lesson learned young," the Hat murmured. "Most take years, decades even, to grasp such a truth. But you've seen it already—power untempered by knowledge collapses. You're seeking more than mere control, Harry. You're searching for balance."

Harry's mind lingered on the word: balance. It was something he had never quite put into words, but it resonated. He wasn't seeking domination, nor was he interested in reckless ambition. Power, in his view, had to be balanced with knowledge, with restraint.

"Balance doesn't mean weakness," Harry thought. "It means knowing when to act and when to wait."

The Hat chuckled, darkly amused. "Oh, you'll find Ravenclaw will challenge you. It will sharpen that mind of yours, give you the space to refine yourself. But knowledge is a double-edged sword. It can illuminate, but it can also consume. Many brilliant minds have been lost to obsession. What makes you think you can escape that fate?"

Harry's expression remained impassive, but inside, he weighed the warning. He'd seen obsession in others, perhaps even glimpsed it in himself. "I've seen what obsession does. I've learned control."

"Perhaps you have," the Hat conceded. "But obsession comes quietly, doesn't it? Slowly, until it becomes everything."

"I'll manage," Harry's thoughts were firm, but there was an edge of caution there. He understood the risk, but he had learned from the best how to navigate it.

"Perhaps you will," the Hat mused, its tone growing thoughtful again. "Ravenclaw will help you become what you desire, even if you aren't sure what that is... yet."

Harry allowed himself a faint smirk. "Then I'll find out."

The Hat chuckled softly once more, as if sharing in Harry's quiet ambition. "Ravenclaw!" it called out.

The Hat was lifted off, and Harry stood, making his way to the Ravenclaw table. Whispers followed him, faint and curious. The name Harry Potter was on everyone's lips, but as far as anyone knew, he was just a legend brought to life. No one here knew anything about him beyond the story: the Boy Who Lived.

Harry took a seat near the middle of the long Ravenclaw table, catching a few cautious glances from his new housemates. The Great Hall buzzed with the chatter of students and the clinking of silverware. Enchanted candles floated overhead, casting a warm glow that flickered off the towering stone walls. The rich smell of roasted meats and savory pies filled the air, mingling with the sweetness of pumpkin juice being poured into goblets.

Across from him, a boy with sharp blue eyes leaned forward with a smirk. "Harry Potter, huh?"

There was a casual curiosity in his voice, the kind of probing Harry had grown used to. They always wanted to know more than the name, to see if the legend lived up to the stories. "Terry," Harry replied, nodding once, his tone as even as the boy's.

Terry blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he grinned. "Terry Boot."

Next to Terry, a girl with long, dark hair studied Harry with quiet curiosity. "Padma Patil," she said, her voice calm. "I guess we've all heard of you."

Harry gave her a faint smile. "So I've been told."

A few seats down, a girl with reddish-brown hair leaned in, her grin mischievous. "What's it like?" she asked, gesturing vaguely. "You know... being you?"

Harry met her gaze, weighing the question. Ailsa Laird, he remembered from her Sorting. She wasn't prying, exactly, but she wanted a reaction. He wasn't going to give her one. "Same as being anyone else, I suppose."

Ailsa laughed lightly, a few others nearby chuckling with her. "You're going to fit right in here."

The conversation flowed around him as dishes of roast potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, and bangers and mash floated by on enchanted platters. Harry reached for a goblet of pumpkin juice, the sweet scent mixing with the warm air. He sipped it slowly, letting the conversation swirl as he listened more than spoke.

Just then, a girl with long brown hair and a prefect's badge slid into the seat beside him. "Penelope Clearwater," she said smoothly. "Fifth-year, prefect. Ravenclaw's lucky to have you, Potter. You'll find we're all about learning, thinking things through, and asking the right questions."

Penelope had an air of quiet authority, her words deliberate but not pressing. Harry sensed she was used to guiding conversations, subtly steering them. He tilted his head, curious. "What kind of questions?"

Penelope's smile widened just a touch. "The ones that matter," she replied, her tone leaving no room for doubt.

A boy across the table, with curly reddish hair, jumped in next. "Ravenclaw, though? Thought you'd be in Gryffindor for sure."

Harry glanced at the red and gold table where the Gryffindors laughed and cheered, always the loudest in the room. He knew the assumptions people made about him. "People make assumptions," he said lightly. "Doesn't mean they're right."

Terry chuckled at that. "Looks like you know how to handle it."

Harry just shrugged, letting the moment pass. The expectations were something he'd grown accustomed to, a background hum in every conversation. "You get used to it."

The red-haired boy who'd been Sorted into Ravenclaw before him, Anthony Goldstein, wasn't quite done. "Fair enough," he said, watching Harry closely. "Just figured you'd follow in your parents' footsteps, you know?"

Harry set his goblet back down, brushing his fingers against the smooth wood of the table. "Maybe I'm here to make my own," he replied, his tone casual but pointed.

There was a pause, the answer hanging just long enough for them to catch the weight of it. He wasn't about to be defined by anyone else's path.

Across the table, a tall boy with dark hair leaned forward, a grin spreading across his face. "Roger Davies, third year. You thinking about trying out for Quidditch? We could use someone like you."

Roger's confidence was palpable, his tone friendly but with an edge that spoke of ambition. Quidditch wasn't just a game for him—it was a stage. Harry wasn't ready to commit to anything just yet. He needed to see how the players moved before joining the game. "Maybe," he said, deflecting. "Haven't decided yet. You captain?"

Roger's grin widened. "Not yet. Soon."

Beside him, a pretty dark-haired girl introduced herself as Cho Chang, a second-year. With an easy smile, she nudged Roger playfully. "He's always recruiting," she said. "Don't let him rope you into it if you're not ready."

Roger raised his hands in mock defense. "Hey, I'm just saying, we need fresh talent."

A voice from further down the table cut in, calm and steady. "Robert Hilliard, fifth-year prefect," the boy said, meeting Harry's eyes with a level gaze. "You'll find there's more to Ravenclaw than Quidditch. Plenty to learn outside the classroom."

Harry nodded, noting the way Robert spoke—serious, thoughtful, the kind who weighed his words carefully. Robert wasn't just curious. He was assessing, quietly gathering information, just like Harry was. A person worth watching.

Roger shrugged, still grinning. "Yeah, we're not all bookworms. Some of us have other priorities."

Cho laughed softly. "Like Quidditch strategies."

"Exactly," Roger said, winking at her.

Cho turned to Harry then, her expression curious but more open than the others'. "So, what about you? What's your thing?"

The question felt inevitable. They were all waiting for the answer, watching him closely. Harry paused, taking another sip of pumpkin juice before responding. "I like learning things that are useful," he said, careful not to reveal too much.

There was a beat of silence as they took in his response. Penelope and Robert exchanged a brief glance, while Roger looked intrigued, and Cho gave him a curious smile. They were still trying to figure him out, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

Robert nodded thoughtfully. "You'll fit in well here, then. Ravenclaw's all about learning."

Harry returned the nod, his mind already cataloging what he had learned. Penelope's kind leadership, Roger's good-natured ambition, Cho's easy charisma, Robert's quiet strength—they each had some potential to be useful, in their own way.

And as they watched him, trying to piece together the puzzle, Harry was content to let them wonder. He would learn more from this night than they would from him.

Later, after the Sorting Feast, Harry found himself in the small sitting room attached to the first-year boys' bedrooms. The space was comfortable, with plush armchairs and a warm fire crackling in the hearth. It was a more intimate setting compared to the large common room they'd passed through earlier—the Ravenclaw library that only their House had access to, which Harry was eager to browse.

Three other boys shared the space with him: Terry Boot, Michael Corner, and Anthony Goldstein. They chatted amiably, asking each other the usual first-day-at-school questions—where they were from, whether their parents were magical, and what they thought of Hogwarts so far. Harry listened, but he couldn't shake the feeling that none of them had anything particularly interesting to say.

Terry was friendly enough, though he seemed preoccupied with his academic goals. Michael, quiet but thoughtful, would likely focus on his studies, but there was little spark of curiosity beyond that. Anthony, for all his sharpness at the dinner table, appeared content discussing Quidditch more than anything else.

"So, what do you think, Harry?" Terry asked, pulling Harry into the conversation. "Ravenclaw's got a lot of reputation to live up to. You nervous about it?"

Harry shook his head, offering a polite smile. "Not really. I think I'll manage."

Michael laughed quietly. "Guess that's to be expected from Harry Potter."

Harry didn't bite at the comment, and the conversation drifted back to Terry and Anthony debating whether the Ravenclaw Quidditch team stood a chance this year.

As the evening stretched on, Harry found himself losing interest. These boys were decent enough, but their conversations were mundane. Terry's talk of exams, even Michael's interest in magical theory—it all felt too childish, too unsophisticated. He was used to philosophical debates with Gellert Grindelwald, a wizard of famed intellect, and a full century older than Harry's current conversational partners.

Eventually, Harry stood, stifling a yawn he didn't really feel. "I think I'm going to turn in for the night," he said, glancing around the room. "See you in the morning."

As Harry stepped into his private room in Ravenclaw Tower, the quiet immediately welcomed him. The soft crackle of the enchanted fireplace, flickering gently in the corner, cast a warm glow across the dark wood and rich blue tones of the space. The bed, neatly made, sat waiting, his school trunk resting at the foot.

But it was the windows that drew him in—the expansive view beyond, where the night stretched endlessly over the Black Lake, stars scattered across the sky like shards of silver. He moved closer, his hand resting lightly on the cold stone sill as his gaze drifted upward, searching for something familiar.

There it was.

Orion.

Harry's eyes traced the constellation's shape, and for a moment, the room fell away. He remembered lying under the stars with Grindelwald, far from everything he had known, his first true escape from the Dursleys. Gellert had spoken softly that night, pointing out the constellations one by one, teaching him their names, their stories—his voice weaving the old myths as though they were still alive.

"That's Orion, the hunter," Grindelwald had said, his tone both gentle and commanding. "Blind, but never defeated."

The stars had been the beginning—his first real lessons. Harry hadn't understood all of it then, but the memory was etched deep, connected to the quiet peace that always came when he looked up at the night sky.

Now, as the cold air pressed against the glass, Harry felt the same stillness settle over him. He leaned his forehead lightly against the window, the coolness grounding him, as he let his mind wander.

His housemates had been polite enough, though their conversations felt small, predictable. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—he already knew he'd have to look elsewhere for more stimulating company. But that could wait.

For now, the stars were enough.

Harry's gaze lingered on Orion, watching as the hunter stood frozen in his eternal pursuit. His fingers tapped lightly against the windowsill before he finally turned away, leaving the constellation to its own silent vigil.

The quiet enveloped him as he lay back on the bed, the unfamiliar sheets soft beneath him. The fire's warmth flickered faintly in the corner, but Harry's thoughts were already drifting. Above, the blind hunter kept his vigil in the stars. Like Orion, Harry waited, his mind calm, letting sleep come when it would.