The Sorting Ceremony unfolded in a blur of names and house assignments, as Harry sat at the Ravenclaw table, only half-listening. His mind wandered to the summer, to the lessons he had learned and the plans he had already begun laying out for the year ahead. Still, his attention drifted back now and then, particularly when a new Ravenclaw joined the table. He served himself some roast potatoes, so he could pretend his full focus was on the meal while quietly observing.
The first to sit near him was Emma Cooper. She moved cautiously, her posture tight with uncertainty. Muggleborn, Harry thought immediately. She had that wide-eyed look of someone who didn't quite belong yet, unsure how to navigate this new, strange world. Emma sat down quietly, not making much eye contact as she carefully filled her plate with food. She observed more than spoke, her attention flitting from one student to another, trying to take it all in. Harry looked away, his mind drifting back to his plans for the year ahead.
As he passed a dish of Yorkshire puddings to Terry Boot, Luna Lovegood arrived at the table. Her steps were light, her expression distant as though she wasn't fully present in the moment. Harry noticed the subtle shift in the atmosphere around her—other students glanced at each other, exchanging knowing looks, already dismissing her before she had even said a word. Luna, however, seemed entirely unaffected by it. She sat down with a serene smile, humming softly to herself, her gaze wandering to the enchanted ceiling above them.
When one of the older students made a snide comment under their breath, Luna responded with something whimsical about Wrackspurts—creatures that, to Harry's knowledge, didn't exist. The others chuckled, but Harry saw something more in the way Luna spoke. There was a sharpness beneath the nonsense, a cleverness she didn't bother to hide but knew no one else would pick up on. He smirked slightly, intrigued. Luna was different, and unlike the others, she didn't seem to care how odd she appeared. That, in itself, was a kind of power.
Harry turned back to his plate, helping himself to more food. He barely paid attention as Laurel Lufkin took her seat. Laurel had the look of someone who had never questioned her place in the world. Immediately, she began speaking to the first years around her, her voice carrying easily across the table. "My great-great-grandmother was Artemisia Lufkin," she said, as though it were common knowledge, "the first female Minister for Magic."
Harry stabbed a roasted potato with his fork, unimpressed. Another family name in a sea of family names. It was always the same—students coming to Hogwarts, eager to prove their worth through the weight of their ancestors' achievements, as though power could be inherited. Real power came from knowledge, from what you could do with it. Harry had learned that early, but it seemed Laurel hadn't yet.
Next, Clara Switch joined the table, sitting down with the same air of certainty as Laurel. Without missing a beat, she slid into conversation. "My ancestor, Emeric Switch, wrote A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration," she said, her voice carrying a competitive edge. Laurel's eyes brightened at this, and the two quickly fell into conversation about their prestigious families. Harry half-listened, noting the eager energy between them, the need to outdo one another through their connections. He sighed softly, more amused than annoyed. It was all so predictable.
He reached for the bread rolls, passing one to Terry, when Violet Strout quietly took her seat. She was a sharp contrast to Laurel and Clara—reserved, almost shy as she filled her plate. She smiled politely at the students around her but didn't seem in a rush to join their conversation. Harry recognized her surname—Strout. He'd read something about Miriam Strout, the Healer at St. Mungo's. Violet didn't seem the type to boast about it, though. She kept her head down, focused on her meal.
That didn't last long.
"So, Violet," Laurel's voice cut through the chatter, her tone casual but pointed. "Your family's well-connected, aren't they?"
Violet looked up, her expression shifting slightly, as though she didn't particularly want to engage but knew it was expected of her. "My father's side is related to Miriam Strout," she said softly. "She worked as a Healer."
Laurel's eyebrows raised, clearly impressed. "Miriam Strout, from St. Mungo's? That's quite the legacy."
Violet gave a small nod, her eyes returning to her plate. Harry observed her, noting the way she seemed to shrink slightly under the attention. She wasn't here to impress. Unlike Laurel, Violet didn't seem interested in pushing her family name into every conversation.
"And your mother's side?" Clara chimed in, leaning forward slightly, eager for more.
Violet hesitated, then added quietly, "Phyllida Spore. She wrote One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi."
Laurel and Clara exchanged a look of approval, as though Violet had passed some invisible test by having not one, but two famous ancestors. Harry, on the other hand, saw something else. Violet's reluctance told him everything he needed to know—she wasn't like the others, and that made her more tolerable. She wasn't seeking validation through her lineage.
Edgar Trimble arrived soon after, slipping into the seat beside Felix without much fanfare. Harry heard the briefest mention of his family—Quentin Trimble, the author of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection—but Edgar didn't linger on it. He kept his head down, listening rather than speaking. Harry caught Edgar's eye for a brief moment and gave him a nod, appreciating the boy's quiet demeanor. Edgar wasn't here to boast; he was here to learn.
Further down the table, Felix Viridian arrived with a grin, immediately cracking a joke that had Edgar laughing. Harry observed the dynamic between them for a moment, noting that Felix, unlike the others, didn't seem interested in family names at all. Vindictus Viridian's Curses and Counter-Curses would have given Felix some bragging rights, but he didn't bother bringing it up. Instead, Felix seemed more interested in entertaining those around him, his humor lighting up the table.
Finally, Jacob Wright arrived, his movements cautious as he took his place at the far end of the table. Harry recognized the familiar look of awe on his face—another Muggleborn, clearly overwhelmed by the grandeur of the Great Hall and everything that came with it. Jacob, like Emma, kept quiet, observing rather than engaging with the conversation. There was a sharpness in his eyes, though, as though he were trying to piece everything together before jumping in.
As the Sorting came to a close and the feast began in earnest, Harry found his thoughts drifting once more. The new students were what he had expected—some eager to flaunt their family names, others unsure of themselves in this strange new world. Laurel and Clara were predictable, their conversations filled with names and legacies, while Violet stood apart, reluctant to follow suit. Edgar and Felix, too, seemed more grounded, not as concerned with proving their worth through heritage.
But Luna... Luna was different.
She wasn't interested in any of it. The whispers, the sideways glances—they slid off her like water. Her responses, though whimsical, had a bite to them that only Harry seemed to notice. She was clever, but she hid it well. There was power in that kind of indifference, and Harry found himself amused by it.
As he reached for more food, he made a mental note to keep an eye on Luna. There was potential there, hidden beneath the surface, and he was always on the lookout for sharp minds.
For now, though, he let the conversations drift around him, his thoughts already turning back to the year ahead. There was much to do, and many pieces to put into place.
—
As the early morning light filtered through the tall windows of the staff room, Severus Snape entered, his black robes sweeping behind him like the billowing shadows of his own thoughts. His expression was tight with irritation, and he barely glanced at the others as he took his seat. The summer had been nothing but a string of false leads and wasted time. The boy had slipped through their fingers, likely in Grindelwald's grasp the entire time, learning Merlin-knew-what.
"I've spent weeks—weeks—this summer tracking Potter across the globe," Snape began coldly, his voice slicing through the quiet. "Dead leads, false trails, every corner of the Earth. And all the while, he was likely enjoying his time with Grindelwald, beyond our reach."
Dumbledore, seated at the head of the table, regarded Snape with his usual maddening calm. That patience, that unshakeable trust. It made Snape's blood boil. He's too trusting. Always has been.
"I understand your frustration, Severus," Dumbledore replied, his tone gentle. "But I believe we must exercise patience in this matter."
Snape's lip curled. Patience. It was always patience with Dumbledore. The Headmaster refused to see the danger. He had been blind before, with the Dark Lord, with Severus himself. Had let far too many young Slytherins choose their own path. And now, he was making the same mistake again with Potter.
"Patience?" Snape's fingers drummed irritably on the table. "Potter has been trained by Grindelwald for years, and we've seen firsthand what that training has produced. Last year, in his very first Potions class, he deflected my Legilimency—then used Mesmerism against me."
The memory still burned in Snape's mind, the humiliation of that moment. Potter, barely eleven years old, had countered his Legilimency and forced him to compliment the boy in front of the class. The staff had sided with Potter, as if he had been the one in the wrong. They hadn't seen the danger in that boy's eyes, hadn't felt the cold, calculated control in his magic.
McGonagall shot Snape a sharp look, her voice clipped but controlled. "We've discussed this already, Severus. You were using Legilimency on a first-year student. We can't condemn him for defending himself."
Snape's dark eyes flicked to McGonagall, his jaw tightening. Defending himself? They were fools. They couldn't see what he saw. That wasn't a frightened child defending himself. That was Potter testing his power, pushing the limits, seeing how much control he could exert.
"We shouldn't be treating him like any other student," Snape hissed. "Potter's skills are far beyond what's normal. He doesn't need our guidance—he needs to be watched."
Flitwick, who had been silent until now, leaned forward slightly. His tone was calm but curious. "I've been keeping an eye on him in Charms. While Harry's abilities are indeed remarkable, he hasn't shown any malice."
Not yet, Snape thought bitterly. That was how it had been with the Dark Lord, wasn't it? Charm them first. Make them believe you're harmless. The boy was clever, too clever for his own good. His ambition simmered beneath the surface, quiet but unmistakable. The staff was too dazzled by his talent to see the danger that lurked there.
"Measured. Calculating," Snape said, his voice low and cold. "That's precisely what makes him dangerous. He's not impulsive, not reckless. He knows exactly what he's doing."
McGonagall crossed her arms, frowning. "Do you truly believe Harry is following Grindelwald's path? He's a child, Severus."
Child? Snape sneered inwardly. He's no child. Children didn't master Mesmerism before their twelfth birthday. Children didn't walk into a Potions classroom and make no mistakes. Potter was calculating. Snape could see the ambition behind his composed demeanor. He recognized it. It was the same ambition that had driven the Dark Lord to power.
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly, his eyes twinkling with something Snape couldn't place. "I've spoken with Harry. His ambition is undeniable, yes, but it's not the kind you imagine, Severus. He is not interested in domination or destruction."
Snape's fingers curled into fists beneath the table. Of course, you would say that, he thought darkly. Dumbledore had always believed in redemption, always believed he could guide anyone away from darkness. But Snape knew better. He had seen firsthand what ambition could do, how it could twist and corrupt, especially when nurtured by someone like Grindelwald.
"You're too trusting, Headmaster," Snape said, his voice lowering dangerously. "Potter's ambition is far more dangerous than you realize. He doesn't need to seek power—it's being handed to him. And when he does seek it..."
Snape's voice trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air. He knew what would happen. He had seen it before. The Dark Lord had been like that once—charming, brilliant, but with an ambition that had consumed everything in its path. And now Potter... Potter had the same look in his eyes.
Flitwick tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I'll continue to keep an eye on him in Charms, but so far, he's been focused on learning. Ambition isn't inherently dangerous, Severus."
Not inherently, Snape thought bitterly, but it almost always led there. Grindelwald's influence was still there, lurking beneath the surface, shaping Potter in ways they couldn't see. And the boy was clever enough to keep it hidden, to play the role of the quiet, studious student while planning his next move.
Dumbledore's voice cut through Snape's thoughts, calm but firm. "We will guide him, Severus. That is our role. We cannot let fear cloud our judgment."
Fear? Snape's scowl deepened. It wasn't fear that drove him—it was experience. He had been there when the Dark Lord rose to power, he had seen what unchecked ambition did. He had seen it destroy lives, twist minds. And now Potter, with all his talents and his calculating mind, was on the same path.
"I only hope your trust doesn't blind you, Headmaster," Snape said quietly, his voice edged with bitterness. "Before it's too late."
—
The Ravenclaw dormitory was quiet as evening settled over the castle, the shadows stretching long across the walls. Harry sat at the desk by his window, the light of the setting sun casting an amber glow over his open books, though his attention was far from his studies. His fingers traced the spine of Advanced Transfiguration, but his thoughts were elsewhere, processing the events of the day.
Largely it had been a typical first day, but Harry's mind had been preoccupied, working beneath the surface, watching, analyzing. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window as the sun sank lower. He wasn't just another student here. Every move mattered, every lesson, every interaction. Dumbledore knew it, too. They were players in the same game, even if the others didn't realize it.
Herbology had been first. Professor Sprout was competent—solid, if unremarkable. The subject itself held little interest for Harry, though he appreciated the precision needed when handling plants like Mandrakes. These were only babies, and while the other students recoiled at the shrill cries, Harry barely flinched. He had seen fully grown Mandrakes in his travels, and these were hardly anything to marvel at. Sprout was, as ever, a reliable but predictable piece on the board. A rook, maybe—strong but limited in her movements.
Then came Defense Against the Dark Arts. Lockhart.
Harry suppressed a smirk at the thought of the man. Gilderoy Lockhart had sailed into the classroom like some kind of peacock, basking in the students' awe. Harry had seen the man's books in Flourish and Blotts the previous year and had dismissed them as nonsense after a cursory skim. Most of the wizarding world seemed captivated by him, though, and that told Harry more about them than about Lockhart. He didn't bother trying to hide his boredom during the class. Lockhart wasn't even a player on the board—he was a distraction, a child's doll dressed up in fancy robes set beside it.
Charms followed. Professor Flitwick, ever animated and enthusiastic, had greeted the class with his usual energy. But Harry noticed the way Flitwick's eyes lingered on him from time to time, sharper than they appeared. The little professor wasn't to be underestimated. A knight, perhaps—nimble, quick, able to move in ways others wouldn't expect. Harry made a mental note to stay cautious around him, even if their interactions remained pleasant for now.
Finally, there was Potions. Snape had been his usual simmering cauldron of resentment. Their unspoken tension was palpable. Last year's encounter still lingered between them—the day Snape had tried to probe his mind, only to be met with Harry's Mesmerism. It had left a mark on their interactions, and Harry could feel Snape probing, looking for weaknesses. But Harry had been careful, keeping his thoughts guarded, his behavior impeccable. If McGonagall was Dumbledore's rook, straight-forward and powerful, Snape was his bishop—cutting diagonally, striking when least expected. Still, even bishops could be cornered.
Dumbledore, of course, was the player at the other end of the board.
Harry's eyes narrowed as he thought of the Headmaster. In each class, he had been watching, waiting for any signs that Dumbledore was setting his pieces in motion. The old man preferred subtlety—he never moved directly, always manipulating others to make his plays. It was part of why Harry respected him. Their game was complex, layered, but it was always there, beneath the surface.
He wondered what Dumbledore had planned for this year. Their conversation after the Philosopher's Stone incident had been revealing—he'd held his own in their debate, but Dumbledore certainly hadn't seemed convinced by Harry's reasoning. The Headmaster had been impressed, he knew that much. But impressed didn't mean trusted.
Leaning forward, Harry rested his chin on his hand, staring out into the darkening sky. He had taken Dumbledore's measure last year, but it wasn't enough. The old man was playing a long game, one Harry was still trying to fully understand. The key was patience, not making any hasty moves in ignorance.
As for the other professors... they could be moved. Some, like Flitwick and McGonagall, might even become temporary allies if he played them correctly. Snape was trickier—there was too much resentment there, too much history. But even Snape was predictable in his hatred, and Harry could use that.
The students, though—they were pawns. Easily influenced, easily misdirected. Most of them viewed him with a mix of awe and confusion, some even fear, though they hid it well. Harry smiled faintly. They had no idea. But he wasn't ready to reveal his hand. Not yet. For now, he would let them play their roles, unknowing.
He glanced down at the open book on his desk. Diagrams of Transfiguration spells stared back at him, neat and precise, but his thoughts were far beyond spellwork. Knowledge was power, but control... control was something different. Something deeper.
He had seen it in Dumbledore's eyes last year—the old man's hesitation, the recognition that Harry was not like the other students. There had been no reprimand, no lectures—just understanding. Dumbledore was playing a game, too. But Harry wasn't going to let him win without a fight.
Exhaling slowly, Harry drummed his fingers on the book's cover. Today had been about watching, learning the lay of the land. He could already see the moves ahead, the steps he'd need to take. But he would wait. Let the pieces move on their own for now. The real game was still to come.
The sky outside was fully dark now, and Harry's reflection stared back at him from the window, calm and calculating. Dumbledore might be the most dangerous piece on the board, but even kings could be cornered if the strategy was sound enough.
—
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls of Hagrid's hut. Outside, the Forbidden Forest stood dark and silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. Inside, the warmth was comforting, but Hagrid couldn't shake the heaviness that weighed on his chest.
Fang, his ever-faithful boarhound, lay stretched out by the fire, his massive head resting on his paws. Every so often, his tail would give a soft thump against the floor, as if sensing the unease in the room.
Hagrid scratched his scruffy beard, pacing slowly across the small space. He glanced down at Fang, who lifted his head lazily to watch his master. "What am I gonna do, Fang?" Hagrid muttered, rubbing a large hand over his face. "I can't just go tellin' Dumbledore 'bout all this. Not yet."
Fang let out a low, contented sigh, oblivious to Hagrid's inner turmoil. Hagrid stopped his pacing, bending down to scratch the dog behind the ears. "You don't get it, do yeh, boy? Always so simple with yeh... but this is big. Bigger than anythin'."
His mind drifted, unbidden, to the meeting deep within the Forbidden Forest, to the dark, shadowy web Aragog had spun between the towering trees. He remembered the gleam in the Acromantula matriarch's many eyes as she spoke—not just as a spider, but as a leader, making her demands.
And Harry—barely twelve, yet speaking to Aragog as if she were no different from any wizard, negotiating trade with the calm confidence of someone far beyond his years. Hagrid shook his head in wonder, his voice barely more than a murmur as he continued to scratch Fang's head. "Wasn't scared o' her at all. Most wizards'd be runnin' fer their lives... but not Harry. Talked to 'er like she was jus' another person."
Hagrid frowned, standing up straight and staring into the fire. The flames danced, casting warm light on his face, but his thoughts were far from the cozy room. "She wants the Centaurs to recognize her—give her and her colony official territory in the Forest. That's madness, Fang! Madness! Centaurs and Acromantulas... they'll tear each other apart if it ever comes to that."
Fang let out a soft whine, his large eyes looking up at Hagrid as if to offer some comfort. But the worry in Hagrid's heart wasn't so easily soothed. He tossed another log onto the fire, watching it catch and flare. The thought of Aragog's request weighed heavily on him—what she wanted, what she needed to survive. And Harry... what would he do with this knowledge?
"Thing is," Hagrid muttered, turning back to Fang, "Harry promised to help 'er. An' I promised 'er... an' him... I'd give him the message." His voice faltered, and for a moment, he looked like a man caught between two worlds. "But... should I? What if it's too dangerous? What if... what if Harry's gettin' too deep into somethin' he can't handle?"
He didn't know Harry well—not like Dumbledore or the professors did. Their paths hadn't crossed much at Hogwarts—he caught glimpses of Harry, but always at a distance. The boy had changed, Hagrid knew that much, though how deep those changes went... that, he couldn't say.
"I dunno, Fang..." Hagrid slumped into his oversized chair, his head in his hands. "He's not a bad kid... never was. But Grindelwald... that old monster... he's changed Harry. Made him... colder. Too clever fer his own good, maybe."
Fang lifted his head, nudging Hagrid's leg with his wet nose, a silent plea for comfort. Hagrid smiled weakly and gave the dog a firm pat. "Yeh're right, boy. He's still Harry... still the baby I pulled from the wreckage of Godric's Hollow."
He looked toward the window, where the stars twinkled faintly through the glass. His heart swelled with memories of the tiny bundle he had carried that night, the small, innocent face that had slept so soundly against his chest. That same baby had grown into the sharp-eyed boy who now negotiated with Acromantulas without flinching.
"Harry wouldn't do nothin' bad on purpose," Hagrid said softly, almost as if trying to convince himself. "I trust him... but this? This is different." His hand moved absently to his chest, where the weight of the promise he'd made to Aragog and Harry settled like a stone.
With a deep breath, Hagrid stood, his massive frame casting a long shadow against the walls. "I'll give 'im the message, like I said I would. He'll know what to do. He's smarter than I ever was."
But the doubt still lingered, gnawing at him. Hagrid looked down at Fang, who thumped his tail in quiet encouragement. "Let's hope I ain't wrong, Fang... Let's hope Harry's still the boy I think he is."
He gave Fang one last scratch behind the ears, his resolve settling like a heavy cloak around his shoulders. Soon he'd find Harry and pass on Aragog's request. What the boy did with it was up to him. But Hagrid couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something far bigger than he'd ever imagined.