It took me a long time to fall asleep that last night at the Residence, and then I had to wake up earlier than usual so that Gary could take me to the station. He was the youngest member of the staff, in his late twenties and with a lush, long hair that put my own wavy, tangly dark one to shame. He also had slight compulsive tendencies, making me check and recheck time and time again the departure time, and that I was carrying everything I'd need. What about your toothbrush? Did you pack enough socks? But at least he was kind enough to lift the heavy trunk for me into the van, and then back onto a trolley once we arrived at King's Cross.

He left me sitting on a bench on Platform 9, in the midst of a throng of commuters rushing this and that way, and convinced —with my help, and that of whatever tricks Dumbledore had employed to ensure the Residence's staff wouldn't inquire too much into the nature of my new schooling— that my train was about to arrive in a few minutes.

I waited there for a moment after he left, examining the people around me, and sure enough I quickly identified a small group that didn't fit in with the rest: a family of four, two adults and two kids, one of them pushing a trolley not unlike my own. Except that they were all dressed in elegant robes of muted tones. Somehow, their odd looks didn't seem to attract any attention from the other hurried travellers.

I saw them approach a pillar by the middle of the platform, and one moment later there were only two of them remaining. I stood up, and when I looked back at them, they were gone.

So that was the entrance, then. I approached the pillar moving quickly now, trolley in front of me, my hands grasping its bar so hard they'd likely leave twin imprints on it. My heart was beating fast as I walked purposefully and aimed straight at the wall of bricks. Right before I was about to collide head-first into it, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

And I promptly collided into something.

The trolley suddenly stopped rolling as I crashed into whatever it was, and I heard a sharp cry of pain coming from further ahead, followed by someone exclaiming "Seraphina!" I opened my eyes to see that I had indeed crossed the threshold —I was in a different platform now, the bright red locomotive of the Hogwarts Express puffing clouds of steam to my left. But my trolley had run straight into the woman from the family of four I'd seen before. Shaken, she was picking herself up from where she'd fallen to the floor. The man who I guessed was her husband —tall and gaunt and with his hair cropped short— was advancing towards me with a murderous expression in his eyes, wand out and already aimed my way.

"What is the meaning of this?" he was saying, spitting each word out.

"Whoa! Hey!" I said, scrambling to produce my own wand out of my pocket and aiming it his way. I hoped he'd be particularly sensitive to the wand-lighting charm, if a fight were to break out. "Sorry, it was an accident!"

"An accident," he said through clenched teeth, as if tasting the sound of it. But he seemed to calm down when his wife placed a hand on his shoulder, having recovered from her tumble. He looked around, probably realizing we were starting to attract the attention of some of the other parents nearby. "Don't you have eyes on your face, you utter buffoon?"

I tensed my fists, my wand seeming to be coming alive with magic. The nerve of this... bloke!

"I couldn't exactly see you through the pillar, could I?" I replied. "It was your own fault for not clearing the landing area!"

His eyes widened at that, and I was sure he was about to send a jinx my way when one of his children —a girl I put about four years ahead of me, with sharp cheeks and her hair in a ponytail braid— whispered something to him. He paused and looked me up and down, paying attention to my very Muggle clothing.

"Unbelievable. I keep saying it, if we allow this riff-raff to attend Hogwarts, it won't be long before the school's reputation is in tatters."

I was about to say something in reply, but he had already turned his back to me and was walking away with his family, as if I was now beneath his notice. So instead I put my wand back into my pocket and decided to let it lie. And with that remark of casual racism under my belt, I took a look around, advancing along the platform, trying my best so that it wouldn't sour my entire experience.

I was early, but there were already a good number of families with their offspring, boys and girls of different ages saying their goodbyes before boarding the train. I kept an eye open, but didn't recognize any of them. Which didn't really surprise me, since except for the Weasleys and possibly that Cedric Diggory character, I couldn't really remember the faces of any of the older kids at Hogwarts. Even those in my own year seemed fuzzy in my fore-memories, aside for the Golden Trio and a couple others such as Malfoy and company. And I suspected most of them wouldn't even look that much like their movie counterparts, anyway.

I approached a stand with a few copies of the Daily Prophet and took a quick look at the front-page, curious to see what the recent news would say. I should really start paying more attention to the comings and goings of the Wizarding World, I figured, but it was hard to do so while cooped away at the Residence, and without any money to pay for a subscription of my own.

The top heading was for Minister Fudge —his picture nodded softly and gave me a smarmy smile— and his new law regarding the breeding of magical beasts, which seemed to be the political hot button for the Summer of '91; but my eyes jumped to the article next to it, the one explaining how the Goblins would be increasing security measures at Gringotts after the attempted break-in.

So, the plot was afoot.

I sighed and advanced towards the train. I boarded one of the carriages near the middle, dragging the heavy trunk after me with some effort.

After much thinking, I had decided that discretion was the better part of valour. I held very valuable knowledge, knowledge that could certainly save lives. But at the same time I also knew that the good guys would end up winning; unless I started changing things to save this or that character, that is. I risked derailing the entire timeline into a complete catastrophe if I tried to intervene; the destructive potential of my actions far outweighing whatever help I could provide. Eyeballing it was simply too dangerous.

Another option I had considered was to come clean to Dumbledore: explain everything I knew, all about my unusual circumstances, and give him a neatly packaged list of the Horcruxes and key future events. Still risky, yes, but not as much if it was Dumbledore manipulating the timeline rather than me doing it. I supposed that would be enough to pre-empt Voldemort's return, but it would also put me in the cross-hairs. Not only Dumbledore's —who would have no qualms using me and my knowledge in whichever way he wished, ugh— but also the Ministry of Magic's, if word of my uniqueness was to ever reach their ears. I might survive the war —stop it from happening, even!— just to spend the rest of my life locked up in a little room, unspeakeables prodding at me. And what was the point of saving the world if you didn't get to enjoy it afterwards?

But more than that, I refused to see my life, my strange rebirth here, as simply a way for the universe or fate or whatever to ensure Voldemort was defeated. I didn't want to be... a mere tool, just here to deliver some valuable info to those at the top, always subjected to their decisions and their wants. There was life outside of Hogwarts, and I had a future to live for. One of my own, that belonged just to me, that I was still to build and that I pretty much didn't want Dumbledore to sacrifice in his altar of noble causes.

After all, the world was full with evil shit, magical or not; it wasn't my responsibility to fix it.

So, I was sticking to my plan: keep a low profile. Priority one: get good at magic, and change only what I need to in order to ensure my own safety, my own survival. And perhaps my own good fortunes, too. Priority two: maybe help save some of the victims if I could find the opportunity in the future, once I'd had more time to decide on which ones and how.

So with that in mind I avoided the compartments with occupants already in them and claimed an empty one. I took advantage of my early arrival to close the door, draw the curtains, and quickly change into my Hogwarts robes before storing my trunk away. That way I wouldn't need to do that later, surrounded by all the little twerps. And sure, perhaps I was also influenced by the way that man had looked at my Muggle outfit, so what?

I doubted for a moment whether to pull back the curtains again or leave them closed as they were, so that I could maybe enjoy an empty compartment for the duration of the entire trip. But I ended up pulling them back. I wanted a low profile, yes, but there was such a thing as going too far; I didn't want to end up as the brooding hermit who talked to nobody, which would also risk attracting attention, if for a different reason. Instead I retrieved the 'History of Magic' book from my trunk and started reading from where I'd left it the days before, determined to simply fit in.

It didn't take long for the door to open again.

"Hi. Can we sit here?" It was an older boy dragging a pair of hovering trunks, followed by a wiry kid my own age. They looked alike, both of them dark haired.

I nodded, removing my feet from the seat in front. I didn't recognize either of them, and the older one confirmed that to me:

"I'm Carl Hopkins, this is my brother Wayne. It's his first year. Yours too?"

"Sylvia Sarramond. I'm a firstie too, yes."

"Oh, that's brilliant! Perhaps you'll even end up in the same house! See? I told you you'd end up meeting people in the train," he said, elbowing his brother, who seemed intent on disappearing into the ground.

I gave them a beaming smile, because I had absolutely no idea who these two were. Which was brilliant indeed, since it meant I didn't have to watch my every word not to accidentally derail an entire timeline and ruin the world. We talked for a few minutes about favourite subjects and what not while the carriage filled up with more students and the train readied for departure, the noise of conversations and people walking past coming from the corridor outside. I wasn't surprised to hear that Carl's most hated subject was Potions, and I could hazard a reason as to why, seeing as he was wearing his school robes over a scarlet red tie, with a lion shield on his breast pocket.

I was about to ask for tips on how to survive unnoticed in Snape's class when the compartment's door opened again.

"Oh, you three are already wearing your school robes? Me too, of course. It's much easier this way, isn't it? Are you reading the 'History of Magic' textbook? I finished it two days ago, but now I've started 'Hogwarts: A History' and I find it much more interesting. Did you know that there are a hundred and forty-two staircases at Hogwarts? I hope I can find them all. I'm Hermione, by the way, Hermione Granger. May I sit here?"

Shit.

I tried to think of a reason for saying no, but Carl was already introducing himself and his brother, and the girl with the frizzy hair was determined to sitting next to me. So I simply sighed and said "Sylvia Sarramond" and shuffled to the window seat. I opened my book again and pretended to go back to reading.

"-and was very surprised when Professor McGonagall brought me my Hogwarts letter and told me I was a witch. Both My parents are Muggles, you see, so I had no idea about magic being real. What about yours?"

"Ah," said Carl, a bit taken aback at the girl's machine-gun-like intensity. "We are half-blood, Wayne and me: our father is a wizard, but mum is a Muggle."

Then they all turned their eyes at me, the buggers.

"I don't know," I deadpanned. "Never met my birth parents."

And then there was silence, which suited me just fine, because at least it seemed to steal the wind out of Hermione's sails, who had been talking non-stop for the last half hour.

After a few moments Carl —being the Gryffindor he was— tried to necromance the conversation back to life: "Oh... uhm... so is that because of You-Know-Who? And... do you live with... uhm?"

"I am Muggle-raised," I explained, taking pity on him.

"Oh?" he said, surprised. "I thought you were... I mean, you seemed to know who Snape is."

Careful now. I shrugged, patted the cover of my book and said simply: "I pay attention, read ahead and such, you know. Also McGonagall took me to Diagon Alley, explained lots of things to me."

"Who is Snape?" asked Hermione, frowning slightly at me.

"It's the Potions teacher," explained Carl. "A proper git. He's also Head of the Slytherin house."

Which turned the conversation to the much safer grounds of which house we wished to be sorted into. Hermione of course gushed over Gryffindor, and asked Carl over a dozen questions in the span of five minutes, ranging from what the common room looked like to how many times they'd won the House Cup. Wayne claimed he wished to join the house of the lions too, but looked less enthused about it. "I just hope I don't get sorted into Slytherin," he added. Unnecessarily, to my opinion, because that didn't seem like a particularly probable risk for the subdued kid.

"I would prefer Ravenclaw myself," I said, sticking to the image I was beginning to cultivate. "I'm not... well, I'm not very chivalrous, but I enjoy reading. And a house where I can do that and get better at magic seems like a nice fit."

Not to say, the stupid online quizzes from my fore-memories had me pegged as a Ravenclaw, so I'd always identified more with the blue house. And with my superior self-discipline, maturity, and learning techniques, combined with the knowledge granted by my past life I was sure I'd soon look like the Ravenclawest Ravenclaw who ever Ravenclawed.

"But you can read books and learn magic in any house," argued Hermione. And she was arguing, because she was frowning and with her arms crossed. "Headmaster Dumbledore is considered the most skilled wizard alive, and he is a Gryffindor!"

I was about to give her a rebuttal, praise the merits of my future house when I double-checked myself. What was I doing? I could not risk accidentally convincing Hermione into not joining the lions. So instead I simply shrugged, muttered "Guess you're right," and went back to my book.

Which seemed to anger her further, for some reason. She was revving up for another assault when the door opened once more.

"Ha- hello. Have you seen a- a toad here? I seem to have lost my T- Trevor."

We all shook our heads, but Hermione stood up, sent an irritated gaze my way, and then walked out of the compartment with the boy, snapping the door shut in her wake. "Hi, I'm Hermione. I'll help you look for it. What is your name?..."

I let out a relieved sigh the moment I heard her voice fade in the distance. Carl gave me a charitable smile.

He said: "Intense, uh?"

I nodded. "Looks like I didn't make a good impression on her."

"Don't worry about that. If you end up in the same house you'll have time to get to know each other better. And if you don't..." He shrugged, as if to say 'who cares, then?'

The rest of the trip went on without incident, or intense girls. We talked some more about Hogwarts, about our respective home lives, and my visit to Diagon Alley —Carl and Wayne were particularly amused at how I'd managed to coax the stern McGonagall into buying me pretty clothes.

And if I did overstate how effective my arguments to her had been, they didn't need to know.

At some point the witch with the sweets trolley made a visit. The two brothers went all in: liquorice wands and chocolate frogs and cauldron cakes, and looked a tad sheepish when I didn't partake. I did have a couple of Galleons and a few Sickles and Nuts that McGonagall had left me with —for personal expenses, she'd said. And I did have a handful of British pounds I'd managed to scrounge over the years —some legally, most not— and that I still needed to exchange. But that was the full extents of my wealth, and I didn't want to squander it before we even got to the castle.

In the end I did ask for a pumpkin fizz, if only to stop the two kids from feeling self-conscious. And also to learn what all that fuss wizards had about pumpkins and pumpkin by-products was about.

It wasn't bad. Fizzy.

We fell into a companionable silence after that: me alternating between reading my book and looking at the rugged landscape of the Scottish Highlands out the window, my mind thinking of the challenges to come; the Hopkins talking low among themselves, playing some sort of trading card game which I eventually joined —I won a couple of cards, probably because the boys went easy on me, one of Dumbledore and one of Copernicus. Hermione did return a short while before we arrived at our destination. She didn't say much to me, and I returned the favour.

Getting off the train was pandemonium. I suddenly found myself stumbling down a steep hill in the dark and surrounded by screeching kids, all pushing and elbowing each other to get to the front of our little group, some because of raw excitement, others because of fear of getting separated or lost.

Not that it was a risk, given that Hagrid towered over us lamp in hand, like a duck mum over her ducklings, visible for miles around. He wasn't really a mountain of a man, I realized the moment I put my eyes on him. No, it was more than that. He was monstrous, in a way that was impossible without magic —or very, very unique genetics.

I guessed it was both of them, in his case. And I also knew he was supposed to be the kind-hearted, gentle giant; but I felt dwarfed and intimidated by his enormous presence all the same. He would have intimidated me even if I was still adult-sized, but being eleven it felt like beholding a titan who could crush my skull with his bare hands if he so chose.

I did my best to avoid his notice and ended up in a boat along with the younger Hopkins, Hermione and another girl with mousy hair I didn't recognize. Hermione being with me was concerning: wasn't she supposed to be in the same boat as Ron and Harry Potter? Or maybe not. I looked around, but I couldn't identify the occupants of any of the other boats just by their silhouettes.

The devil was on the details, and it was the details that I couldn't remember, so I couldn't get rid of that feeling of something being already wrong. Already different, somehow.

The feeling that I shouldn't be here; that this was not for me.

But then the boats turned around a bend of the shore, the lake opened up, and I entirely forgot about all that. Hogwarts appeared over us. The castle's vast and majestic silhouette an impossible sight full of dramatic towers and stone buttresses, contrasting against the darkness of the starry sky; the windows lit up in a warm, inviting-

"That there must be the Great Hall!" exclaimed Hermione. "Oh, and that is the Gryffindor Tower! It says in 'Hogwarts: A History' that the stairs to get there can move on their own, and that-"

"Shh!" I said. Then grumbled low under my breath: "Don't ruin it for me." I hadn't meant for her to hear that last thing, but in the sudden silence of the lake the whisper seemed to carry further, and I could feel Hermione's eyes on my back all the way into the docks and up the stairs we climbed afterwards.

My entrance into Hogwarts was half-surreal, half filled with trepidation. From the moment we disembarked and I set foot on the flagstone floors of the castle I couldn't stop thinking that there was no way this fairy-tale place could be real, that I must be dreaming somehow. And at the same time there was a complete solidity to the powerful stone walls surrounding us, to the elegantly arched ceilings. That realness, that familiarity of materials and construction would conspire to make me forget I was in a bloody magic castle, make it look like it was yet another old building, a cathedral or some old monastery like those I'd visited in my fore-memories. But then we would walk pass a moving portrait, or a floating candelabra and the vertigo of where I truly was would hit me once more.

I wasn't new to these sort of existential tensions, though. And in the end, the weight of the moment-to-moment present life won out, imposing itself by sheer stubbornness as it always did. And sure, I understood that this was a castle out of a children's book, but at the same time I couldn't deny that this was real; that this was my life now, apparently. And while children's book existed, children's worlds did not. Like the Muggle world I knew and despised, the Wizarding World was too an adult world, ruled and shaped by adults. And I wondered about which parts had been edited out of the first Harry Potter book, their nature too complex, too subtle for the light-hearted adventure story.

We gathered in front of the large doors I assumed led to the Great Hall, and there stood McGonagall like a gargoyle, causing everyone to fall into a hush with her mere presence. She surveyed the crowd, not paying me any special attention, and then said: "Welcome to Hogwarts," and launched herself into an explanation of the houses system, which I already knew enough about, so I let my eyes wander across the group of first years.

Now that we were under some more light I could recognize some of my classmates. I'd lost track of Hopkins before, but he was a little to my right, next to two twin girls who looked like they were of Indian descent: the Patel twins —or Patil, I couldn't remember. Over there was Neville Longbottom, who I'd already seen on the train. And the blonde kid with the narrow face and haughty airs could be none other than Draco Malfoy, which meant the two pudgier blokes next to him were Crabbe and Goyle —or Goyle and Crabbe. I noticed that Draco was also paying more attention to the crowd than to McGonagall, as if he too already knew everything there was to know about the different houses.

And then... Ah, there he was.

The Boy Who Lived didn't look like much. To be fair, none of us did —we were eleven, after all. He was somewhat weedy and dishevelled, the glasses dominating his face. He seemed out of place, as if he too wasn't sure he belonged here —which was a ridiculous notion, it was his name on the cover after all. Maybe he was overwhelmed. But mostly: he looked like a kid. Just a kid. You wouldn't imagine he would grow up to save the Wizarding World, to defeat Voldemort.

Hell, if he knew what I knew, he'd probably be well on his way to France by now.

Or maybe not. Maybe he would stare resolutely at that dark future ahead of him, and stubborn his way through it. Wasn't that his thing, after all? And I couldn't help but feel sad on his behalf. And guilty, because here I was with all the answers, and I was going to do nothing but hide in the shadows, let him take the brunt of it.

Then he shifted his weight and his eyes met mine for a beat. He quickly looked away, and gave his hair a fast sweep with his hand, positioning it so that his scar was covered.

Right. I guess I was gawking at a celebrity, wasn't I? I wasn't making a good impression on the Golden Trio so far. Now I only had to insult Ron's family for the hat-trick. The red headed boy next to Harry seemed unaware of me, though, so better to keep it that way.

McGonagall left, and there was a sudden commotion when the ghosts made their appearance. They were... odd. I had that memory from the movies that they were supposed to look and sound like people; floating, see-through people. And they did, for the most part. But when you looked at them out of the corner of your eye they seemed to lose definition, somehow becoming blurrier and misty; and their voices had an ethereal quality to them that I found strangely unnerving.

But I put them out of my mind because soon enough we went through the doors and into the Great Hall. It was... well, it was something.

Larger than in my fore-memories, the tables longer and the aisles wider, but somehow familiar at the same time. Bathed in the warm light of hundreds of floating candles; with colonnades at the sides that rose to disappear into the night sky overhead. And dozens of students already seated, looking at us with curiosity as we queued into the centre of the enormous room, lined up in front of the stool with the old hat on it.

And beyond the stool, the head table with the teachers: Dumbledore, now looking much more impressive —and unmistakable— in his flowing colourful robes rather than that old corduroy suit. A man in dark robes and with a hooked nose that I quickly recognized as Snape. The short professor of Charms —I couldn't remember his name, Flickit or something?— who looked as excited about the sorting as Snape didn't. Another name that eluded me was that of the stout grandmotherly witch who taught Herbology. But she was there, along with a few other adults I didn't identify.

But there was a notable absence, because the guy with the turban, the guy with Voldemort's face sticking out the back of his head —Quirrell, I believed his name was— was nowhere to be found.

It took me a moment to notice, and one more to scan the entire room in search for him and to realize that no, he wasn't here. And one more moment to start panicking, because... why wasn't he here?

The hat was singing, but I couldn't hear the words. A cold fear was filling my veins, my heart beating fast. What the hell was going on? He was there in the movies, I knew that, he attended the banquet after the sorting ceremony. But was he there in the books too? Did he join later? I racked my memories, struggling to remember every detail from a book I'd read a lifetime ago; literally.

I was still trying to recall when the sorting began, McGonagall's no-nonsense voice rising across the hall: "Abbot, Hannah!"

Shit. What was going on? Was this normal, expected? Or was it...?

I knew I wouldn't be able to recall it, not that small a detail. So what could I do?

"Hufflepuff!"

I bit my lip, took a deep breath, and approached one of the female students at the Ravenclaw table: "Ah... excuse me?"

"Brown, Lavender!"

I tugged at her robes. "Excuse me?"

She turned, no doubt surprised to see a firstie addressing her. "What? Uh, hi. Do you need anything?"

"Crabbe, Vincent!"

"Right, I'm sorry but... I was just wondering..." I pointed at the head table. "Do you know who is our Defence professor this year?"

She looked at me like I'd grown a second head.

"Slytherin!"

"I think it's... that one," she said at last, "the witch in the green cloak next to Professor Snape. Not sure what her name is. Why?"

Oh shit. Oh no.

"W- wasn't there supposed to be a Professor Quirrell, then?"

"Granger, Hermione!"

She shook her head. "No, you got it wrong. Quirrell used to teach Muggle Studies, but he's in a holiday or something of the sort. This year we have a new professor on that class too. But shouldn't you be paying more attention to-"

"Gryffindor!"

"Right. Thank you," I said, returning to my place in the queue, my legs feeling like jelly.

This was wrong.

Not Hermione going to Gryffindor; that was right. Among the only light in the tunnel I suddenly was trapped in. Because... what the hell? Quirrell gone, some nobody professor teaching Defence? What the...?

I had a moment of hope as I considered if perhaps the whole thing wouldn't happen. If perhaps Voldemort hadn't returned in the form of an unholy abscess. If perhaps the future didn't hold all those terrible things I remembered.

But it was short-lived, because I had read about the Gringotts break-in in the Daily Prophet. And I knew that it was Voldemort behind it. So what gives?

"Hopkins, Wayne!"

It was my fault. It had to be. I didn't know how, but my presence here was the only change I was aware of. And now this. Perhaps the day Dumbledore had visited me he was meant to reply to Quirrell's letter or something, and he hadn't and now Quirrell wasn't here and now the timeline train was off the tracks. Whatever it was, though, I had a deep suspicion it had begun with me.

"Hufflepuff!"

So what do I do now?

Well, I had to do something. If Quirrell —or someone else possessed by Voldemort— was out there and trying to access the Philosopher's Stone through other means, there was no longer any guarantee he wouldn't succeed. Which meant I'd need to act after all, if I wanted him to remain bodiless and things not to deteriorate into an early war. And sure, there was the tell-Dumbledore option, let him deal with the fallout; but I still saw that as a plan B. Or C, even. Still not looking forward to become another pawn on his board, thank-you-very-much.

So if I had to act, better to keep it on the low. Which meant I'd need to gather more information, and then maybe nudge a thing here and there to keep the timeline shipshape as best I could. But that changed my calculation: because if this was the lay of the land ahead, I couldn't simply Ravenclaw my way through my Hogwarts years. I'd need to stay close enough to the plot for my foreknowledge to be of use. And it didn't get any closer than the Golden Trio themselves.

Which meant, I had to get myself sorted into Gryffindor; if only because it would be the easiest way to eavesdrop on those three, and to earn enough trust as to subtly guide them into the proper path.

But I could do that. I would be their advisor in the shadows.

"Potter, Harry!"

A hush fell over the entire Hall, conversations dying as all the students on the tables focused on the Boy Who Looked Terrified. He advanced in silence and sat down on the stool. The hat started muttering to itself, and we waited. It felt endless, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. And then:

"Gryffindor!"

The table of the lions erupted in cheers, and I let out a breath. It was good to know at least not everything was out of whack.

The relief was short-lived, however, because after just a couple other students, McGonagall called: "Sarramond, Sylvia!"

Right, here goes nothing.

I advanced towards the stool, my fists clenched and my mind wondering if all my planning would be in vain; if the hat would not raise the alarm the moment it touched my head, shout out the interloper's secrets for everyone to hear.

At least most people weren't paying much attention to me, my name a complete unknown to all but Hermione, the Hopkins and a couple of the teachers, maybe. But the one who was looking at me most intensely was the Headmaster, oddly enough. Dumbledore followed my every move with the same focused gaze that he'd previously deployed on Harry.

I risked a glance at McGonagall as I walked up to the stool, but her poker-face was unbeatable. You'd say she had never seen me before. So I simply sat down, took a deep breath; and the Hat fell on my head.

"Hmm... Not a Hufflepuff, that's for sure. You aren't a fan of hard work, are you? Now, let's see..."

Wait, that was it? Straight to the sorting? No comment on the whole... uniqueness of my situation? Hell, even Ollivander had-

"Ah, but I'm just a Sorting Hat, and I have no understanding of a Seer's visions. Though if it is understanding you seek, then I could sort you into Ravenclaw, hmmm? Yes, I believe you would learn much there."

I disregarded the mention of me being a seer as the hat simply being confused as to the true nature of my fore-memories. But the offer was tempting, and I almost accepted right then and there. It was what I'd planned for, after all, and I could almost imagine how it would play out: how I'd be able to find out more about my own origins, slowly untangle the mystery of my fore-memories by piecing together clues taken from musty tomes and arcane parchments. It would be a long project, take me years probably, but at the end I would have my answer, one I'd been looking for since I was seven. I would have loved to say yes.

If there wasn't a madman outside the castle trying to come back to life, that is.

"I really, really need you to sort me into Gryffindor," I muttered instead. "If you've seen my memories you know why."

The hat sounded hesitant: "Oh, Gryffindor, hmm? Gryffindor is for the chivalrous and brave of heart, and-"

"Yes, yes, I know! But look, what I plan to do is certainly brave, isn't it? I'll be risking myself, going against You-Know-Who, sneaking around at night. That's peak Gryffindor right there!"

"Ah, a compelling argument! Still sure that you don't want to be sorted into Ravenclaw? Hmm... No? I see, I see. Yes, a good argument, but... you know in your heart that the bravest thing you could do would be to confess your visions to the Headmaster and seek his help, hmm...? But now I know where to put you, yes. You certainly belong in-"

"No, wait!"

"-Slytherin!"