Thank you for joining Celeste as she takes her first steps into Hogwarts.

If you're enjoying the story, feel free to leave a review or just say hi. I'm always listening, just like Celeste. ✨

- Gryff

The train exhaled one final, hissing breath as it came to a halt, its steam twisting upward in delicate spirals like ghostly silk ribbons over the platform. Celeste stepped down onto wet stone, the crisp air infused with the clean aroma of pine and freshly fallen rain. She followed the meandering stream of chattering first-years across the platform, folding her hands together. Lanterns glowed above them, painting the world in amber and shadow.

"Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!" a voice boomed, echoing across the mist like a gentle yet mighty stormcloud rolling in from a far-off horizon. Celeste looked up - and there he stood.

Rubeus Hagrid, the half-giant Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, loomed large next to the fog. His towering frame dwarfed everything around him as he raised a lantern high, its light spilling around like liquid gold. His wild, bushy beard tumbled down his chest in unruly curls reminiscent of bramblewood, and his eyes shone with the inviting warmth of a hearthfire. Her grandfather had spoken of the giant fondly.

Without hesitation, she and the other students trailed behind Hagrid as he led them down a winding, moss-slicked path, illuminated solely by his swinging lantern. The surrounding world hushed into serene silence, punctured only by the soft crunch of wet stones underfoot and the gentle whisper of swaying robes. As they continued their descent, the dense trees gradually yielded to reveal an awe-inspiring sight. Celeste halted in her tracks.

Before them unfurled a vast, ink-dark lake, its surface as still and reflective as a giant mirror, edged by an embrace of ancient forest and kissed by the glitter of starlight. Rising in the distance, majestic and surreal, was Hogwarts Castle. Its towers clawed into the night sky, windows glowing gold and warm against the navy-blue twilight. The castle's magnificent reflection on the lake shimmered delicately, conjuring visions of an alternate, enchanted world.

Celeste felt like she couldn't breathe for a moment. It was beautiful.

"This way!" Hagrid bellowed, his voice echoing off the lake. "Boats, four to a boat!"

Dozens of small, low wooden boats bobbed gently in the shallows, each creaking softly as if awakening from a long slumber, yet steady without a paddle or pole. Celeste climbed into one with Hermione, Neville, and a quiet boy who hadn't said a word since the wooden boat groaned faintly under their weight, then settled into a comfortable embrace. The chill of the night air brushed Celeste's cheeks, and the water, dark and mysterious, glimmered like spilled, midnight ink.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called again. "Right then - forward!"

With that, the boats began their gentle journey.

No one rowed. No one steered. Without a single oar or rudder in sight, they seemed to glide effortlessly, smooth and silent, drifting like delicate leaves carried on a whispered breeze. Celeste's gaze remained riveted on the castle, drawing closer with every silent moment. The closer they came, the more vibrant it appeared - owls winged their way gracefully between the towering spires, candles flickered playfully in high windows, and, somewhere in the distance, a large bell tolled slowly and deeply, like the steady heartbeat of a slumbering giant.

Not a soul spoke - not even Hermione, who for once was so enraptured by the magic around her that words seemed superfluous.

Passing beneath an arch of ivy-draped stone, Celeste's eyes caught sight of a small landing bathed in the soft glow of torches. Hagrid was already there, boots planted wide on slick stone, holding out a meaty hand to help them off.

"Mind yer step, now," he advised in his deep, reassuring tone.

Celeste's boots hit stone and echoed slightly. The air smelled of lakewater and old moss. The boats slid away behind them, vanishing into the dark like they had somewhere else to be.

"Follow me!" Hagrid called, leading them through a short tunnel carved into the rock. The walls dripped with condensation, and strange symbols - runes, maybe - had been etched into the stone, nearly worn smooth with age.

They emerged into a long corridor lit with flickering torches. The floor was polished to a mirror-like sheen. A chill ran up Celeste's spine - not of fear, but reverence.

Then she was there.

Hogwarts.

The group clustered together, damp and breathless. Footsteps echoed around them like whispers.

At the far end of the hall, a tall woman in deep green robes approached. Her expression was sharp and unreadable, lips thin, gaze stern behind square spectacles.

Celeste straightened instinctively.

Professor McGonagall.

She looked them over with the air of someone who had seen centuries of first-years and remained entirely unimpressed by the lot.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said briskly, voice clipped and clear. "In a few moments, you will pass through these doors into the Great Hall, where you will be sorted into your houses."

She paused, letting the words settle.

"The Sorting is a very important ceremony. While you are here, your house will be like your family. You will have classes with your housemates, sleep in your house dormitories, and spend free time in your house common room."

Her gaze moved slowly over the group, lingering on a student who looked like he might faint.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each has a noble history and has produced outstanding witches and wizards. Your triumphs will earn your house points. Any rule-breaking will lose them. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup - a great honour."

Her tone softened ever so slightly, as if sharing a secret counsel. "I suggest you do your best to make a good first impression."

And with that, she gave them a curt nod. "I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly."

She turned and swept away, robes billowing behind her like emerald storm clouds.

The group fell into an uneasy hush.

Celeste stood near the edge, fingertips brushing the stone wall. Her heart was steady, but her mind was racing. Four houses. One choice. Or not a choice at all. Her grandfather had said the Hat sees things you don't. That it doesn't just read your mind - it hears your magic.

She wondered what hers sounded like.

As she contemplated this, Celeste lingered near one of the intricately carved stone pillars, her fingertips lightly brushing over the delicate grooves into the surface. The corridor pulsed with the low hum of whispered anxieties and the shuffling of nervous feets, as groups of students exchanged hushed speculations - some murmuring about the mythical Sorting Hat, others trading eerie tales of ghosts.

Then, as though emerging from a shadow, he stepped forward.

A pale-haired boy with sharply defined features and a smirk that seemed permanently etched upon his face approached with an air of effortless superiority. Behind him, two thick-set boys loomed like silent sentinels - burly forms of muscle and indifference, their presence as imposing as a wall of granite. But the pale boy's gaze was not upon her. It was fixated entirely on Harry Potter.

"So, it's true then," the boy declared, his voice imbued with both smooth confidence and a resonance strong enough to carry throughout the hall. "What they were saying on the train. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts."

Harry merely nodded, his expression guarded as if weighing each word with caution as the other students whispered around him, many of them with awe. Celeste's eyes captured the subtle tension in Harry's posture - shoulders drawn tight, chin defiantly raised ever so slightly.

Continuing with deliberate flair, the boy gestured to his silent entourage. "This is Crabbe and Goyle," he announced, nodding toward the hulking figures. "And I'm Malfoy - Draco Malfoy."

At the sound of the name, a small twist churned in Celeste's stomach like an unsettling ripple in still water. The Malfoy lineage, steeped in tradition, had walked through Ollivanders for generations, each wand chosen with an uncanny precision - a choice as controlled and as chilling as a winter frost.

Draco's cool gaze flickered over to Harry once more, then swung to the red-haired boy standing nearby who had snorted at his pompous introduction. "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask yours," he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "Red hair, and a hand-me-down robe? You must be a Weasley."

Ron's face turned a deep, embarrassed shade of red, yet he offered no retort, and Celeste felt the air thicken as tension rippled through the group like static electricity dancing before a storm. Draco's attention soon returned to Harry. His voice, smooth but cutting, filled the corridor with a thinly veiled threat. "You'll soon discover that some wizarding families are simply better than others, Potter. You wouldn't want to end up making friends with the wrong sort." He extended his hand, palm open and inviting - a mock gesture of assistance. "I can help you there."

A pregnant pause fell over the assembly, time seemingly suspended as the offered hand hovered in the air. Harry's eyes shifted from the outstretched palm to his friend Ron, searching for unspoken support.

"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks," Harry replied, his voice as steady as a metronome amid the charged silence.

The words lingered between them, heavy as a spell that had just been cast. In that fleeting moment, Celeste felt a spark of admiration ignite within her, a radiant ember fuelled by the truth in his tone - the same elusive note often heard when the perfect wand sang in the rightful hand. Draco's hand remained suspended just a heartbeat too long before he slowly lowered it, his smirk dissolving into an expression as sharp and cold as shattered ice. Mercifully, before the Malfoy heir could say anything else, Professor McGonagall returned from the Great Hall, forcing Draco back into the student crowd.

"We're ready for you now," she declared.

A ripple of anticipation passed through the gathering - as though everyone collectively held their breath.

"Form a line," she ordered crisply, her tone leaving no room for debate. "Follow me."

And so they did - some with trembling hands that betrayed their inner uncertainty, others with straight backs exuding a facade of staunch confidence. Celeste found herself positioned between Hermione and a quiet boy named Finn, who had uttered no more than five words since the long train ride. She kept her hands neatly folded in front of her, her calm gaze belying the tumult of emotions pulsing like a caged spellbird within her chest.

Then, with a dramatic creak, the great oak doors swung open, and the world transformed before their eyes.

The Great Hall stretched before them like a cathedral carved from candlelight. The ceiling arched high above them, bewitched to mimic the midnight sky - a deep, velvety navy canvas punctuated by shimmering stars, and a full, golden moon that rested low like a silent guardian. Hundreds of candles floated in midair, casting a warm, gentle radiance that danced delicately across polished wooden floors and immaculate goblets, each glow enhancing the hall's enchanted ambiance.

Four long tables spanned the length of the hall, laden with older students clad in somber black robes; their faces, a mixture of awe and gentle curiosity, were fixed intently upon the newcomers. At the far end, the staff table commanded attention from its elevated perch, exuding a quiet but unmistakable authority. Amidst it all, Celeste's eyes were drawn to a silver-bearded wizard seated at its center, his eyes sparkling with an inner light as though they harbored a universe of secrets. Albus Dumbledore.

Yet, her gaze wandered next to a modest, time-worn stool near the front - a pedestal crowned by the frayed, battered hat.

The Sorting Hat.

It looked like it had once been elegant, but had since given up on appearances in favour of wisdom. One patch was carefully stitched in delicate gold thread, a subtle hint of its bygone glory. Another bore a char mark that hadn't been cleaned. Celeste had seen many magical artifacts in her grandfather's workshop. Celeste recalled the myriad magical artifacts in her grandfather's workshop, yet none had ever pulsed with life as vividly as this ancient, seemingly sentient hat.

They paused before the stool as Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her expression both stern and kindly as she unrolled a parchment-scroll with deliberate precision.

"When I call your name," she said, "you will step forward, sit on the stool, and place the Sorting Hat on your head. It will assign you to your House."

Her eyes scanned the parchment.

"Abbott, Hannah."

Celeste watched as a fair-haired girl, her cheeks blooming with a delicate flush, wobbled forward. She gently sat upon the stool, and with a swift movement the hat descended over her eyes. In mere seconds, the hat's voice boomed across the hall:

"Hufflepuff!" it declared, prompting an eruption of cheers and claps from the table on the far left, where a wave of warm acceptance swept over the gathering of Hufflepuffs.

One by one, the names were called. Some were sorted quickly, some took a long while - one boy sat for nearly a full minute, the Hat humming and muttering to itself.

Celeste's name hadn't been called yet.

She tried not to fidget. Her palms were warm.

"Granger, Hermione."

The girl beside her drew in a breath and marched forward with a determined expression. Celeste smiled softly, already certain of the result.

Sure enough, the Hat didn't take long.

"Gryffindor!"

Hermione beamed and nearly bounced off the stool.

"Longbottom, Neville."

The poor boy, tripping slightly on his way forward, elicited a gentle snort from someone at the Slytherin table. He took longer than most - but eventually the Hat bellowed: "Gryffindor!"

Then—

"Ollivander, Celeste."

A beat of silence followed the name.

Celeste felt all eyes turn to her - not with the buzzing excitement Harry had received in the entrance corridor, but a quieter kind of attention. Curious. Expectant.

With measured steps that echoed softly in the vast hall, Celeste moved forward. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears as her every footfall resonated with the enormity of the moment. She sat on the stool, and as the Sorting Hat was placed upon her head, the aged fabric exuded a faint scent of dust and woodsmoke. Gently, she pulled it down over her ears.

And in that instant, everything paused - the world fell into a tranquil stillness.

Ahhh… interesting. Very interesting.

The voice curled inside her mind - not loud, not invasive, but ancient and thoughtful, like old leaves turning in autumn wind.

Ollivander blood. I know your grandfather. Met your great-grandfather too. Loyal wandmakers, all of them. Listeners. You're a rare one, Celeste. Quiet power, humming beneath the surface. You could go far in Hufflepuff… and I see great potential for leadership in Slytherin… but where to put you?

She didn't answer but her thoughts pulsed quietly.

She didn't want power. She didn't want to lead.

She wanted to understand.

Ah. Yes. You're not here to speak. You're here to hear. And perhaps… to teach.

A pause. Then, almost fondly:

"RAVENCLAW!"
The Hat shouted the last word aloud, and the hall broke into polite applause. A scattering of cheers rose from the table beneath a navy and bronze banner.

Celeste lifted the hat from her head and stepped down with quiet dignity and allowed herself a small smile. As she settled into her seat at the Ravenclaw table, she neatly folded her hands in her lap. To her left, a prefect with a kind, slightly upturned smile greeted her, and she returned the gesture with a gentle radiance. The applause had just subsided when a new name rang out into the enchanted hall.

"Parkinson, Pansy."

"Slytherin!"

"Patil, Padma."

Then, the Sorting Hat's voice resonated as it announced, "Ravenclaw!" prompting Celeste to shift slightly and make room for the new arrival - a girl whose face shone with a beaming smile as she joined the table.

The list moved on - students shuffled forward, the hall alive with shifting tides of applause and groans from hopeful friends pulled into rival Houses.

Celeste's eyes wandered to the tall, imposing hourglasses that silently tallied the House points, all empty for the moment, and then drifted back to the Sorting Hat. Just then, Professor McGonagall's measured voice cut through the murmurs with a single name that hushed the entire room.

"Potter, Harry."

The boy stepped forward slowly, jaw set in a determined line even as his eyes darted nervously toward the tables. Whispers fluttered through the hall like leaves in a gentle breeze.

"That's him-"

"Did you see the scar?"

Celeste sat very still as he approached the stool. In that moment, a familiar hum - one she had sensed in the wand shop - returned to her. It was a subtle vibration, not ostentatious or loud, but it resonated deeply, like a delicate tuning fork striking softly within her chest.

He settled onto the stool and the Sorting Hat was gently lowered over his eyes. A hush fell over the gathered crowd.

Celeste could not hear the voice inside Harry's head, but she could sense it. The indecision. The push and pull of two opposing instincts. Harry looked tense under the Hat's brim, fidgeting. A long pause. Celeste found herself leaning forward ever so slightly, caught in the moment.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat bellowed in a booming, decisive voice and the hall erupted in wild cheers, the loudest coming from the Gryffindor table.

Celeste's eyes followed Harry as he removed the hat from his head, his wide eyes and flushed cheeks revealing both shock and relief. With a small hurried smile, he darted into the welcoming arms of the Gryffindor table, where Hermione, Neville, and Ron eagerly clapped him on the back like a cherished, long-lost friend.

As the applause faded and Harry slid onto the bench beside Ron, the Sorting Hat called out a few more names - Smith, Zacharias… Turpin, Lisa… - but Celeste barely heard them.

She was watching Harry. Not in awe, the way so many others seemed to be. Not with suspicion, like the Slytherins. Just… watching. He looked overwhelmed, slightly dazed, and maybe even a little lost in the tide of celebration and attention. Then, his eyes wandered - searching the other tables, scanning the room with that same cautious curiosity she'd seen in the wand shop.

Their eyes met briefly across the flickering candlelight and the enchanting, floating stars on the ceiling. In that suspended second, Celeste did not look away. She offered him a small, shy smile. Not one reserved for fame - but the kind you give someone you recognise. Someone you remember.

Harry blinked - and then returned it. Just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. But it was there.

The moment passed. The Sorting continued.

But something had settled, soft and certain, in Celeste's chest.

The Sorting came to a close with the Hat's final shout - "Zabini, Blaise – Slytherin!" - and Professor McGonagall rolled up her parchment with a sharp snap of the ribbon. The stool and Sorting Hat were carried away by magic - vanishing behind the doors as if they had never been there at all. In a heartbeat, the ceremony was over.

House tables brimmed with a vibrant crowd of newly sorted students, and all eyes gently shifted to the staff table where Albus Dumbledore, majestic and timeless, slowly rose to his feet. Celeste had seen him before - on chocolate frog cards, in portraits, in a flash once through the shop window when he visited Ollivander's in her childhood.

Now, as he stood before them, warm and impossibly ancient, she felt the room hush without being told to. He didn't command silence. He invited it. He opened his arms, smile wide beneath his silver beard.

"Welcome!" he said, voice ringing off the enchanted ceiling. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!"

Scattered applause rose but quickly quieted as he continued, eyes twinkling.

"Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are:
Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then laughter rippled through the hall, confused but delighted.

Celeste didn't laugh but her lips curled slightly. Her grandfather had said once, "Dumbledore's brilliance often arrives dressed in nonsense."

Patiently waiting for the laughter to subside, Dumbledore's tone turned soft but firm as he continued, "Also, a few start-of-term notices: First-years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all students. And the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is strictly out of bounds... to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death."

A heavy silence followed. Celeste blinked, absorbing the gravity of those words. A few students laughed, dismissing it as a joke, while others exchanged worried glances and furrowed brows. A sense of genuine alarm fluttered in some eyes. Celeste merely tilted her head as she sensed the atmosphere subtly shift - a delicate undercurrent of tension beneath the absurd phrasing. Beneath the odd words, an unmistakable warning had been uttered.

With a cheerful clap of his hands, Dumbledore brightened the mood once again. "Now—let the feast begin!"

In an instant, the tables began filling with golden platters overflowing with richly roasted meats, glistening buttered vegetables, towering pitchers brimming with pumpkin juice, luminous puddings, and steaming, savory pies. The hall filled with laughter, the clatter of plates, and the joyful buzz of chatter as even the nervous first-years reached eagerly for rolls, their fingers smeared with butter and wide-eyed in wonder.

Yet Celeste remained momentarily still. Her thoughts lingered on Dumbledore's stark warning.

"…does not wish to die a most painful death."

The phrase echoed softly within her, like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending subtle ripples that managed to outlast the fading laughter and sumptuous delights of the feast. She didn't know what was on the third floor corridor… but she knew the difference between a joke and a warning.

At last, she reached for a spoonful of warm squash, taking a careful bite as the flavors - rich and golden - mingled on her tongue. Around her, her tablemates chatted, laughed, swapped names, and mused over wand lengths, yet her eyes drifted back once more toward the staff table where Dumbledore now reclined, a serene smile playing on his lips, as though he hadn't just tossed a dagger into the center of the room.

Celeste was not afraid; rather, she was listening - attentively and quietly - to everything that had been said and all that remained unsaid.