Chapter 4: Platform Nine and Three-Quarters

On the morning of August 25th, Hazel was packed and ready for Britain.

She had one large suitcase with a few sets of clothes—she adamantly refused to bring along a toga—and the textbooks she'd purchased with the Ilvermorny liaison. She returned the uniforms and other equipment, but kept the books. Of course, she paid them back—in US Dollars, no less. She had also sent a letter to Headmistress Seraphina Garrison, explaining that she needed to attend Hogwarts due to unavoidable circumstances. Still, she wrote, she didn't want to lose touch with Ilvermorny. Could she please receive a list of assignments throughout the year? She wanted to keep learning in her free time, just in case her path ever circled back.

A letter had arrived the very next day. The Headmistress had admired her tenacity and enclosed the complete list of coursework. If Hazel submitted all assignments by next July, she'd be eligible for Ilvermorny's correspondence course—practical exams included. If all went well, she'd be earning credit at both schools simultaneously.

Hazel also carried a small backpack with toiletries. Unfortunately, the bow and arrow set gifted to her by Apollo was deemed too dangerous to travel with since it couldn't be disguised as something else. But her whip-sword—with the help of the only child of Trivia in New Rome—had been cleverly illusioned into a braided silver belt. Safety regulations satisfied. Barely.

She looked at her bags with a mix of anticipation and longing. This was it. She was leaving her home of five years. And even though she was excited, her heart tugged just a little. With time to spare, Hazel decided to say her quiet goodbyes.

She made her way up Temple Hill with a stack of novels cradled in her arms—today's offerings.

Jacob Blackthorne would meet her at the border later. Pretending to be her guardian for the day, Jacob was the very picture of effortless multitasking. A son of Trivia, graduate of Ilvermorny, and current financial accountant in New Rome, he somehow juggled jobs in the mortal, magical, and demigod realms. With four personal assistants. Probably blessed by Mercury himself.

Hazel smiled faintly. Some people juggled swords. Jacob juggled tax codes from two different governments.

At the summit of Temple Hill, the air was cooler, quieter.

Hazel exhaled slowly and unslung her satchel. She'd packed it with books and letters, each offering carefully chosen, each wrapped with a little prayer. She approached the first shrine, her boots crunching softly on gravel as the early morning light brushed over the altars and the spoils of war hung all over the walls.

Mars Ultor.

She placed a steak meal from the dining arena, still warm thanks to the enchanted wrappings. She bowed her head and muttered, "Hope this earns me some points, sir." The ground didn't shake, which she took as a good sign.

Jupiter Optimus Maximus.

She offered a steaming cup of espresso and a Thanksgiving turkey leg, artfully arranged like she was bribing a celestial judge. "For clarity. And, you know, not turning me into a ferret," she said under her breath.

Trivia.

Now here, Hazel slowed down. She knelt at the shrine and carefully placed a worn copy of The Girl Who Drank the Moon on the stone, along with her folded letter. Magic shimmered faintly from her fingertips as she touched the book—just a whisper, just enough. "For you," she said softly. "It reminded me of you." When she opened her eyes, the book was gone. In its place: a dark, leather-bound grimoire edged in silver moonlight. She gently picked it up, reverent. Its title shifted like mist - Mystika Minora: The Spellbook of the Crossroads. "I'll treasure it forever," she whispered.

Lupa.

For the wolf goddess, she laid down her old Codex Incantare Bellatorum—her battle-sorcerer's codex. "For the next demiwitch," she said aloud. She hesitated, then added, "Make sure she's weirder than me."

Apollo.

She placed her old bow and arrow set that she received from him as a gift, along with The Crossover, at his shrine and smirked. "It rhymes, it's intense, and it's got swagger. You'll love it." The book and bow vanished. In their place, a golden bow appeared, gleaming like sunlight made solid. Hazel reeled back. "No, I can't take this with me, it's too—"

A breeze swept past her, curling around her like a whisper: Pick it up.

She did. The bow hummed in her hands. She pulled the string, and a golden arrow formed out of light itself. When she let go, it vanished. And then, with a little click, the entire bow shrank into a slender golden string, now wrapped around a white stone pendant etched with a golden bow and arrow. She slipped it over her neck, heart pounding. "Thanks, Apollo."

Diana.

Here, Hazel left The Wild Robot book and her silver cloak. "You know I hate giving up gear," she muttered, "but this one felt right." The cloak shimmered, twitched, and became a grey jacket with a hood. "Okay…" she said, cautiously slipping it on. When she pulled the hood up, the world fell into a hush. Her steps were silent. Her breath silent. Later, she'd learn even Lupa couldn't sniff her out in this thing.

Victoria.

Hazel left Matilda on the stone with a small grin. "For clever girls who win, even when the odds say they shouldn't." There was a warm flutter in her chest as the book disappeared.

Pluto.

Coraline went here. Dark, eerie, and brave. "I think you'll like this one, Uncle," she said, her voice softer now. "It's weird. But it's got guts."

Fortuna.

Fortunately, the Milk landed here. She offered it with a grin. "Chaos. Coincidences. Go wild."

Neptune.

At this shrine, she didn't even get the chance to set her offering down. A carved stick already lay there.

"Huh," Hazel muttered, reaching for it.

The second her fingers touched the wood, the air shifted.

Salt wind whipped around her, smelling of sea spray and storms. The clouds above dimmed, then parted. Light pierced through. The stick pulsed in her palm, growing warm. A soft sound—like the rush of a distant wave—filled her ears. Magic curled around her fingers, into her veins, deep into her chest.

The wand recognized her.
It was bound to her.

The wood was rowan—dark and streaked with silver, as if forged in moonlight. Etchings of waves and ripples spiraled along its length. The tip glimmered with a pale moonstone, and when she tilted it, she thought she saw a flicker of light pulse inside. The hilt was wrapped in cool silver, etched with symbols of protection and Neptune's trident, glowing softly under her touch.

Hazel blinked, awe swelling in her chest. "You've gotta be kidding me."

The wand hummed in her hand, like it was alive. Like it had been waiting.

Still in a daze, she gently placed Song for a Whale by Lynne Kelly— a tale of water, connection, and communication across great distances—into the offering bowl. The metal rang softly beneath it.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked out.

Vesta.

At the final shrine, Hazel knelt again and laid Anne of Green Gables on the stone. She lingered here. "For belonging," she said. "For home." The book shimmered and transformed into a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Six, to be exact. She stuffed them into her satchel and immediately ate one. It tasted like warmth and safety and sunlight in early spring. She'd save the rest. One a day.

Hazel stood slowly, brushing her hands off on her jeans, then looked out over the hill. The wind tugged at her jacket. Her pendant gleamed against her collarbone. The wand pulsed at her side.

She'd come up the hill with offerings.
She was leaving it with blessings.

And suddenly, she didn't feel like she was leaving Camp Jupiter behind.
She felt like she was taking it with her.

Still a bit dazed, Hazel tucked the wand into the inside pocket of her jacket and slung her satchel of divine gifts over her shoulder. She jogged downhill toward the cohort barracks, brushing wind-tangled hair out of her eyes to pick up her stuff.

At the camp gates, she found Jacob Blackthorne waiting, sharp in a charcoal coat and that effortlessly competent air of his. He greeted her with a grin and immediately launched into a story and description about his days at Ilvermorny. Somehow, mid-story, he got her to promise she'd teach him any new Hogwarts spells she learned that he didn't already know. She suspected he was keeping score.

When she pulled out Mystika Minora: The Spellbook of the Crossroads, his eyes lit up with recognition.
"Classic. Every one of her kids gets one when Trivia claims them," he said.
Hazel ran her hand over the deep violet cover, the silver triple-moon gleaming faintly. The leather was soft and strange, like it remembered being touched before. The whole book buzzed with quiet, sleeping magic.

Inside were spells for protection, elemental work, and the kinds of rituals only a child of Trivia would know. The book was organized into chapters like Lumen Loci—light spells, night-vision charms, and shadow tricks. Defensum et Sigillum held protective wards and home-circle enchantments. Vocatio Nocturna was all about invocation rites for Trivia, and her sacred creatures (there was a whole section on magical dogs). Animae Tangere had ghost-talk spells, which she was both fascinated by and very much not ready to test. Verba Potens covered spoken spells and the power of True Names, which felt way too ominous. And Elementa Prima was elemental magic—wind, fire, water, dirt. All the good, occasionally explosive stuff.

The margins were crammed with centuries of advice, half-tested tweaks, and passive-aggressive warnings like: "Moonwort + sea salt = bad idea."

It wasn't just a spellbook. It was an archive, alive in its own way. When you whispered to it, it listened. When you didn't want to share something, it kept secrets. When you did, it passed it along—spell by spell, ink by ink, color-coded by lineage. It could fetch what you needed with a few muttered keywords, or just know what to show you when you flipped the page. Hazel had barely cracked the surface, but already she felt like it knew her.

That's where Dumbledore found her.

Gleaming black suitcase. Black backpack. Black jeans. Red t-shirt. Silver-gray jacket zipped halfway. Brown crossbody satchel. A gold locket at her neck, Apollo's bracelet on her left arm. Tiny gold heart studs in her ears, shoulder-length hair pulled into a half ponytail. Blue trainers that had seen better days.

Dumbledore chatted with Jacob for a moment, something about Ilvermorny vs. Hogwarts. She only half-listened, more focused on memorizing Jacob's features one last time before leaving.

"Shall we get going, then?" Dumbledore asked. He had already shrunk her suitcase and backpack to fit in her pocket

"We shall." Hazel turned to Jacob, smirking. "Thanks for everything. I'll write you. And Marcus and Junia. Once a week, minimum. I swear on the Little Tiber."

Right on cue, a breeze kicked up from the river, rustling the trees. A single coin clinked against a rock. Camp's version of a magical pinky promise.

She grinned. "See? Witnessed."

And with that, Hazel touched a finger to the bracelet Dumbledore held up—and the portkey yanked her right off her feet. One second she was standing steady, the next she was spiraling through space like laundry in a magical washing machine. Wind rushed past her ears, her stomach flipped, and then—thud—they landed.

They were in the British Ministry of Magic's International Office. It smelled faintly of parchment, coffee, and bureaucracy. Dumbledore strode out like he owned the place, nodding and greeting what felt like half the wizarding population by name. Hazel just trailed behind him, trying not to look like a deer in headlights.

Eventually, after what felt like three miles of marble corridors, he took her arm again—and apparated. Which, as it turned out, was basically teleportation mixed with being squished through a straw and spun like a top. She did not enjoy that part. "Ugh," she muttered, swaying slightly. "That was awful."

They appeared in a narrow alley that looked almost the same as the last, except this one had fewer people and more chimney smoke. The air was damp and heavy, the sky an overcast gray that soaked everything in a kind of cold drizzle. Hazel pulled her jacket tighter. She wasn't used to this kind of chill; back in California, the worst you got was fog or beach wind, not... whatever this soggy soup was.

Dumbledore guided her through a brick archway into a dimly lit pub that looked older than time itself: The Leaky Cauldron. It smelled like firewood, butterbeer, and something fried. The floors creaked, the walls leaned, and a balding man behind the bar looked up and grinned with all the ease of someone who'd seen worse.

"Evening, Tom," Dumbledore said warmly. "Room for one?"

Tom nodded and passed over a brass key. "Top floor, far left. Quiet up there."

Dumbledore handed it to Hazel. "Alright, Miss Potter. You've had a long day. Your room's good for the next five nights—till the morning of September 1st. Tomorrow we'll explore Diagon Alley and handle your school shopping. For now, get some rest. The rooms are safe, but I'll also ward yours for extra protection."

True to his word, he murmured a few spells at the doorframe, tracing light with his wand. Then he nodded, bid her goodnight, and disappeared with a soft pop.

Hazel stepped into her room and dropped her bags. Jet lag had her wide awake still. The room was small but cozy: a single bed with a patchwork quilt, a window overlooking an alley, and just enough space not to feel trapped.

She didn't even try to sleep right away. Instead, she sat cross-legged on the floor, pulled out her codex, and decided to try a few spells for practice—and security.

The first one she tried was a lyrical English ward—"Sleep, thief of threat and foe, let none but peace come near this door." The air shimmered, and she felt it settle into the wood like a sigh. Anyone who tried sneaking up now? Out cold.

Then she tried a second spell: Umbracallus – Shadow Call
Incantation: "Umbrae audiant, veniant et monstrent."

It took several tries, even though her Latin is practically fluent thanks to her Demigod heritage. The first time, nothing happened. The second time, her shadow flickered like it was annoyed. The third time, it practically laughed at her—she was sure of it. But Hazel wasn't the quitting type, especially not with magic. She squared her shoulders, focused harder on the corner where her backpack's shadow pooled, and whispered the words again.

The shadow twitched. Stretched. Then curled around itself and waited.

"Alright," she whispered. "If someone gets knocked out by the sleep-ward, wake me up. Politely."

The shadow rippled once—like a nod.

"Cool," she muttered, grinning. "And people say jet lag's useless."

She climbed into bed after that, her wand tucked beneath her pillow and a magical shadow on the unofficial night shift. But sleep didn't come easily, not right away.

Instead, she spent another hour flipping through "Charms and How to Use Them" by Jeremiah Quickspell—clever title, suspiciously enthusiastic tone—and "History of North American Magic" by Desmond Penn, which was dry, dense, and quietly fascinating.

Eventually, with notes scrawled in the margins and one hand still resting near her wand, Hazel drifted off to the sound of London rain.

She woke to a sharp knock on the door. Hazel sat up fast, heart thumping. The shadow spell had faded—something to figure out later—but the sleep-ward still pulsed gently across the doorframe. No alarms, no unconscious intruders. So, probably safe.

Stretching, she yawned and shuffled to the door just as another knock came, more insistent this time. She sprinted to the door and pulled—and immediately regretted it. The door stuck for half a second, then gave way so fast she nearly fell flat on the floor.

"Hi, sorry—I think the door was stuck," Hazel blurted, brushing her hair out of her face.

The woman standing there looked like she hadn't smiled since the Inn opened. Tall, thin, and cloaked in dark green tartan robes, she had her grey-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun and her square spectacles perched low on her nose. Her sharp eyes didn't miss a single thing—not Hazel's disheveled state, not the lingering aura of defensive spells around the room, and definitely not the nervous bounce in Hazel's voice.

The woman spoke with a crisp, unknown accent. "No issue, Miss Potter. I'm Professor Minerva McGonagall—Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts and your Transfiguration instructor. Are you well enough to accompany me for school shopping this morning?"

Hazel blinked. "Uhm—could I maybe have, like, half an hour? I just woke up, and I'm pretty sure I still have morning breath."

McGonagall's expression didn't change much, but Hazel swore she saw the faintest twitch of amusement in her eyes. "Very well. I shall be waiting for you downstairs."

And with that, the professor swept off like a judgmental breeze.

Hazel took just over thirty minutes—because pulling her hair into submission took serious negotiation—and bounced down the stairs two at a time, dressed in dark jeans and a red full-sleeved T-shirt. Her satchel was slung across her chest, wand in an inside pocket, and golden locket resting over her heart.

She spotted Professor McGonagall at a corner table, sipping what looked like very bitter tea. Hazel skidded to a stop beside her and beamed. "Sorry, Professor. I didn't introduce myself properly earlier. I'm Hazel Lily Potter. I lived in California in the U.S., and I'm really excited to meet my brother and get the full British magical school experience."

McGonagall set her teacup down, regarding her over the rim of her spectacles. "A pleasure, Miss Potter. Shall we?"

Outside the Leaky Cauldron, the London morning was cool and damp. Grey clouds stretched across the sky like someone forgot to color them in. The air smelled like rain and old bricks—a far cry from California's sun-drenched mornings and warm ocean breeze.

McGonagall led Hazel to the back courtyard, tapping a specific brick on the old stone wall. "Three up, two across," she murmured. "Keep that in mind."

With a low rumble, the bricks rearranged themselves, revealing a hidden alleyway that buzzed with energy. Cauldrons steamed in windows. Owls hooted from perches above shop doors. Kids leaned into glass cases full of chocolate frogs and exploding bonbons. The entire place shimmered with magic, chaotic and alive.

Hazel's jaw dropped. "Whoa. Okay, this is what I signed up for."

Hazel stepped into Diagon Alley like she'd tripped into a dream powered by a rainbow and caffeine.

The cobbled street stretched ahead, packed with wizards, witches, excited first-years, and more floating objects than should legally be allowed in public. Shop signs swung above storefronts, some singing, some spitting sparks, and one blinking in Morse code for reasons Hazel didn't want to unpack. The air smelled like parchment, sugar, and faintly of something on fire.

Professor McGonagall kept a steady pace—regal, composed, immune to the chaos—while Hazel practically spun in circles trying to look at everything all at once.

First stop: Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

The moment they stepped inside, the noise of the Alley dropped away, replaced with the echo of footsteps and the occasional clink of coin. Goblins hunched behind high counters, their sharp eyes flicking over parchment and people with equal suspicion. The chandeliers glittered ominously. Hazel might've been impressed if she wasn't so immediately and viscerally aware that any of these guys would hesitate to eat her soul if she filled out the wrong form.

At the check-in desk, a grim-faced goblin looked over her paperwork, then narrowed his eyes. "Vault 003," he said.

McGonagall stepped forward. "I'll accompany—"

"You will not," the goblin interrupted. "Vault 003 is under bloodline protection. The girl goes alone."

Hazel glanced nervously at the professor, but McGonagall only nodded. "You'll be fine. Just follow the goblin's instructions."

"I'm sure this is fine," Hazel muttered, because clearly she hadn't said anything jinx-worthy yet today.

The goblin who escorted her was named Grimhollow (charming), and led her through winding marble halls to a small cart that looked like it should come with a waiver and a seatbelt.

It did not.

"Please keep your hands inside the cart," Grimhollow said dryly as they launched into the deep.

Calling it a roller coaster would be generous. It was a magical rocket built by someone who hated bones. Hazel clung to the sides, wind whipping through her hair, teeth rattling. They spiraled past waterfalls, vault doors larger than houses, and a passing dragon who watched them with deep suspicion.

When they finally screeched to a halt, Hazel was very ready to kiss solid ground again—and possibly file a formal complaint about the state of magical transportation. Instead, she found herself staring at an enormous stone vault door, carved deep into the stone, woven between the runes, was the triple moon of Trivia.

Vault 003.

"Gods and demigods access only," Grimhollow said, voice lower now, almost respectful. "Few are allowed entry."

Hazel blinked. "Right. No pressure."

The goblin produced a silver needle and, with the air of someone following very old, very important instructions, pricked her finger. Not unkindly—but with a healthy distance. A drop of blood sizzled as it hit the carved symbol at the center of the vault. The lines pulsed once—gold - and the door groaned open like it hadn't moved in centuries. It likely hadn't.

Grimhollow stepped back, giving her a respectful nod. Not quite reverence, but close. The kind of caution reserved for beings who might just be more trouble than treasure.

Inside: treasure, but not the kind Hazel expected.

Sure, there was gold—a lot of it. One section was stacked with Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, all perfectly sorted. To the far right, she spotted neat piles of Denarii, Roman silver and gold coins marked with imperial seals. To the left, another type of currency glinted under the magical lights—slightly thinner, and about the size of a Girl Scout cookie, with Greek letters and images etched into the surface. Drachma, she guessed. Camp Half-Blood must use these.

Strictly speaking, Hazel wasn't supposed to know Camp Half-Blood even existed. But, well—gods weren't exactly tight-lipped after a few ambrosia shots, and she'd spent just enough time on Olympus to overhear things she definitely shouldn't have. She didn't know where it was, exactly, so maybe that made it fine? Technically? Look, it's not her fault certain immortals had zero volume control.

There were also bundles of old letters, tied with wax seals. A shelf filled with trinkets: a compass with no needle, a broken silver circlet, a vial of something that glowed when she looked at it sideways. Hazel itched to look closer, but settled for grabbing a few handfuls of each coin type and letting the enchanted pouch provided by the goblins sort it out. She did pick out extra magical currency, though.

She turned to leave, her mind still spinning.

The return trip on the vault cart was mercifully faster, though still full of unnecessary loop-the-loops, and when Hazel stumbled back into the Gringotts lobby, she was flushed, wide-eyed, and clutching her pouch like it might try to escape.

McGonagall arched one brow. "Eventful?"

Hazel exhaled. "Let's just say I might have enjoyed it if I had some warning, so maybe next time?"

Robes were next. Madam Malkin's was a swirl of floating measuring tapes and fabric bolts that snapped at Hazel if she fidgeted. McGonagall insisted on full school robes, winter cloaks, and dress robes ("You'll need them eventually."). Hazel picked a variety of colors and didn't comment when the enchanted needle began sewing designs on the edges of her robes. Stars. Clouds, waves, corals… they were all pretty. Apparently, they had to be resized to her size, so they decided to pick them up last.

Books were more her speed. Flourish and Blotts was stacked floor to ceiling with tomes, many of which looked like they'd bite if you asked the wrong question. Hazel was handed the Hogwarts-required list, but somehow also walked out with "Magicks of the Western Wilds" by Elspeth Virellian (because she wanted to argue with it), "Practical Hexes for Clever Witches" by Clara Greaves (shockingly useful, despite the sassy title), and something called "Dark Curses and Dubious Counterspells" by Mortimer Snag.

McGonagall glanced at the extra selections, raised an eyebrow—but said nothing. Instead, she quietly added Hogwarts: A History to the pile, as if to say, balance in all things, Miss Potter.

Potions were... less fun.

Hazel wrinkled her nose as they stepped into the Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. It smelled like pickled feet and depression. She picked out a basic brass cauldron and a standard ingredients kit, but also added extra valerian root and some dried lavender (good for sleep potions and clearing weird vibes). The clerk warned her not to get the powdered bicorn horn wet unless she wanted to dissolve her furniture.

Hazel took that personally.

Outside again, McGonagall paused in front of the Magical Menagerie. The windows were crammed with curious creatures—kneazles, puffskeins, and rats and toads attempting yoga poses with alarming grace.

"You are permitted one pet," McGonagall said. "An owl, a cat, or a toad."

Hazel pressed her hands to the glass, eyes tracking a baby griffin batting at a hanging feather toy. "Every single one of them is adorable. But no, thank you. I have a habit of attracting chaos, and I'm not about to drag something fluffy into that."

McGonagall raised a brow. "You seem certain."

Hazel nodded. "Yeah. Besides, I already have enough magical newness in my life. One more companion might tip the balance."

The professor gave her a rare, approving smile. "A wise decision, Miss Potter."

Hazel grinned. "Don't tell anyone I said something wise. It'll ruin my whole brand."

Ollivanders was exactly how Hazel imagined it—dusty, crammed with boxes, and somehow way bigger on the inside than it looked from the street. A small bell rang overhead as they entered. The air smelled like ozone and wood.

An elderly man with wild white hair and silver eyes that looked like they could see into next week stepped out from behind a stack of shelves. "Minerva," he greeted, his voice papery and amused. "Still using the fir and dragon heartstring, I assume?"

"Indeed," McGonagall replied. "It continues to serve me well."

He nodded approvingly. "Excellent for Transfiguration. Very loyal wood."

Then his gaze landed on Hazel. He blinked, then narrowed his eyes slightly, like someone trying to read very fine print. Without a word, he flicked his wand and a measuring tape sprang to life, zipping around Hazel's head, arms, and fingers while he started pulling boxes from the shelves.

The first wand Ollivander handed her was a thick, gnarled thing, like the root of an ancient tree. Hazel barely touched it before a cloud of smoke erupted, filling the room with a burning scent. Ollivander took it back with a soft tut and reached for another.

"Ah, this one should suit you better," he muttered, handing her a slender wand of shimmering silver ash. The moment she grasped it, a stack of nearby papers flew into the air, spiraling like leaves caught in a breeze. She barely managed to prevent the pile from toppling over the counter. Ollivander raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but quickly swapped it for another.

"This," he said, presenting a wand of twisted blackthorn, "is a fine choice for anyone with a taste for dark magic." Hazel's fingers brushed it, and immediately a high-pitched, wailing note filled the room—like a flute being played in distress. She pulled her hand back quickly, and Ollivander took it away, muttering about "the wrong temperament."

Next came a pale oak wand with a silver streak running through it, and as she held it, the room darkened. Shadows began to stretch unnaturally across the walls, creeping toward the corners. Hazel felt a chill run down her spine, and the shadows retreated almost as quickly as they'd come, leaving Ollivander looking impressed but perplexed.

"Not quite right for you either," he said, but his eyes sparkled. "A fine wand for someone attuned to the darker arts—shadow manipulation, curses perhaps—but you, Miss Potter, have a different energy."

By wand number five, a smooth piece of yew, Hazel had caused a gust of wind to blow through the shop, sending a few wand boxes crashing to the floor. The wind died almost immediately, and Ollivander just shook his head with a wry smile. "Ah, a bit much again. It seems you do like to make an impression."

The next wand, crafted from elderwood, was elegant, almost delicate. Hazel held it carefully, but as soon as she did, the shop filled with a sharp, electric crackle—like thunder. A bolt of light shot out of the tip, narrowly missing a hanging crystal. Ollivander smiled, impressed but cautious. "A bit more control next time, Miss Potter."

Wand number six, a soft birch with a bright amber core, didn't cause any accidents, but the moment she took hold, her skin tingled, and her vision blurred. It was almost like the wand was drawing her into itself, as if trying to show her something far off. Hazel pulled back sharply. "That feels... wrong," she muttered, handing it back quickly.

McGonagall gave her a pointed look as she checked the time, excusing herself to go check on her robes.

With the professor gone, Ollivander took a long, thoughtful look at Hazel. He reached for the eighth box, pausing just long enough to make sure she was watching. When he handed it to her, he didn't say anything at first. Hazel opened it, a little hesitantly.

"Enough theatrics," Ollivander murmured, his voice suddenly quieter, almost reverential. "Show me your real wand."

Hazel blinked. "You know?"

"I know that nothing in this shop matches you," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper now. "And I know the weight of divine craftsmanship when it walks through my door."

Wordlessly, Hazel reached into her jacket and drew out the wand her father had gifted her, its dark rowan wood gleaming faintly with the moonstone tip.

Ollivander took it, his fingers gently caressing the silver hilt, and he turned it slowly in his hands. "Rowan… moonstone tip… phoenix feather—Fawkes, no less—and siren scales, with a silver hilt. Fascinating." He let the wand catch the light, examining it with growing awe. "This wand doesn't just sing. It listens too."

Hazel smiled wryly. "Sometimes it argues."

Ollivander looked up, his gaze intense. "It has a mind of its own, then?"

"It definitely has opinions," Hazel said, her tone a little dry. "But it listens when I need it to."

"Impressive," Ollivander murmured, still studying it. "I've never seen a wand quite like it. Its magic is… complex. I suspect it will grow with you."

He placed it back in her hand carefully. "It doesn't need to be coaxed. It will find its own way with you."

Hazel looked at the wand for a moment, running her thumb along the silver hilt. "Yeah, I think it will."

"Take care of it," Ollivander said softly, almost like a prayer. "It is unlike any wand I've crafted before. Its powers are not just magical—they're personal."

With a final look at the wand, he handed her a care kit—polishing cloths, oils, and a small vial of moonwater. "A wand like this needs proper care, Miss Potter. And here's your box." He handed her a plain wooden case that felt solid and dependable, nothing like the delicate, magical wands inside the shop. "Remember, it has no trace. So be cautious when and where you use it. And if anyone asks, just tell them it's a phoenix feather core. It's safer that way."

Hazel tucked the wand box carefully under her arm, nodding. "Thanks. And if anyone asks, I'll just say it's a phoenix feather. That's all they need to know."

As she stepped out, McGonagall appeared from the alley with a bundle of freshly boxed robes.

"Everything sorted?" she asked.

"Yep. One wand. Zero explosions. I call that a win."

They ended the afternoon with ice cream at Florean Fortescue's. Hazel got sea salt caramel and ate it way too fast. McGonnagal had a black tea affogato. Her arms were full of packages, her head full of magic, and for the first time since stepping into this world, she felt… almost ready.

Back at the Leaky Cauldron, she kicked the door shut behind her and flopped onto the bed, wand box tucked safely under her arm.

The next five days passed in a blur of shopping, sightseeing, and the occasional magical mishap. Hazel traversed both the magical and non-magical sides of Britain, her days filled with enchantments, shopping lists, and the occasional dash of chaos. She made sure to get plenty of extra supplies at the Apothecary for her ritual practices. In the non-magical world, she found herself relying heavily on her enchanted Runed card to make her way around unnoticed.

The card, a thin rectangular piece of paper the size of a credit card. On the front, it bore scribbled Roman runes and concentric circles that pulsed with faint energy. On the back was a simple silver ink outline of a human figure, almost abstract in its simplicity. The card's magic was versatile enough to catch anyone's attention when activated.

Card Ritual: Effigium Fragile – The Fractured Effigy

"Upon this shell my will is drawn,
Shape of man from dusk to dawn."

All she had to do was whisper the activation spell, tear the card in half, and voila, an illusionary humanoid figure appeared beside her. It shimmered slightly, silent, and always managed to draw attention, especially from nosy mortals who couldn't fathom why a child was wandering around alone.

The figure could follow basic commands, like "stand guard," or "walk beside me," or "distract" in the rare moments she needed a little help. It lasted for a few hours or until it was physically struck. Then, it would dissipate into drifting silver dust. Hazel could only carry a few of these cards at once, as crafting them was draining—both mentally and magically. But the fact that it worked as a decoy? Very useful.

Despite the magic, things were relatively quiet. Maybe it was the distance from the center of Olympus, or maybe the monsters were just taking a vacation, but Hazel barely encountered any real trouble. Sure, there were two hellhounds—foul-smelling beasts the size of garbage trucks—that she had to deal with, but even they didn't put up much of a fight. A very lost minotaur was the only other excitement, and it managed to run straight into an incoming train at King's Cross station, where it exploded into a cloud of yellow, sulfurous dust. That had certainly turned a few heads.

In between the occasional creature attack, Hazel ate her weight in pasta at the small Italian place near the Leaky Cauldron and indulged in far too much ice cream at Florean Fortescue's magical shop. She could never resist trying the new flavors, and the enchanted ice creams were a highlight. The unicorn-flavored ice cream—shaped like a moving unicorn's head—tasted like caramel and chocolate and was nearly too perfect to be real. The unicorn was also enchanted, so it didn't feel pain when Hazel accidentally bit one of its ears off.

She'd had to ask twice if it was really enchanted and confirmed that it didn't feel any pain, just to be sure.

But, with the indulgence and the quieter days slowly passing by, it was finally 1st September—the day she'd been both dreading and looking forward to. Hogwarts. Harry.

Hazel woke up early on the morning of September 1st, dressed, checked her trunk twice, tucked her wand into its box, then double-checked her enchanted cards. She was out of her room at the Leaky Cauldron by sunrise, slipping into the bustle of London with a single card tucked in her coat pocket—the Effigium Fragile.

She hailed a cab outside, and when the driver raised an eyebrow at the sight of a kid traveling alone, Hazel flashed a quick smile and gestured to the shimmering figure that had appeared beside her just moments earlier.

"This is my dad," she said confidently. "He's mute, so I'll be doing the talking for both of us."

The driver, an older man with a soft Cockney accent and kind eyes, blinked at the illusion. "Ah. Well, alright then, love. Bit early for the station, innit?"

Hazel shrugged. "Better early than late. We don't want to miss the train."

As they drove through the quiet streets of London, the cabbie chatted amiably, telling her about his daughter, who'd just started secondary school. Hazel nodded along, asking just enough questions to keep him talking. He said she reminded him of his daughter—"Got the same sort of clever eyes"—and refused her tip at the end of the ride.

"Tell your dad he's lucky," the cabbie added as she got out, giving the shimmering illusion one last glance. "You've got good sense."

Hazel gave him a wave and led her illusionary "dad" through the crowd of confused no-majs at King's Cross Station. Once she reached the barrier between platforms nine and ten, she didn't hesitate—just walked forward and vanished through, just as McGonnagal had told her to do.

She arrived at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters nearly two hours early.

There was no one else in sight. The scarlet train sat there, quiet and gleaming, with no steam and no passengers. Hazel stood awkwardly for a moment, then picked a compartment at the back of the train—quiet, facing the countryside—and hauled her trunk inside. She locked the door with a whispered word, and with the privacy in place, she set down her pack and knelt on the floor.

She drew three silver threads and three white stones carved with tiny runes from a small pouch. A quiet ritual—not magic in the Hogwarts sense, but old magic, Roman magic—one the augurs at Camp Jupiter had taught her. One the Parcae wouldn't mind.

She laid the threads out carefully on the seat beside her. One for Nona, who spun the thread of life. One for Decima, who measured it. And one for Morta, who cut it.

She whispered:

"O Sisters Three, weavers of mortal paths,
Guide my thread to the one who shares it.
By fate, by blood, by magic and bond—
Let him find me. Let him know where to go."

Then she whispered a name, "Harry James Potter."

The threads shimmered faintly, the stones glowed, and Hazel felt a soft tug at the invisible string tethered to her chest, like a heartbeat, mirrored elsewhere in the world. The spell had taken. Wherever he was, the thread that linked Hazel to Harry was now gently active, waiting for its other end to draw near.

She cleaned up the stones and thread, packed them back into her bag, and then sat back on the bench, legs swinging idly as she waited.

Time crawled.

Students began to arrive. Laughter, trunks, owls hooting, and people moving past her compartment window. None of them was Harry. The train was nearly ready to leave, steam hissing, the whistle about to sound—

Then she felt it.

A tug. A faint pull on the string tied to her heart. Not painful, not urgent. Just… present. Real. Like someone was reaching for her, even if they didn't know they were doing it.

Hazel closed her eyes, smiled softly, and gave the thread a gentle tug.

Just a little.

This way, Harry.

The door slid open with a soft click.

Hazel looked up from her book, heart already thudding even before she saw him. He stood framed in the doorway like something out of a photo—tousled black hair, thin frame, round glasses, and those unmistakable green eyes. Her green eyes. Well, close enough.

He blinked at her, uncertain.

"You're Harry, right? Harry James Potter?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer. The name felt strange on her tongue—familiar and brand new all at once.

"Uh… yes," he said.

Hazel didn't wait another second.

She launched herself across the compartment and pulled him into a hug.

"I'm Hazel Lily Potter," she said into his shoulder, her voice muffled but sure. "Your twin sister."

For a second, Harry just stood there, stiff with surprise. Hazel didn't blame him. That was a lot to drop on someone before the train had even left the station.

"My—what?"

She pulled back, grinning, and gave him a once-over like she was still convincing herself he was real. "Twin. Sister. I know, right? Total plot twist. But I promise it's not some weird prank."

Harry stared at her like she'd grown two heads. "How do you… How do you know?"

"Long story," Hazel said, flopping back into her seat and gesturing for him to sit across from her. "Long long story. I'll explain later."

He sat down slowly, still looking at her like she might explode or vanish or both.

"I don't—how is this even possible?"

Hazel reached behind her neck and pulled out a small golden locket, oval-shaped and warm from being pressed against her skin. It was smooth on one side, but the other was engraved with a tiny fleur-de-lis, elegant and old-fashioned.

"I don't have all the answers," she said, unhooking the clasp. "But I've got a few clues."

She opened the locket and turned it toward him.

On one side was a photograph, clearly non-magical, of a young couple laughing together. The man had wild black hair and glasses askew; the woman, red-haired and radiant, leaned into him like she'd found the sun. James and Lily Potter.

On the other side was another photo, a smiling photo of a boy and girl, both with black hair and green eyes, wearing white collared shirts. Clearly, Harry and Hazel Potter.

"That was just you, before," Hazel said softly. "Even this morning. But sometime after I got on the train, this side changed."

Harry stared at the picture, jaw slack. "How—"

"Probably some sort of charm," Hazel said. "Old magic. Family magic. I'm not sure, but I think it shows us how the other looks if we are apart."

Outside, the train lurched and began to move. Hazel glanced out the window, then back at him, her smile softening.

"Oh wait, I still have something to do. Go on, take a seat."

Then, she stood, stepped over to the sliding door, and pulled another small metal card from her jacket.

It was pale grey, with tiny curling runes that shimmered faintly in the flickering train light. She whispered:

"What you see is not what stands,
This woven mask obeys my hands."

She touched the card to the doorframe. The runes rippled once and then vanished. So did the window. To anyone walking past now, their compartment would look full—maybe with noisy second-years or a snoring older student and a cage with an angry owl or cat. Uninviting. Uninteresting. Forgettable.

Hazel sat back down and stretched her legs.

Harry blinked at the now-frosted-over glass. "What… did you just do?"

"Just a little illusion," she said, tucking the card away. "Makes people skip over this compartment without thinking too hard about why. We can still see out, but no one sees in. Or if they do, it's something they'd rather avoid."

Harry looked mildly impressed. "That's… handy."

"It is," Hazel agreed, propping her chin on her hand. "Now that we won't be interrupted…"

She smiled at him, a little nervous now that the moment had arrived. "Tell me about yourself. I want to get to know you. You know—my brother."

Harry leaned back slightly, clearly still adjusting to that word. "Right. Um… okay. Well, I live with my aunt and uncle. And cousin. The Dursleys. They're not great."

"Mhmm"

"They don't talk about my parents. Or magic. I didn't even know any of this existed until, like, a month ago." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Then Hagrid showed up, told me I was a wizard, and that I was going to Hogwarts."

"Just like that?" Hazel asked softly.

"Pretty much," he said with a wry smile. "Oh—and apparently, I defeated a dark wizard as a baby and now everyone knows my name."

Hazel snorted. "Low-key entrance, huh?"

"I mean, I thought I was just a normal kid. Turns out I'm a famous orphan with a lightning scar and mysterious destiny baggage."

"Twinsies," Hazel murmured, her grin crooked. "Except I got a few extra layers of weird stacked on top."

Harry looked curious. "Like what?"

Hazel hesitated, then said, "We'll get into that. Let's stick to you for now."

Harry looked at her for a long moment, then said, "Honestly? I was really scared coming here. I didn't know if I'd fit in. Or if I'd be rubbish at magic. Or if people would only like me because of this"—he pointed vaguely at his forehead—"and not because of me."

Hazel's smile turned gentler. "People are going to like you, Harry. For you. But if they don't…" She leaned forward. "I'll hex them. Gently. Creatively."

That pulled a laugh out of him.

"Thanks," he said, a little more relaxed now.

She nudged his foot with hers. "So. Do you like to read? Favorite food? Weirdest thing you've seen since learning magic?"

Harry blinked. "I… I think I'm going to like having a sister."

Hazel grinned. "I'm impossible not to like."

Hazel hesitated, tugging a lock of her hair. "Well… there's still a big secret I'm not allowed to tell you yet."

He tilted his head. "That sounds ominous."

"Not ominous. Just… complicated. And it's not mine to spill. Not yet." She glanced at him, and something settled in her gaze.

Harry frowned slightly, but didn't press. Hazel moved on quickly.

"I don't remember much from before I was one year old. Most of what I know… I only learned on our birthday last month. This really old guy—Dumbledore—came to my home with a letter. Sat me down and explained everything. Or at least, enough to set me spinning."

Harry's eyebrows lifted. "He came to see you?"

"Yeah. Said it was important I hear it from him." She tucked a leg beneath her. "And then, when I got to Britain last week to buy supplies, that's when I found books. About you."

He blinked. "Books?"

"Historical ones. Magical history texts, news clippings. And—this is the wild part—an entire series of children's novels about you. Some of them read like knock-off Nancy Drew mysteries, except with broomsticks and more explosions."

Harry looked utterly baffled. "That… what?"

Hazel laughed. "I know. I had to double-check it wasn't fiction-fiction. But yeah, you're kind of a big deal, apparently."

Harry flushed and looked down at his shoes.

"Anyway," Hazel said, her voice softening, "I've been really looking forward to this. You're the whole reason I even came to Hogwarts. I was all set to attend the American school—Ilvermorny."

"You changed schools just to meet me?"

"Well, yeah," she said, like it was obvious. "Twins stick together."

That made Harry smile again, even if he looked a little stunned.

They lapsed into a comfortable quiet for a few moments, just the hum of the train under them. Eventually, Hazel stood and went to the door. With a murmured word, she lifted the illusion. The frosted glass shimmered, then cleared.

And almost immediately, a red-headed blur burst in.

"Can I sit here? My twin brothers are driving me mental—oh, hi."

He looked at Harry, grinned, and plopped into the seat across from him like he belonged there.

"I'm Ron. Ron Weasley."

"Harry," said Harry, still catching up.

"The Harry?" Ron leaned forward, eyes wide. "Wicked. Knew I'd spot you. Fred and George said you'd be covered in lightning bolts and dragons or something, but you look normal enough."

Hazel cleared her throat gently. Ron blinked at her, clearly just realizing she existed. "Oh. Um. Hi."

"Hazel," she said, raising an eyebrow.

"Right. Hazel." He nodded once, already turning back to Harry. "So—have you really never been on a broom?"

Hazel leaned back into her seat with a sigh and an amused glance at Harry, who looked halfway between overwhelmed and deeply entertained.

The rest of the train ride was… chaotic, in the best possible way.

Ron chatted like a wind-up toy someone had forgotten to switch off. He was funny, though, and so enthusiastic Hazel couldn't help enjoying his stories—mostly wild tales of his older brothers' pranks and catastrophes at Hogwarts and home.

When the trolley witch came by, Ron tried to act cool about not having much money, but Harry, bless him, bought three of everything and shared the lot.

Hazel politely declined the Chocolate Frogs but accepted a Peppermint wand and a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, which quickly devolved into a roulette of either delight or despair.

"Grass," she said after chewing thoughtfully. "Better than sardine, I guess."

Ron, meanwhile, was squinting at his wand, Scabbers balanced awkwardly in his lap.

Ron opened his mouth to try the spell his brothers taught him when the compartment door slammed open.

A frantic, round-faced boy stuck his head in. "Has anyone seen a toad? I've lost mine!"

Behind him came a girl with bushy brown hair, very intense eyebrows, and the gait of the Camp's Augur, someone with a whole lot of attitude.

"I've checked every compartment from the back," the girl announced briskly, pushing the door open wider. "We're running out of time. Oh—hello. I'm Hermione Granger, by the way."

Hazel blinked at her. "Aren't you twelve?"

"I'm nearly twelve," Hermione replied with a prim lift of her chin. "And this is Neville. He's misplaced his toad. Again. Oh, are you going to do a spell? Let's see it, then."

Ron straightened, puffing up slightly as if challenged. "Right, yeah. Watch this."

He held up his wand with dramatic flair and recited, "Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid, fat rat yellow!"

A loud pop, a puff of smoke—and absolutely no change. Scabbers blinked once, unimpressed, then curled back up like none of it had been worth waking up for.

"That was... tragic," Hazel said, biting back a grin.

Hermione gave a curt nod. "You're doing it wrong, by the way. That's not even a proper incantation."

Ron looked like he'd just been personally insulted by a library.

Harry choked on a laugh. Hazel didn't even try to hide hers.

"I like her," she whispered to Harry. Then aloud, "I have another spell we can try. Mind if I borrow your rat?"

Ron hesitated, then reluctantly handed over Scabbers.

"Don't worry," Hazel added, cradling the rat gently. "I won't hurt him."

She cupped Scabbers in one hand and hovered her other hand above him, chanting in a singsong voice:
"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, kindly make this gray rat yellow!"

As she slowly moved her top hand across his fur, it shimmered and shifted, turning a bright, daffodil yellow from nose to tail.

"Ta-dah!" she said, grinning as she handed the rat back to Ron. "Don't worry, it fades in a day."

Ron gaped. "Wicked."

Even Hermione looked grudgingly impressed.

"Well," she said, "that wasn't bad."

Hazel winked. "I'm impossible not to like."

"You might as well stay," Harry offered. "You've checked the whole train, right?"

Hermione hesitated for a fraction of a second, then sat down decisively. "I suppose we'll just wait here until we arrive. No use getting stepped on by trunks in the corridor."

Neville nodded and slid into the seat beside Ron, who was still turning Scabbers over and marveling at his neon rat.

They hadn't been sitting long when the compartment door slid open again.

A pale, pointy boy with slicked-back white-blond hair stood in the doorway, flanked by two beefy shadows who looked very alike. He gave Harry a long, assessing look, eyes flicking briefly to his scar before shifting to Hazel, who sat with the peppermint-chocolate wand in her mouth.

"So it's true," he drawled. "Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts. And with… quite the entourage."

Hazel raised an eyebrow. "You always enter rooms like you're introducing yourself at a ball?"

The boy smirked. "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. And these are Crabbe and Goyle."

His gaze swept over the compartment again, pausing on Ron. "Red hair, hand-me-down robes… You must be a Weasley. I hear your family's got more children than Galleons."

Ron flushed and stood up, fists clenched at his sides. Draco turned to Hermione next, looking faintly amused. "Who even are you?"

Hermione stiffened. Neville opened his mouth, but Hazel beat him to it.

"You missed one," she said lightly.

Draco turned to her and paused.

Hazel met his gaze with an unreadable smile. Not smug, not kind. Just calm and terribly, dangerously composed.

His smirk faltered for half a second.

Then he gave a small, almost reluctant nod—acknowledging her, and with a glance toward Neville, giving him the barest show of respect.

And then, back to Harry.

"You'll soon find some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort."

Harry frowned, fingers curling slightly on his knee.

Hazel leaned forward, just enough to be noticed. "You're standing in front of the wrong sort, actually. If you were trying to make a good impression."

Draco's jaw tightened, clearly caught between irritation and something he couldn't quite name. Hazel still hadn't looked away.

Harry spoke, cool and confident. "I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks."

Draco's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Suit yourself. Enjoy the ride."

He turned sharply, retreating down the corridor with Crabbe and Goyle lumbering after him like obedient furniture.

Ron exhaled loudly. "What a prat."

Hazel casually unwrapped another toad. "I'd like to see him try that in my neighborhood. He'd get turned into a lawn ornament."
Neville gave her a grin. Hermione still looked a little stunned. Harry just stared at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

They spent the rest of the ride laughing and sharing stories. Hazel told a few carefully edited tales of life in America, skipping over monsters and divine blessings, but keeping the flavor of weirdness intact—like the time her "science project" accidentally shorted out three city blocks, or the raccoon she may or may not have taught to pick locks. Harry told her about the cupboard, the stairs, and the zoo glass disappearing—his voice uncertain, like he wasn't sure if it all happened or if he was supposed to have imagined it. Hazel listened closely. There's more magic in him than even he realizes, she thought.

Ron jumped in with a tale about the time Fred and George turned his teddy bear into a giant spider just to "toughen him up," earning a collective wince. Hermione recited a story about winning a reading contest at her school, then being politely asked not to enter the next year so the other children had a chance. Neville, blushing, admitted that his great-uncle once tried to throw him out a window to see if he'd bounce—he had, miraculously—earning a round of shocked laughter that made even the rattling train car feel warm and familiar.

The rain hit them the moment they stepped off the train—soft at first, like mist, and then harder, soaking through their cloaks in moments. Hazel blinked up at the darkened sky as thunder rolled in the distance, low and lazy, like the heavens were still waking up. The platform was lit only by the glow of lanterns, flickering in the wind as a massive shape loomed at the end of the corridor.

"Firs' years, follow me!" Hagrid called out over the sound of rain and chattering voices. Lantern held high, his massive form led the group away from the train and down a steep, narrow path. Cold wind whipped through their robes, and Hazel held her uniform robes tighter around her shoulders, trying not to slip on the muddy ground.

"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid shouted once they reached the edge of a vast black lake, the water smooth and gleaming under the night sky. A fleet of little boats bobbed gently beside the shore.

Hazel climbed into one with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, careful not to tip it over. Neville was ushered into the next boat with a quiet blond boy and two twin Indian girls, all equally wide-eyed.

"Right then—forward!" Hagrid called, and the boats moved all at once, gliding silently over the still, inky water.

Hazel let her hand trail along in the lake and wrapped her fingers around the tentacle that touched her palm. Not a sound could be heard but the gentle lapping of the lake and the occasional sniffle from someone trying not to shiver.

Then, as they rounded a bend in the rock, Hazel gasped—along with half the boatload of first-years.

There it was.

A vast castle perched on a high mountain, its turrets and towers rising into the sky, with windows glowing warmly like scattered stars. Hogwarts. It looked impossibly large, like something dreamed rather than built.

"No way," Ron whispered, as all four of them craned their necks.

Hazel grinned, rain on her face. "That's where we're going?"

They sailed closer, the reflection of the castle rippling on the water's surface. Hazel took advantage of the darkness to shoot a jet of water right at Draco Malfoy's gleaming hair.

As they neared a cliff, Hagrid called, "Heads down!" and everyone ducked just in time to avoid banging into the low tunnel carved through the rock.

The boats glided through the darkness beneath the castle and came to a small underground harbor with a pebbled shore. One by one, the students climbed out, some unsteady on their feet.

"Oi, whose toad is that?" Hagrid asked, pointing toward a soggy creature sitting miserably on a rock.

"Trevor!" Neville cried and scooped him up, overjoyed.

They followed Hagrid up a passageway lit with torches, winding through the stone. The air was damp, and Hazel caught the faint scent of moss and earth. Her heart pounded with every step.

Finally, they reached a pair of massive oak doors, towering and ancient, bound with iron and carved with strange, shifting symbols.

Hagrid raised a meaty fist and knocked once. The sound echoed like a thunderclap.

Moments later, the doors swung open.

Standing there, stern and statuesque, was Professor McGonnagal in emerald robes. She had black hair with silver streaks pulled back in a tight bun, square glasses, and a stern face and pursed lips.

"The firs' years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid said.

"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."

Hagrid gave them a nod and walked through a side door.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will cost your house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

Professor McGonagall's eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and on Ron's smudged nose. Harry nervously tried to flatten his hair.

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."

"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly." She left the chamber.

Harry swallowed. "How exactly do they sort us into houses?" he asked Ron.

"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking."

A test? In front of the whole school? Really? Hazel squinted at the doors ahead like they might burst open and reveal a riddle on a flaming scroll. That's dramatic even for wizards. Maybe it wasn't a magical test. Maybe they had to solve a logic puzzle or a practical challenge—something bizarre but intellectual. Hazel's mind flipped through possibilities like flashcards. Maybe if you stab the problem, you go to Gryffindor. Negotiate with it? Slytherin. Write a poem? Ravenclaw. Offer it a snack? Hufflepuff.

No one else seemed to be having any fun with the idea. Hermione Granger was whispering at lightspeed about all the spells she'd memorized—Hazel could practically see the sparks coming off her brain. Harry looked like he was trying not to throw up. Neville was practically vibrating, and even Ron and Draco Malfoy had their faces fixed in a kind of dignified dread. Boys. So dramatic.

Then someone screamed behind them.

Hazel jumped, hand twitching toward her belt on reflex—only to realize the room was now full of… ghosts. About twenty of them. No explanation. Just whoosh—transparent people drifting through the back wall, mid-conversation, as if they hadn't just spooked a bunch of eleven-year-olds into temporary paralysis.

"I say we forgive him—one more chance—" said a jolly-looking, round ghost in monk's robes.

"Oh come on, Friar," said a snooty one in a ruff and tights, clearly at the end of his spectral patience. "Peeves isn't even a real ghost. He gives us all a bad name!"

Then the snooty one noticed them. "New students!"

"About to be sorted, I suppose?" the Fat Friar beamed at them, hands clasped like he was presenting a buffet. A few first-years nodded wordlessly.

"Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old house, you know."

Hazel gave him a polite nod. She'd liked him already.

A sharp voice sliced through the air like a knife.

"Move along now."

Professor McGonagall had returned, expression brisk as ever, robes swishing like a statement. The ghosts melted away through the far wall, and the first-years were left to fidget under her watchful gaze.

"Now, form a line," she said, "and follow me."

Hazel lined up behind Harry, with Hermione just ahead of him and Ron and Neville at her heels. Her feet felt unusually heavy, like her boots had been hexed with bricks. This was it. They were actually doing this. Sorting. Into magical houses. At an ancient boarding school. Her life really had taken a hard left turn into "storybook" lately.

They followed McGonagall back through the entrance hall, which echoed around them like they were marching into destiny, and then—through the massive double doors.

The Great Hall hit Hazel like a punch of candlelight and gold.

Thousands of floating candles hovered above four long tables filled with students. The candlelight flickered off goblets and plates of actual gold, sparkling like treasure. The ceiling—Hazel had to pause—was enchanted to look exactly like the night sky, complete with rolling clouds and rain flickers. Stars. Moonlight. Magic.

She didn't breathe for a second. Just stared.

At the far end of the hall was a long staff table where the teachers sat, watching. Dumbledore sat in the center, twinkling like a human lantern. McGonagall led them all the way up to the front, where a stool sat alone, solemn and mildly threatening. A patchy, wrinkled, ancient wizard's hat sat on top. Hazel blinked. Seriously? That's it? That's the Sorting Hat?

She was about to ask Harry if this was all part of the charm when—

The hat moved.

A rip near the brim opened like a mouth, and it began to sing.

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.

You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.

There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.

So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"

After the song concluded, the Sorting Hat gave a little bow—well, as much of a bow as a sentient piece of headwear could manage—then fell still. For a moment, the hall was hushed, as though everyone had been holding their breath. Then, all at once, the students burst into a raucous round of clapping, cheers echoing from every table. Hazel clapped too, eyes fixed on the hat, heart thudding.

Sorry about that, first time author here, I'm still learning the ropes of FFN