Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel Novak took his first step inside London King’s Cross with his heart beating hard and his eyes wide, trying to see absolutely everything.

When he’d imagined this moment – and oh, Merlin, he’d imagined it time and time and time again, sitting in the attic of their house on Cloudesley Street with his face pressed up against the cool glass of the window, eyes fixed south-west, trying to imagine that he could see a curl of train smoke rising up into the grey London sky – when he’d imagined it, he’d always thought of the station as somewhere neat, and muted, and clean. Like his mother’s kitchen, only bigger.

But it wasn’t at all like that. It was a mess.

It was sprawlingly huge and bright, and smelled headily strongly of food and cologne and bodies. And there were people walking, people running, people standing and staring at the departure boards, hundreds upon hundreds of people with their boisterous conversations and rustling shopping and rat-a-tat doorknocker laughs. Ding dong, and then another voice, loud and slightly crackly. The train now standing at Platform Two is the Ten-Thirty Great Northern Service to Kings Lynn. Would passengers please board the train now, as it is ready to depart… A small, chubby man checked his sparkling gold watch, looking harassed. A large woman walked by with a skinny little girl skipping along behind her, counting out numbers as she went. A pigeon flapped overhead, landing on top of a pink and red sign advertising cheap pizza. And under his feet, the grumble grumble grumble of the trains.

“Keep up, Castiel!”

A sharp, impatient, familiar voice, carrying over the top of the tumultuous racket. Castiel blinked, and ran a few steps forwards to catch up. His mother sent him an admonitory look over the heads of his brothers, who were walking neatly in line behind her.

Gabriel turned around and grinned at him.

“Don’t get lost, little bro,” he said. “That wouldn’t be very smart, would it?”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at his older brother and said nothing. The teasing that Gabriel had kept up over the course of the summer would be over soon; the Sorting couldn’t come quickly enough for Castiel. The moment he was placed in Ravenclaw, he was going to jump up on that stool and shout “I told you so!” to the whole of the Great Hall, but mostly to Gabriel. Maybe also to Michael, the King of quiet condescension.

And maybe also to his mother, who pursed her lips every time he got a question wrong at their daily lunch-table quiz. She had her doubts about today’s Sorting, and Castiel knew it. But he would prove her wrong. He’d get sorted into Ravenclaw, where he belonged, with the rest of his family.

He followed in their footsteps across the concourse of King’s Cross station, battling down the urge to stare at everyone he passed. He tried to focus instead on the back of Gabriel’s dark robes, swishing over the grey tiled ground. But it couldn’t last; the new sights and sounds were simply too alluring after long, long weeks spent shut up inside Cloudesley Street while his mother was at home over the summer. Besides, it wasn’t as though staring seemed to be an especially strange thing to do: half the people they passed seemed to be gawping right back at Castiel, stopping in their tracks to watch his progress. He tugged on Gabriel’s robes.

“C’mon, Cassie, you’ll make me drop Galilee.”

“Why’s everyone staring?”

Gabriel smirked.

“They’re not used to seeing people in robes like ours. It’s because we’re special.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, and he nodded. Of course, that would explain it. None of these people looked as though they were going to Hogwarts. Why shouldn’t they stare, and be jealous? Castiel himself had been in their position for four long years running, watching first Michael and then Gabriel leave the house with all their luggage, ready to board the Hogwarts Express. He knew how they felt. He tried his best not to look too pleased with himself as he followed his mother’s lead towards Platform Nine and Three-Quarters; the worst part had always been his brothers’ smug faces. And even before Michael and Gabriel had been old enough to go to Hogwarts, his mother had been taking the Express every September since before Castiel could remember.

“Remember to stay calm when Professor Tran puts the Sorting Hat on you,” she’d said this morning, over breakfast. “I will speak to you along with all the other new Ravenclaws tomorrow morning, when I hand out your timetables.” Castiel had nodded silently, his helping of porridge sticking in his throat. He wasn’t sure what it was going to be like, having his mother as both his Head of House and his Charms teacher; it was bad enough having her as his taskmaster in the holidays, but in front of all of his classmates, too…

“Where has Muriel got to with those suitcases?” Naomi now demanded waspishly of no one in particular, throwing a glance back over her shoulder as they neared the gateway to the platform. “Castiel, stay close to your brother. It’s the same every year,” she said to him, throwing a disparaging look towards the people staring at her heavy, starched grey robes. “Packed with Muggles.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel saw someone’s head jerk up. He looked to his left, and saw a brown-haired boy in Muggle clothing tugging at a blonde woman’s sleeve. Probably some lost Muggle-born, looking for the platform. Castiel hoped the boy wouldn’t ask Naomi for help. She could be terse at the best of times.

The barrier between platforms nine and ten came into view, and Naomi came to a halt. She wrapped a hand around Castiel’s shoulder, and motioned curtly for Michael and Gabriel to go through. Castiel looked up at her. She looked tense, her teeth grinding a little as she waited. The hustle of the station was irking her; perhaps that was all. Castiel hadn’t been outside with her often enough to know how she usually acted in public. His own heart was still hammering, every loud noise making him jump a little. He tightened his fingers into fists. He wanted to reach up and hold his mother’s hand, but she didn’t usually encourage that.

Her grip on his shoulder tightened.

“You know I’m proud of you, don’t you, Castiel?” she said. Castiel, taken by surprise, blinked up at her owlishly. She opened her mouth to say something more, and then snapped it shut. Castiel watched her throat move as she swallowed.

“Don’t stare, Castiel, it’s rude. Through the barrier, now.” She sent him forwards with a little push. Castiel had missed watching his brothers go through, but they were nowhere to be seen, so he guessed it must have worked. He took a few hesitant steps forwards, and then looked back at his mother. He felt as though a thousand eyes were on him, but hers certainly weren’t. She was looking back in the direction they’d come, probably waiting to give Muriel a telling-off for being late with the suitcases.

Castiel turned back around. He squared his thin shoulders, staring at the barrier. Gabriel had told him a thousand times that it was easy.

On the other hand, Gabriel had also told him that they kept ten acromantulas between the barrier and the train, but he was fairly certain that wasn’t true. He’d asked Michael when he’d been sure Gabriel wasn’t around, and Michael had only looked down his nose at Castiel for a long second before turning back to his book with a sigh and a shake of his head. Still, it had been a second of attention longer than Castiel usually received from his oldest brother, so he’d counted it as something like a win.

In any case, if Michael had thought Castiel was just being stupid, then the acromantulas probably weren’t real.

A few suited men buffeted past Castiel on their way to catch the train from Platform 10, almost knocking him over in their hurry. He started to move towards the barrier. Time to get out of the way. At a brisk pace, he stepped right up… he was getting closer, and then…

And then he was through. No whoosh of air, no sparks... not even a ten-foot tall venomous arachnid monster to greet him.

“Rarrrrrrrrgh!” yelled a voice, and arms grabbed Castiel from behind, swinging him up and round.

“Gabriel!” Castiel yelped, squirming – surely everyone would be staring? But when he was released, he quickly realised that no one was paying him any attention. Students everywhere were shouting greetings and getting on the train, too busy to watch Castiel being teased. Michael was engaged in a serious-looking conversation several feet away with a tall boy wearing a green and silver tie, who had dirty-blond hair and a strange, icy twinkle in his eye. He looked over at Castiel, and winked. Castiel, still brushing down his robes, swallowed uncomfortably and looked up at Gabriel.

“OK, so I lied,” Gabriel said, holding up one hand in confession. “No acromantulas. Just lots of scaaaaaaary students.” He wiggled his fingers threateningly in Castiel’s face; Castiel batted them away, rolling his eyes. He was glad Gabriel was here, still being his usual irritating self. It was an island of annoying familiarity in this sea of shouting and steam and scarlet engines. Gabriel ruffled his hair, and Castiel dodged aside, out of habit. “Come on, little bro. Time to escape before the Mothertron arrives and finds you a seat on the train next to Michael and the Indoctrinating Ravens…”

“Castiel?” The pincer-grip was back on Castiel’s shoulder, tighter than ever. Gabriel offered him a quick, regretful glance, turning away and running off towards a group of other third-years, brandishing the little box he held in one hand at them with typical beaming panache. Castiel glanced upwards to catch his mother staring after Gabriel with a face as blank as a fresh sheet of parchment.

“He’s showing them Galilee,” Castiel explained, trying to be helpful. His mother looked down at him as though surprised to see him, and then pursed her lips.

“I know,” she said sharply. “I should never have bought it for him. They’re not strictly allowed.” Castiel said nothing; he’d been just as surprised as Gabriel when his mother had agreed to buy a pet tarantula for him at the start of the summer. Naomi sighed. “He’ll have traded it for a week’s worth of homework before the end of the month,” she said, turning away and guiding Castiel with her. “Come on, Castiel, we’ll sit you down with Michael.”

Castiel didn’t try to fight Naomi’s steering hand, though he did peer through the windows of the carriages they passed. He found an empty feeling growing in his chest when he saw students laughing together, hugging each other, shouting over each other to be heard. It all looked so loud and riotous and… fun.

“Michael always sits in the front carriage,” Naomi said, giving Castiel a little push. “Don’t be afraid of the other fifth years. I sit further down the train to give you boys your space.” She levered her hand away from Castiel’s shoulder, blue eyes boring down into him. “Come and find me if you need my help, Castiel. But I expect you to be able to deal with this on your own.”

Castiel swallowed and nodded. He took a step away from his mother, and then another, feeling her eyes on his back as he climbed up into the carriage. For a brief second, he considered trying to move on past Michael’s compartment, and find some other people to sit with – maybe other first years, like himself – but then Michael poked his head around the door of his open compartment and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“Are you coming in, then?” he demanded. Castiel nodded, raising his shoulders to try to show the same ambivalence that Michael achieved so naturally. He took a deep breath, and then entered the compartment.

The only free seat was by the window, over a thicket of legs. Castiel scrambled over, earning himself several contemptuous glares before he’d even managed to sit down. Once he’d dropped into his seat, he looked down at his folded hands and tried not to feel the burn in his cheeks.

“Sorry that we’re babysitting today,” he heard Michael say, and his embarrassment only intensified. Michael was so ashamed to be his brother. “But I want to keep an eye on him.”

No mention of their mother’s instructions, then. Castiel glanced over at his brother, who was leaning back in his seat languidly, watching him through narrowed eyes. Castiel knew that look all too well; say anything and you’ll pay for it later. He swallowed and turned his face to the window. Michael’s friends started chatting amongst themselves. Isolated, watching the last few stragglers boarding the train, Castiel sat with a lump in his throat, wishing that he could chat so effortlessly, be a part of the group. He felt awkward and silent, a dull grey rock tipping the atmosphere of the compartment out of balance. He wished that he could say something. Make a joke, like Gabriel would.

“Muggles everywhere in the station again,” Michael said carelessly. “I don’t know why the Ministry won’t just clear the place for one morning while the students go through.”

“Couldn’t you ask your father?” said one of his friends, and Castiel’s head jerked round.

“No,” Michael said sharply, sounding just like Naomi. “He doesn’t work in that department.”

The silence pressed in awkwardly. Outside in the corridor people were moving past the open door of the compartment, some of them peering in briefly to look for spare seats.

One of Michael’s friends cleared her throat. The tense quiet continued. Was this normal for Michael’s friends? Or was it because their father had been brought up?

“The Muggles were everywhere,” Castiel said eventually – trying to get the conversation back on track. “They’re stupid.”

Michael snorted.

“Stupid like you, Castiel.”

A few of the Ravenclaws laughed, a little awkwardly.

The last person to get on the train shut the door behind them; Castiel heard it slam. It was almost eleven o’clock.

“Are Muggle-borns all stupid, too?” he said, frowning.

“Born with Muggles, born stupid,” Michael said. “And boring.”

Castiel nodded seriously. His brother would know. Castiel himself had never met a Muggle-born. Or, indeed, many Muggles. He became aware of someone standing stock still just outside the compartment, and looked up to see the boy from earlier – the one with the blonde woman, the one who’d looked so relieved to see some wizards who knew where they were going.

His mouth was slightly open and the tips of his ears were red. Castiel frowned at him, wondering why he didn’t move down the train and find himself a seat. He looked as though he wanted to speak.

Castiel blinked at him, and then realised he was staring, and turned back to face the window. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was still full of parents, waving to their children, passing them last-minute gifts through the windows, squeezing their hands with tears in their eyes. Castiel felt a little ache inside at the sight of them, so overflowing with care and sadness and happiness all at once. Some of them were waving to children in the next compartment along from Castiel, and if he squinted his eyes, he could almost imagine that they were waving at him.

He sighed, and sat back. Michael’s friends were chattering, one long stream of sarcasm and dry remarks, most of which went a little over Castiel’s head, though he would never have admitted it. He sighed quietly.

It was going to be a long journey.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There were three things that Dean knew for sure about this incredible world that he'd been recently thrust into. One: he was a wizard. Up until the day when the man in a nice suit had come to his home to explain all about wizards and witches and the school they go to, Dean hadn't even thought they'd existed. Then, there he was, being told that he was a boy that could go learn magic if he wanted.

So, Dean knew he was a wizard.

Two: people without magic were called 'Muggles'. It was kind of weird word, but it had been a part of the explanation, too. Dean's Mom and Dad were Muggles, which made Dean a "Muggle-born". Most everyone he knew were Muggles. When he'd asked if his little brother Sam was a Muggle, the man had said he didn't know yet, but probably. That was okay. Dean would be sure to tell him all about Magic when he got back.

And the third thing he knew for sure was something that he'd just learned: that compartment of kids were a bunch of assholes.

Yes, he knew that if his mom had known he'd even thought that word he'd be in all sorts of trouble, but they were.

Dean found himself staring at the one boy in the group that seemed to be about his own age, the one with the blue eyes. He gaped as his brain worked on just how offended he should be and what he should do next.

They'd called Muggles stupid. They'd called Muggle-borns stupid, too.

Blue-eyes cocked his head at him curiously and that was enough to set Dean in motion again. He gave the boy a scowl that he usually only reserved for people that liked to pick on Sammy, and walked down the aisle of the train, resolved to get as far away from those people as he could.

Dean had gotten on the train a little later than most kids so that he could kiss his mom goodbye, so most of the seats were already taken. There was a group of kids in one compartment that looked like they were all pouring over stacks of books. Another compartment that he peeked in had two older kids in it... kissing. Dean grimaced and continued down the aisle, but everywhere he looked, people already had friends.

Dean had no one.

He stumbled backwards into a mostly-full compartment when an older kid raced down the train and shoved him to the side.

Inside, a blonde girl giggled at him when he looked around, making all of that stupid insecurity come rushing back. Across from her was a scowly dark-haired girl that didn't look like she was having a very good day. To the right of the blonde was a boy with a ...mullet? Did people still wear those?

"Are you okay?" the boy at the very far end of the compartment asked, with a small smile. He was incredibly scrawny and had soft voice but at least he looked like he genuinely cared about Dean’s well-being.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded, edging his way back towards the entrance of the compartment. "Sorry. I didn't mean to - I'll just -"

"Do you have somewhere to sit?" Dean looked over at the redheaded girl at the end of the cart. In total, there were five kids that all seemed to be about his own age sitting next to each other, and only around half of them seemed to be wearing those robes he'd had to buy at Diagon Alley.

"Yeah," the blonde piped up, patting the seat next to her. "If you need somewhere, we have room for one more."  

Dean hesitated for just a moment before gingerly sitting next to her, half-expecting the whole group to burst out laughing at the cruel joke of pretending to let him sit with them.

"So, what's your name?" the redhead asked. "We just got done talking about ourselves but we can start over for you."

Dean shifted in his seat under the sudden limelight. "Dean."

She smiled at him and stuck out her hand. "Hi Dean. I'm Charlie."

Dean let himself smile back and reached out to shake her hand, surprised at her firm grip.

"And I'm Jo," the blonde announced with a well-placed slug on the arm. "That's Ash," she pointed to the guy next to her with the mullet, "Garth," the guy across from him, "and...Ruby, right?"

The dark-haired girl nodded.

"So, Dean," Charlie propped up her chin with one hand. "What House are you gonna be in?"

House? Dean opened his mouth to say that he didn't know what she was talking about, but Jo interrupted.

"C'mon. You know that's not how it works."

"Well, you can at least have a good guess," Ash piped in. "Like, your mom and dad were both Gryffindors, right, Jo?"

Jo sighed. "Well, yeah, but--"

Ash shushed her. "I'll bet you five sickles you're a Gryffindor."

Dean watched the exchange in intrigue. It only took him a moment to remember that sickles were a type of wizard money that he and his mom had spent at Diagon Alley.

"Whatever. I don't care where I'm sorted."

Ruby snorted. "Everyone says that, until they get Hufflepuff."

"Hey!" Garth protested from the back. "My whole family was in Hufflepuff, and they liked it a lot."

"So, uh, " Dean said, trying to figure out what any of this conversation meant. "What are we talking about?"

Everyone turned to gape at him before Jo let out a noise of understanding.

"Oooooh. He's a Muggle-born!"

Dean felt his face turn red at the mention of that word again. The last time he'd heard it, it had been said with such contempt and dismissal that he was already embarrassed to be associated with it.

"Alright, so," Jo's face grew serious as she started to explain. "When we get there, all the first years are gonna be sorted into a House. There's four of them. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin."

Both Ruby and Charlie let out some whoops at the mention of the last House.

"How do we get sorted?" he asked curiously.

"You have to fight a DRAGON." Charlie said, holding her arms in the air.

Dean paled. A dragon? He'd have to fight a dragon already? Wait, dragons were real? Of course he understood that this was a magic school, but all of the other kids had probably been practicing their dragon-fighting skills for years now, and Dean had only just learned about this recently.

"She's kidding," Ruby said with a sigh, obviously noting the panicked look on Dean's face. "You just get some dumb hat placed on your head and it'll tell you which House you're in."

Honestly, between the two options he'd heard, the dragon sounded far more likely.

"Okay. Which House is the best?"

Everyone in the compartment began to speak at once and Dean definitely heard every House mentioned and argued over.

"They're all good," Ash interjected through the noise. "They've all got good things and bad things about them, but you'll get put in the House that will help you out the most. The Sorting Hat knows what it's doing."

Dean nodded solemnly as he tried to process all of that new information he’d just received. Four Houses. All different. All good. Magic hat. Got it.

“So is there a...a special House for…” he lowered his voice. “Uh, Muggle-borns?”

Jo raised an eyebrow at him. “No? Why are you whispering?”

He blinked.

“Um. Are Muggle-borns not… bad?”

Charlie scoffed. “Of course not! You have as much magic as any of us, if you got your letter.”

“Well -” Ruby murmured, looking at her nails.

“‘Well’ nothing,” Charlie shot back. “What era are you living in?”

Ruby grumbled something under her breath, but gazed out the window when no one else chimed in to agree with whatever she’d been about to say.

Jo rested a hand on Dean’s arm. “You’re fine, Dean. Where’d you hear anything about Muggle-borns being bad?”

He shrugged, not wanting to play the snitch on anyone. “Just some people at the front of the train. They were saying that Muggles and Muggle-borns were stupid.”

A majority of the compartment shook their heads.

“Well, they’re stupid.” Ash muttered. “And mean.”

“Yeah.” Dean agreed with a small smile, glad that he’d been shoved into this little group of friends. “They are mean.”

The rest of the train ride mainly consisted of Dean asking questions and the rest of the group being more than happy to oblige him with answers. Most of them had never met a Muggle-born before, or at least not knowingly.

Dean learned more about the differences in the Houses from Garth. He learned about different spells that Jo had seen her mom use and was excited to try. Ash told him about the ghosts that supposedly were haunting Hogwarts. Not in the scary way, apparently. But in a friendly way. Charlie and Ruby both enthusiastically filled him in on Quidditch, and from what he could tell, he had really been missing out.

A sport where people flew on brooms! Why worry about boring sports when one existed where a ball literally tries to maim you?

Dean quickly grew to like the people in that compartment; even Ruby - who had been a little less than friendly at the beginning - had her own special charm.

The only thing he was worried about now was the Sorting.

Jo had made a point of letting him know that even if none of them were in his house, they'd still all be friends. They'd have some classes together and they could even hang out during free time.

It meant a lot to him that they were willing to do that, but he still hoped that he ended up in her house. Hopefully in the same house as most of them.

"Hey, Dean," Garth said, "You've got some robes, right? You should probably change into them soon."

"Oh, right." Dean stood and patted the small carry-on he'd brought with him. It contained the strange robes and the wand he'd bought at Ollivanders. It was holly and dragon heartstring, 9 3/4 inches. "Yeah, I'll go find the toilets and change."

Jo waved as he left and made his way down the long train hallway. The bathroom was probably at the very end of this cart, right? He should have asked, but he didn't want to go back now and look like an idiot. Sure enough, he got to the end of the cart and spotted the bathrooms, only to find that the men's room was locked. Great. After about thirty seconds of tapping his shoe, the door finally opened to reveal the blue-eyed boy from earlier. He smiled as he stepped out, accidentally bumping into Dean as the train lurched.

"Oh! Sorry," the boy said.

Very maturely, Dean rolled his eyes and brushed him off, stepping inside the bathroom and closing the door behind him with a small click. He might as well not to have anything to do with someone who thought he was 'stupid'.

It took him about five minutes to figure out how to put on the weird set of robes. Four of those minutes were just him getting lost in the fabric and attempting to find the way out. Magic-people actually wore these? Voluntarily?

He'd just have to get used to it.

Dean quickly made his way back to the compartment with his new friends and very nearly tripped over the folds of fabric in his rush.

"Dean, look! You can see the castle!"

Dean pressed himself up against the window that everyone in his compartment was staring through.

The castle was enormous. Absolutely huge. Set just on the edge of an even bigger lake, it juxtaposed the mountainside beautifully.

And Dean quickly learned that the castle was even bigger up close.

They'd all piled off the train with the assurance that their bags would be brought into their common rooms once they'd been sorted, and Dean was content, laughing out loud as they sailed across the lake. He'd started a splash war with the boat across from him and hadn't even cared when the burly teacher up front reprimanded him.

The stone hallways were ridiculously tall, with old chandeliers covered in spider webs and old-fashioned knight's armor in every corner.

It was as if every fantasy he'd ever had was coming to life all at once.

The group of first years reached a giant wooden doorway where a small, asian woman about his own height was waiting for them. She was smiling, but she had an aura about her that made it seem like that smile could quickly become venomous if you got on her bad side.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said tersely. "My name is Professor Tran. We're about to start the banquet, but before you can sit down, you'll have to know which House to sit with. Once you're sorted, your House is going to be like your family here at Hogwarts. You're going to share classes and a dormitory. While you're here, you should know that the good things you do will earn you House points, and breaking rules will lose you points. At the end of the year, we add them up and the House with the most points wins the House Cup. Now. If you're all ready, we're going to start the ceremony. If you're not ready, good luck. Here we go anyway."

And with that, she turned and pushed the giant doors aside without even bothering to touch them. The other students were already sitting at four giant tables and talking loudly with their friends. Dean looked over at Jo as the talking in the giant room slowly began to die out. She had her fingers crossed and was mouthing "Gryffindor" over and over again, despite what she'd said earlier on the train about being happy wherever she was put.

Dean wasn't sure what to hope for. All of the Houses seemed like good choices to him, but most of the other witches and wizards seemed to have pretty strong opinions either for or against every other House. Maybe that was just because he didn't know as much about them yet.

As he walked down the hallway towards the front of the room, he admired the different colored banners. A red lion. A blue eagle. A yellow badger. A green snake.

There was a large, old-looking wizard’s hat that was set on a stool.

Just as Dean was about to dismiss it, the hat burst into song.

So here you stand before me,

Another year has started.

What will you see, what will you learn

Before you have departed?

Oh, the future is uncertain,

The winding path is long.

And yet one thing I can predict:

the House where you’ll belong!

For among you stand the Gryffindors,

the brave, the daring hearts.

If you’ve honour and you’ve chivalry,

Here’s where you’ll make your start.

And then there are the Slytherins,

the cunning, and the hungry.

You’ll prove yourself in green, young ones,

no need to do so humbly.

Here too we have the Hufflepuffs,

the righteous and the true.

Your loyalty to those you love

will always see you through.

And finally, the Ravenclaws,

the sharpest and the quick.

You thinkers, you creators,

this House you’ll surely pick.

Where shall you go? Who will you be?

It’s time now to find out.

Oh, for there can be no secrets kept –

that’s what it’s all about.

So now it’s me you’ll under go,

Lay out the welcome mat.

And once your head the answer shows,

I shan’t keep it under my hat!

"That hat can talk." Dean said to no one in particular.

"Of course it can." Garth murmured, bouncing on his toes to get a good look.

"When I call your name, please come up to the front for your sorting." Professor Tran announced once the applause died down, holding up what looked like a large scroll.

The first to be called up was a very bouncy girl who immediately sat down on the stool. Professor Tran held up a large wizard's hat and placed it on her head. "Ravenclaw!" Dean jumped when the hat practically yelled it out to the hall.

A few more students were called until,

"Bradbury, Charlie!"

Charlie exhaled quickly.

"Good luck!' Jo whispered as Charlie pushed her way to the front.

The redhead nearly slipped off the stool in her excitement but when she finally regained her balance, the hat was put on her head. Unlink the previous few students, it didn't immediately call out a House. After about ten seconds it yelled,

"Slytherin!"

There was a loud cheer from the far end of the room with the green banners and Charlie smiled as she bounded over to her new table. Dean clapped and whooped along with the rest of the school until she sat down.

"Cortese, Ruby!"

Ruby saluted the rest of them as she made her way up to the stool. The hat was placed on her head and her House was yelled almost immediately.

"Hufflepuff!"

Hollers were heard from the table draped in yellow while Ruby climbed down from the stool, looking confused and slightly put off.

"Oh, the irony." Jo whispered.

Garth was called. Hufflepuff.

Jo was called. Gryffindor. She'd squealed in delight at the announcement and waved at her friends.

Ash was called. Ravenclaw.

As crestfallen as he was that they weren't all going to be in the same House, Dean at least knew that no matter where he was sorted, he'd be with one of his new friends.

By now they were getting down to the last handful of students. It was Dean, two girls he'd never met, and the blue-eyed boy from the train whom he was carefully avoiding.

"Novak, Castiel!"

Weird name.

Blue-eyes carefully walked to the front as if every step he took was being judged. Dean watched as he gingerly climbed up onto the wooden stool and awaited the Hat. Professor Tran dropped it on his head and waited.

Ten seconds later and there was still no announcement.

Twenty seconds.

The boy - Castiel - pressed his lips together, and shook his head so slightly that Dean almost missed it.

Thirty seconds.

Castiel shut his eyes tightly.

"Gryffindor!"

Loud cheering came up from the red table, as well as some very confused murmuring from the blue.

Dean had no idea was the big deal was, but it was the longest that someone had sat on that stool all night. Castiel slid off the stool and stoically made his way over to the table in red, which welcomed him with open arms.

The last two were called (Ravenclaw, Slytherin) and then Dean heard his own name.

"Winchester, Dean."

At long last, he walked up to the front and sat himself down on the hard wooden stool, waiting for the hat to be dropped on his head.

And there it was.

"Oh, interesting." Dean jolted as the voice filled his mind. "No preconceived notions. A clean slate. I do enjoy those like you. I know just where you'll fit in the most."

"Hufflepuff!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Castiel sat down at the Gryffindor table with his heart in his throat. Walking numbly away from the Sorting Hat, he hadn’t had the presence of mind to head for the benches facing away from the other House tables. He regretted that now: he was staring fixedly at the whorls of the wooden table in front of him, but he could feel his brothers’ eyes on his face, could almost hear their whispers, their muffled laughter. His mother would probably be watching, so Castiel pressed his lips together and made his mind an absolute blank, the way he did when she snapped at him, to keep his eyes dry. Someone jostled his shoulder, presumably in a congratulatory gesture. He couldn’t summon the courage to look up at them. Instead, he hunched over as small as he could go, shoulders rounded, trembling just a little.

The last few people were being sorted. Castiel vaguely heard ‘Winchester, Dean’ being cheered into Hufflepuff, the sounds disjointed and strange in his ears. Castiel almost wished that he could join Dean. Naomi would probably have preferred for Castiel to be sorted into a House that represented hard work and honesty, rather than a House that stood for… what? Bravery? Chivalry? Stupid, outdated ideas, she would say. Stupid ideas that belonged in a time that was long past. Gryffindor? Of all the houses, why did it have to be Gryffindor? He’d argued with the Hat for so long; he’d even pleaded, but the wretched, patched old thing had been utterly adamant.

You would not do well in Ravenclaw, the Hat had said. Oh, you have talent, yes, but no temperament for it. You belong in Gryffindor.

Castiel barely heard Professor Shurley giving his welcoming speech; his entire world seemed to have shrunk down to the pattern of marks on the table in front of him. Someone, a past Gryffindor, had chiselled the words Slytherin suks into the wood in small black letters. Castiel looked bleakly down at the misspelling, and swallowed hard.

“Cheer up, cheesecake,” said a voice to Castiel’s left. Despite himself, he jerked his head up to see who had spoken.

A girl with wavy blonde hair, big brown eyes and a wide smile grinned at him. She looked down at the graffiti, and shook her head.

“Tragic,” she said. “Are you alright?”

She was still beaming at him, her eyes all bright as though she was sharing a secret or a private joke. Castiel managed a little smile in return.

“I’m alright,” he heard himself saying, as though from a great distance. “I just…” He gulped. “I… thought I’d be…”

He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but the girl was nodding already as though she’d understood.

“Wrong House?” she said. Castiel nodded, grateful for her quickness. “It’s OK. You’ll be OK.” She patted his shoulder reassuringly, and it didn’t grate on Castiel’s nerves as much as he might have expected. “I’m Jo, by the way. Jo Harvelle. And this is Anna. She’s a first-year, too.” Jo indicated a tiny red-haired girl sitting on her other side, watching their conversation with wide, shy hazel eyes.

“We don’t always belong where we think we belong,” she said solemnly to Castiel, who frowned at her. He knew where he belonged. He’d known ever since Michael had come to Hogwarts and been sorted into their mother’s house. He belonged in Ravenclaw.

Anna bit her lip, and looked down at her hands, abashed in the face of Castiel’s silent glare. But then Jo spoke up.

“She’s right,” Jo said to Castiel, and both he and Anna blinked up at her in surprise. “You thought you’d be in Ravenclaw, but the Hat must’ve seen something Gryffindor in your head.” She reached up and rapped her knuckles against the side of Castiel’s head a couple of times, grinning. “Got any lions stored up there?”

“No,” was all that Castiel could say. He’d got nothing stored up there, apparently, if he was too stupid to get into Ravenclaw. Still, he forced another little smile for Jo’s benefit, knowing that she was doing her best to make him feel better. She squeezed his shoulder, and Castiel did his best not to shrink away from the touch.

“Come on,” she said bracingly. “Feast’ll start any second. You’ll feel better with some food inside you. That’s what my mom always says.”

Jo’s mom wasn’t wrong, apparently. Castiel ate his way steadily through two plates of steaming hot chicken pie, potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and peas, and rounded it off with a generous slice of treacle tart. He barely spoke as he shovelled, only noticing Jo’s raised eyebrows and impressed laugh as he was spooning up the last crumbs of tart and swallowing them down.

“I was hungry,” he said defensively. Jo grinned at him, and on her other side, Anna’s hazel eyes sparkled with a hint of shy mischief.

“We guessed,” Jo said. “We were wondering who was going to stop eating first, you or that Hufflepuff boy over there. Dean.”

Castiel followed her gaze to where a short boy with dirty-blond hair was chewing on a large helping of what looked like fruit pie, his cheeks stuffed, smiling at something that his tall, thin neighbour had just said. It was the boy from the train, Castiel realised. The one who’d rolled his eyes and brushed off Castiel’s apology when they’d collided in the corridor.

“So… he won?” Castiel said, staring at the boy with dislike.

“Guess so, if he’s still eating,” Jo said, and then laughed and batted Castiel’s hand away as he reached for more treacle tart. “Hey, no making yourself hurl on the first night.”

Castiel subsided. Behind where the boy – Dean – was sitting, he could see the Ravenclaw first-years enjoying their food, laughing and chatting. He wondered what they were talking about. They all looked so happy, so excited. No wonder, he thought bitterly. They were going to be living with other people just like them, people who pushed each other, people who were smart and creative and thoughtful. Whereas he, Castiel… he rubbed his thumb along the dents that spelled out Slytherin suks. Well. He, on the other hand, wouldn’t exactly be stretched by his peers.

The feast ended abruptly, the food disappearing and the scraping of benches replacing the previous roar of rowdy chatter. Castiel stood up and followed the sound of a light, authoritative voice calling for the first-years to follow behind. Castiel fell into line behind Jo, with Anna behind him. He kept his eyes low as they moved off, not wanting to watch the Ravenclaw first years being led away to their common room, with the riddling eagle guarding its entrance. He’d been worrying for weeks about answering those riddles; he’d burrowed through every book of them that he could find over the summer, researching in the quiet corners of Cloudesley Street when he was sure that his brothers couldn’t watch him. And all for absolutely nothing. All he had to do now was offer a password to the stupid old Fat Lady. Castiel was so lost in resentment that he barely noticed the castle around him, the moving staircases, the portraits that whispered and pointed as he passed, the soaring hallways and the flickering, warm candlelight shining from the walls.

With a quick mutter of “Mayflower” from the prefect at the head of their little group,the Fat Lady ushered the first years through into the Gryffindor common room.

Once inside, Castiel couldn’t help his curiosity getting the better of him. He stared around just like the rest of the first years, taking in the squashy red sofas, the dark wood tables, the faded, soft rugs. He thought of his home, of clean lines and glass and sky-blue walls, and felt a pain in his chest. Beside him, Jo was beaming around at everything as though it had been placed there especially for her. On his other side, Anna looked pale and wide-eyed. Castiel hadn’t known her long enough to know if she was actually worried about something, or if her face naturally fell into lines of vague concern. He wondered what he must look like right now. A picture of misery, probably.

He was directed up the spiral steps to his dormitory along with three other boys he hadn’t spoken to yet. He felt full and angry and lost, lost, lost, and all he wanted to do was drop into bed. He heard the sounds of the other boys scuffling around at the centre of the room, laughing and muttering as they looked around. Castiel ignored them, and headed straight for the bed with his luggage beside it. He ran the red velvet hangings through his fingers, resisting a shudder as the material brushed backwards against his skin.

“Does he even speak?” he heard one of the other boys whisper to another, giggling. His face immediately turned hot, but he didn’t turn around.

“He must do,” said another voice, slightly higher. “Hey, what do they call you?”

Castiel threw the three boys a glare over his shoulder, and then moved over to his suitcase. He felt wound up tight as a mess of knotted rope inside, strained in all the wrong places, making bad decisions, not acting anywhere near normal.

“Silent but deadly,” suggested the first boy, when the question went unanswered. As one, the three boys snorted into laughter. Cheeks aflame, Castiel ducked his head and wrenched open his luggage and delved inside, sorting through the piles of neatly-folded clothing and finding his pyjamas.

There was a quiet tap-tap-tap of shoes on the stairs, getting louder. Castiel frowned and turned to face the door of the dormitory; the three other Gryffindor boys were standing frozen guiltily in the middle of the room. All of them were thinking the same thing: teacher. Castiel’s heart started to race. What if it was his mother? Was she allowed in Gryffindor Tower? What if she’d come to tell him how disappointed she was, how angry… or perhaps she’d come to tell him it was all a mistake, the Hat had been wrong, he was really a Ravenclaw –

Around the door, at a height far lower than anyone in the dormitory had expected, peeked a thin, blue-eyed face.

“Is my luggage in here?” said the face, a little timidly. Castiel blinked, and then looked around the dormitory. He could see suitcases… one, two, three, four… five. That was one for him, one each for the three boys in the middle, and one for this newcomer.

“Are you a Gryffindor first year?” said one of the boys in reply, with a touch of aggression. He was tall for his age, with a hard jaw and short, tightly-curled hair.

“Yes,” the face said. “Only, I looked in the girl’s dormitory and it wasn’t there, so…”

“Why would you look there if you’re a boy?” said the boy, wrinkling his nose. The face opened its mouth to speak, and then paused. In its eyes was an expression of nerves that tugged at Castiel’s heart; he stood up quickly, and said,

“There’s five suitcases in here. One of them must be yours.”

Three boys turned to look at him with expressions of surprise on their faces. The face at the door peered over at him for a long second, and then blinked and nodded. The door was pushed open a little wider, and a slim, dark-haired figure entered the room, slightly too-big black robes swishing over the floor.

“Hey,” said the tall boy. “You’re a girl!”

The newcomer seemed to shrink in on herself, pressing her lips together and swallowing hard.

“I – I just – my luggage…” she said, gesturing over to one of the suitcases, sounding lost.

“They must have just put it in the wrong dormitory,” said another one of the boys, short and squat, with blond hair and thick glasses. “We’ll help you move it back to the girls’, if you want.”

“No – well, I think – I think…” The girl hovered uncertainly. Castiel stared at her along with the rest of the Gryffindor boys, wondering what the problem could possibly be. She gulped and then said, “I think I belong in here.” Her blue eyes were narrowed, as though wincing in preparation for a blow.

Castiel heard an intake of breath from the three boys in the middle of the room, and started moving forwards before he could think twice.

“Castiel,” he said, extending his hand as he reached the girl, and offering her a smile. “My name’s Castiel. What’s yours?”

The girl looked down at his hand as though she thought it might bite her. When Castiel didn’t pull it back, and didn’t stop smiling, she eventually took it. Castiel could feel the sheen of clamminess over her palm, but gripped her hand anyway, tightly, and shook it.

“Hannah,” the girl whispered. “My name’s Hannah.”

“Uh, wait. She can’t stay,” interrupted one of the boys – the tall one – taking a step closer, looking back towards the other two boys for support. The girl’s grip on Castiel’s hand tightened for a second, and then she dropped her hold. “She’s a girl. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“She can stay if she wants to stay,” Castiel said sharply, when the girl didn’t speak.

“It’s not –”

“She should be wherever she thinks she belongs,” Castiel said, a little more fiercely than intended. He pushed away a mental image of the Ravenclaw common room, and ignored the little twist of sadness in his chest.

“She’s a she,” the boy insisted. “It’s against the rules. I’ll tell.”

The other two boys turned to him, their expressions mingling contempt and surprise.

“You’re going to tell on her?” said the short blond one. The other, a skinny, dark-haired boy, shook his head in silent disapprobation. “That’s not cool, man. Besides, everyone knows the luggage is left by your bed. Hannah’s luggage is here. So... Hogwarts thinks that this is her bed.”

The tall boy’s mouth was slightly open, his eyes flitting between them as he tried to figure out his next move. With his silence as a quiet fulcrum, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The short boy took a few steps over towards Hannah and held out a pudgy hand.

“Edward Zeddmore,” he said, with a touch of pompousness. Hannah took his hand and shook it, blinking away her surprise. “Friends call me Ed. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Spangler,” said the other boy, his expression solemn. “Harry Spangler. Nice to meet you. And you, too – was it – um –”

“Castiel,” said Castiel slowly, enunciating each syllable carefully. He shook both boys’ hands. They were both shorter than him, and they squinted up into his face now with serious expressions, as though trying to figure him out. Castiel nodded at them awkwardly, and then looked over the top of Ed’s head to where the tall boy was still standing still, his arms folded.

“That’s Gordon,” said Ed helpfully. “Gordon Walker.”

“Hello,” managed Hannah, giving him a small, half-aborted wave.

Gordon sighed angrily, and didn’t even look at Hannah. He kept his eyes fixed on Castiel, evidently angling for some kind of stare-off. Castiel blinked and turned away, offering Hannah a small smile before turning back towards his bed.  It was the one directly opposite the door, bracketed by Ed’s bed on one side and Hannah’s on the other. He began undressing swiftly, pulling on his pyjamas and hopping up onto the tall, plush mattress. He grabbed hold of the hangings, more ready than he’d ever been to shut the world out and fall into unconsciousness.

Just before he swung them fully closed, the wooden hooks clacking softly, Castiel caught Hannah’s eye. She blinked, and then smiled at him, more genuinely and warmly than before. It was a thank-you, of sorts. Castiel returned the smile, and then closed his hangings.

Shut up safely in his closed velvet world, Castiel felt the pit in his stomach open up wide, his emotions curling up and out like glooming shadows, filling the dark, musty space around him. The tears he’d been holding back finally began to leak out, and all he could do was bury his face in his pillow and sob as quietly as he could. Gryffindor. Of all the houses, Gryffindor. His brothers were going to laugh at him forever. Michael would never take him seriously. His mother… Castiel gave his loudest gulping sob yet when he thought of what she would say, how she would look at him… he remembered her face this morning, all tightness and nerves. You know I’m proud of you, don’t you, Castiel?

Castiel curled himself up as small as he could go. He hadn’t deserved her pride. He was nothing like the son she wanted him to be. Nothing like Michael, not even like Gabriel. All this time, she’d been trying to raise him to be good and clever and quick. And all this time, inside him, he’d been wrong. Twisted and different and… brave, apparently, Castiel thought with a little derisive hiccough. Poor consolation for his mother to find out that her idiot son would at least be able to take his humiliation with bravery.

He wanted to keep crying, but his tears were all spooled out and gone, like the thread on a used-up cotton reel. He sniffed and wiped his wet nose, and flipped over his pillow to sleep on the side that was dry. He stared up at the top of his bed, hearing that voice over and over again in his mind.

You would not do well in Ravenclaw. Oh, you have talent, yes, but no temperament for it.

No temperament for it. No temperament for it. No temperament for it. Castiel slammed his closed fist into the mattress beside him, his teeth gritted. No temperament for it.

He rolled over onto his side, and closed his eyes. Maybe when he woke up in the morning, he’d find himself back in Cloudesley Street. Maybe the whole thing, from start to end, would have been only a bad dream.

*

Castiel woke up to red hangings, and the sounds of a fiercely-fought pillow fight.

He gave a sigh, long and heavy. So, it had not all been a bad dream.

Bleary-eyed and messy-haired, he pulled on his robes and headed down to breakfast along with the rest of the Gryffindor first-years. Most of them seemed to have slept better than he had; Jo had all of her usual enthusiasm, Ed and Harry were pretending to shoot each other with lethal spells down the staircases, and even Anna seemed to be smiling and talking animatedly, a touch of colour in her pinched cheeks. Only Hannah, quiet and solemn as a church mouse at the back of the group, seemed as unwilling to face the day as Castiel. They didn’t speak, but there was a kind of silent camaraderie in the way that they both trudged in step – as though they were on their way to Azkaban, instead of toast and jam.

And possibly pancakes, too, Castiel thought, as his stomach rumbled.

The Great Hall was full of chattering students. Overhead, the enchanted sky was a cool blue with scattered clouds: a refreshing September day. Castiel averted his eyes from the Ravenclaw table, just as he had done the night before. At the Gryffindor table, he dropped into a seat between Jo and Hannah, surveying the spread with more determination than appreciation.

“If looks could kill, those pancakes would be toast,” Jo said, making Anna laugh. Castiel smiled at her, and she nudged him with her elbow as she reached for the scrambled egg. “Still haven’t stopped wishing you were somewhere else?”

“I’m sure I’ll get used to it,” Castiel said bleakly, in a voice that very clearly told anyone listening that he wasn’t sure about anything of the kind. On his other side, Hannah set down her cup of pumpkin juice with a little bang.

“You don’t think you belong in Gryffindor?” she said. Castiel lifted one shoulder diffidently, not wanting to explain his situation too much. He’d only get upset. Hannah’s expression was one of confusion. “But… you helped me last night,” she said. “When the others were going to throw me out. That was very chivalrous.”

Castiel resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose at the word; Hannah’s eyes were wide and earnest, and she was obviously speaking with sincerity. He tried to look grateful. Jo, meanwhile, was punching him lightly on the shoulder.

“There, you see? You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You’ll learn to love us.” Castiel smiled wryly at her, and she beamed back at him before leaning around to look at Hannah.

“Hi, by the way!” she said. “I think I saw you at dinner last night. Are you a second year?”

“First year,” Hannah corrected her. Jo looked surprised.

“Oh, really? How come you weren’t with me and Anna in the girls’ dormitory last night?”

“I – I slept in the boys’ dormitory,” Hannah said, looking down at her porridge. Jo opened her mouth to speak, looking confused, but Castiel quickly forestalled her.

“It’s where she wanted to sleep,” he said. “She belongs there.”

Jo’s mouth closed, and she nodded, though she still looked uncertain. On her other side, Anna was listening attentively, a little crease between her brows.

“Are you a boy?” she asked, leaning forwards so that she could see Hannah, her hair almost falling into her bowl of cereal. Jo reached out and pulled it back, tucking the red strands neatly down Anna’s back.

“Not exactly,” Hannah said. “I don’t feel like a girl though. Not always. Well, sometimes. I.. don’t really know what I am.” Hannah was turning pink. “I know it’s strange,” she said a little breathlessly, shaking forward her curly dark hair and long fringe, covering her face as much as possible.

Anna, however, only nodded solemnly.

“Does that mean we should call you ‘he’?” Anna said. “Or ‘she’?”

Hannah looked up, and blinked at her.

“’She’ is fine,” she said quietly. A few moments after Anna had nodded and looked away, she added even more softly, “Thank you for asking.”

The talk turned to the day ahead. Professor Tran delivered their timetables to them, tapping blank ones neatly with her wand and greeting each first year by name as she handed them the completed schedules. Was Castiel imagining the way her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer than the others? Had his mother spoken to her about the fact that he was in Gryffindor? Had she tried to get him transferred, had that led to an argument? He tried to read her expression, but there was nothing to go on.

“Hey, Transfiguration first,” Jo said excitedly. “With the Hufflepuffs. I know a couple of ‘em, they seemed alright.”

Castiel looked over at the Hufflepuff table. The boy with dirty blond hair and freckles was listening to something his tall friend from the night before was saying, nodding thoughtfully with his cheeks stuffed full of food. Dean, Castiel remembered. His name was Dean. The boy who’d eaten more than him last night and won Jo’s bet.

Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean.

“My mom is amazing at Transfiguration, it was her favourite,” Jo was saying beside him, with Anna nodding along and Hannah leaning forwards to listen to her. “Maybe I’ll have some natural talent.” She grinned at them confidently, her brown eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Half an hour later, Castiel was deciding that Jo’s confidence may have been misplaced.

Transfiguration was hard. And Professor Tran took no prisoners with her teaching style; the moment they’d walked into her classroom, she’d informed them in whipcrack tones that they would be seated according to a plan that she’d already drawn up. No one from the same house was sat together; Gryffindors sat next to Hufflepuffs at each pair of desks. Castiel was placed next to the tall, gangly Hufflepuff boy he’d seen at breakfast, who’d introduced himself with a wide, slightly vague grin as Garth Fitzgerald the Fourth. Castiel had blinked at the name, wondering if it was an old wizarding family that he’d not heard of before.

“Concentrate!” Professor Tran snapped now, jerking Castiel back to the present. “Matchsticks don’t make good needles! Focus on the outcome, not the change itself. Transfiguration, like all magic, relies largely on determination…”

Castiel looked down at his matchstick, which was still wooden and stubby-ended after twenty minutes of trying to turn it silver and pointy. He sighed, and raised his wand again. It felt good in his hand, he had to admit. The first time he’d picked it up, he’d been caught up in a sudden wave of excitement. And his mother had been so proud of him: aspen was a fairly rare wand wood, and with the phoenix-feather core, too… of course, she’d tried not to show it, but she’d beamed as she’d paid, and then bought Castiel a large ice cream sundae after they’d left the Wandmaker’s shop. Castiel could almost still taste the sweet strawberry tang of triumph. He frowned, and looked down at his matchstick with renewed purpose. He might be in Gryffindor, and not in Ravenclaw – and he might not even be that brave, since he’d deliberately and successfully dodged all of his family members on the way out of breakfast this morning – but he could still try to make his mother proud. He could still be the best.

Beside him, Garth was waving his wand at his matchstick in long, slow, swooping arcs. Castiel did his best to ignore him.

Focusing on the matchstick in front of him once more, and avoiding Garth’s elbows, Castiel waved his wand and said sharply,

“Aculeolus.”

He frowned, picking up his matchstick. No difference, again…

Wait! There! Just the slightest sliver of silver. That had to be it. Castiel looked around the room; everyone else still seemed to be struggling. Jo met his eyes and sent him a look of pure frustration. Castiel winced sympathetically, and then put up his hand. Professor Tran might be so impressed with him being the first one to turn his matchstick a little silver that she’d mention it to his mother later on.

The boy sitting directly in front of him twisted in his seat, catching Castiel’s eye for a brief second before switching his attention to Garth. Dean Winchester grinned, watching his fellow Hufflepuff gently windmilling his arms, murmuring under his breath.

Castiel thought, with another spike of dislike, that there had been something deliberate about the way Dean hadn’t even offered Castiel so much as a polite half-smile. Castiel kept his hand raised aloft, looking around to see that Professor Tran was already talking to a sullen-looking dark-haired Hufflepuff girl, with her back to him.

“How’s yours look?” he heard Dean saying to Garth, sounding anxious. “I think I’m doing it wrong, mine’s still only half silver, look…”

Castiel snapped his head around faster than light. His stomach dropped. Sure enough, Dean’s matchstick was over half silver, and pointed at one end; he was holding it out to Garth with a rueful expression.

“Told you I’d be bad at this,” he said. Castiel looked down at the sliver of silver on one side of his own matchstick. It looked small, barely even noticeable.

“Dean, that’s awesome,” Garth said. “I got nothing. Oh, look, this guy’s got a little something, there.” Castiel realised that Garth was peering over at his matchstick, looking impressed. Dean looked over at Castiel and scowled, matchstick-needle still held out in front of him. Castiel kept his face blank. Who was this boy? Obviously from a wizarding family. Perhaps the Winchesters were another old family that Castiel hadn’t heard of, like the Fitzgeralds.

“What is it, Mr Novak?” said a sharp voice overhead. With a sudden drench of horror, Castiel realised that he hadn’t lowered his hand. He’d make a complete fool of himself if he tried to impress Professor Tran with the ‘needle’ he had on his desk –

“Um, n-nothing,” Castiel mumbled, but Professor Tran was already talking over him, moving forwards and plucking Dean’s matchstick out of his hand.

“Winchester, isn’t it?” she said, looking down at Dean, who swallowed hard and nodded. He was still twisted round in his chair, so Castiel could see the emotions running over his face. It looked like nervousness, mostly. Castiel frowned, frustrated. Obviously Professor Tran was going to be impressed. Why was Dean pretending to be nervous of a telling-off that wasn’t going to happen?

“This is excellent work,” Tran said, inspecting the matchstick. She spoke loudly enough to gain the class’s attention, and held Dean’s work aloft. “What Mr Winchester did was focus on what he wanted to happen. I want you all to try that.”

Dean was smiling, clearly trying not to look too pleased with himself.

If he focused hard enough on Dean falling off his chair, would that happen, Castiel wondered.

Professor Tran returned Dean’s matchstick to him, offering him a small smile and a few more encouraging words, before turning back to Castiel abruptly.

“What was it you wanted, Mr Novak?”

Castiel opened his mouth without knowing what he was going to say.

“I – I…”

Professor Tran looked down at his matchstick.

“Are you having trouble with the spell?” she said sharply. Castiel, bright pink, shook his head. “In that case, get on with your work.”

She moved away. Castiel stared furiously down at his matchstick for a few seconds, before lifting his gaze. He was just in time to see Dean turning away, a look on his face that was unmistakably… triumphant.

Castiel was angry enough to flip his desk over in frustration, but he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting it dissipate. Anger and magic didn’t mix well, he knew that. When he opened his eyes, he concentrated, making sure his wand was at the correct angle, rehearsing the incantation in his head so that he would pronounce it exactly right.

Twenty minutes later, he was mentally exhausted and utterly tired of the word “aculeolus”, but he wasn’t empty-handed. When Professor Tran came around the class to inspect their final results, his matchstick was longer, and thinner, and silver, and pointy. Only Dean’s could match it.

“You’ll have to watch your back, Mr. Winchester,” Professor Tran said, as she held up the two together. “Mr. Novak is coming up fast on your tail.”

Dean smiled and shrugged it off. When Professor Tran had turned away, however, he met Castiel’s eyes. His expression was a mixture of defiance and dislike, wrapped in a loose smirk.

Castiel smiled right back at him coldly. I’m going to get there first next time. Just you wait and see.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean honestly didn't know what sort of stick Castiel Novak had up his butt, but he sure hoped it hurt.

Besides the sour mood that the guy's smug grin had put him in, the whole class hadn't been terrible. In fact, it had been kinda fun. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to forgive himself for saying it, but he, Dean Winchester, had actually had fun at school. The original frustration he'd felt at the beginning of the class had long since passed when he'd realized no one else had even come close to turning their matchstick into a needle at that moment. It was so much easier than, like... math! He'd tried explaining it to Garth, but all he'd really done was concentrate real hard on wanting it to be a needle. Sure, it had taken about fifty bajillion tries with the spell, but by the end of the class his match was looking extremely needle-y and nothing could tear down his elation.

Except for what's-his-name, and his stupid arrogance.

Dean grimaced to himself as he headed off to his next class, nearly tripping over his long, black robes for the third time that day. They were definitely going to take some getting used to.

And now for the class he'd been looking forward to all day.

Flying.

Charlie and Jo had briefly gone over the rules of Quidditch, and how it was played, and the horrific injuries you could get... and Dean couldn't be more excited. Of course, he'd already resigned himself to the fact that they weren't actually going to play today, probably just go over the basics, and Dean was fine with that. Maybe the Hufflepuffs would be paired with the Slytherins for this class, and he’d be able to see Charlie!

He dug through his bag for his class schedule and pulled out a very crumpled piece of parchment, reading the class pairing and groaning. Really? Gryffindors again? At least Jo would be there to help even out the presence of Mr High-and-Mighty.

Garth led them both to the Quidditch Pitch that Dean had first seen from a distance, right before entering Hogwarts for the first time. Dean felt a thrill of excitement as he grinned and looked around at the stadium, three rings standing tall on both sides of the field.

The group of first years all chattered excitedly as they saw two rows of brooms on the ground laying side-by-side. They didn't look particularly magical if you asked Dean. They all had wooden handles with hundreds of twigs tied together at the bottom to give the broom its shape, but he highly doubted they would be very effective at sweeping a floor.

“Welcome to class, first years.”

The group gasped when they heard the voice behind them, and gazed up at the woman that was slowly descending to the ground on her (much nicer-looking) broomstick.

“My name is Professor Mills. I’ll be your flying instructor this year, as well as your referee in the coming years if any of you end up playing on your House team.”

She touched down and hopped off of her broomstick with a graceful flourish.

“Some of you have been flying since you first learned how to grasp a broom handle, and some of you didn’t even know this was possible a few days ago. So we’re all going to start with the basics, no matter what level you think you’re at. Alright? Good. Now, everyone go stand next to a broom.”

Dean quickly made his way over to the rows of broomsticks and took a spot across from Jo and next to Garth.

“Now, here comes your first challenge. I want you to hold your hand above the broom and say ‘Up’.”

Dean was pleased to note that he wasn’t the only one who looked confused.

He shrugged and stuck his hand out. “Up,” he commanded.

The broom gave a feeble twitch.

He looked over at Jo as she let out a pleased giggle. It looked like her broom had shot up into her hand almost immediately.

“Up,” he said, a little bit more firmly than before, causing his broom to hover and drop to the ground again.

A few others had managed to coax the stubborn broomsticks into their outstretched palms, but most were in the same boat as Dean and were getting frustrated that the brooms were staying firmly on the ground.

Dean grimaced when he saw that Castiel was one of the chosen few to already have a broom in his hands.

“With feeling! You have to mean it,” Professor Mills said as she walked around the group.

“Up!” he nearly growled, determined to get this stupid piece of wood to do what he wanted.

Finally, the broom decided he was serious enough and flew up into his grasp. Dean grinned and looked around. At least he wasn’t one of the last few without a broom .

Finally, once everyone had a broomstick in their hands, Professor Mills blew her whistle to get their attention.

“Everyone mount their broom. One leg over, like so. Good. Now on the count of three, I want you all to gently--and I mean gently--push off the ground. Hover for a little, and come back down to earth.”

Dean gripped his broom in excitement.

“One. Two. Three.”

He pushed off of the ground, probably not as gently as he should have, but he grinned as he felt a rush of adrenaline course through him when his feet dangled a few feet off the ground. Gripping the handle tightly, he looked around at his fellow students. Jo looked like she was the most comfortable on a broom, closely followed by Castiel and Ruby. Garth was suddenly very pale and almost immediately touched back down.

Dean hovered in pure elation for a few moments before Professor Mills blew her whistle and gestured for them to come back down.

“Good. Very good. We’re going to head straight for part two, now that you seem to have got the balance right. Don’t worry, it won’t be scary.”

She marched to the front of the group and pointed to two Hufflepuffs and two Gryffindors. “Get on your brooms. I want you to do a low lap around the field. Just a few feet off the ground. Go slowly and try out different ways to turn the broom. Just nudge it gently, and it should do what you want.” She blew her whistle again. “Gently, remember. Brooms can be more temperamental than wands when they want to be.”

The gaggle of first years pushed off the ground a few feet, and slowly urged their brooms forward. There was a little bit of wobbling, but it looked like they found out fast that leaning forward slightly helped steady them. Dean stood on his tiptoes to see over Jo’s head and watch the proceedings.

“Alright, next four!” Professor Mills called when the group had returned.

Professor Mills pointed at Dean and Ruby to come to the front, as well as a blond Gryffindor boy, and Castiel.

Dean all but ignored him as he mounted his broom. This was going to be fun. He was going to fly.

And if he ended up being a better flyer than Castiel, who cared, right?

Professor Mills blew her whistle and their small group touched off the ground. Dean could hear Professor Mill's voice correct Garth’s grip as they flew off into the field.

The Gryffindors were in the lead, with Jo and Castiel enthusiastically getting slightly faster and higher.

It was a nice feeling, flying. The broom responded to his touch, turning when he nudged it and cutting through the wind when he leaned forward. With the wind blowing in his hair, and his feet dangling in the air far above the ground now, there was a pleasant adrenaline rush when he looked down, and -

Oh.

When had it gotten so high?

Dean's grip on the broom tightened drastically as his brain processed just how high off the ground he was. There was nothing but a stick of wood keeping him alive, and the moment he realized that, the broom started to panic.

He shot forward with a yelp, just grazing Castiel and Jo as he passed.

“Stop!” he cried, jerking at the handle.

And it did, only to shoot upwards into the air in and jerk around violently.

Dean could feel his grip start to loosen as he was tossed around. What was he supposed to do? Apologize to the broom for freaking out? Where was Professor Mills?

The broom spun around suddenly, causing Dean to swing up and over the side, with just a single hand holding onto the handle.

God. First day here and he was already going to die.

He closed his eyes as his fingers began to slip.

Sam would probably miss him. Mom, too.

The broom bucked one more time, getting rid of the last of Dean's death grip.

Dean was falling...

And then - quite suddenly - he wasn't.

He peeked an eye open when he felt a hand close around his wrist and slow his fall significantly.

Above him was Castiel Novak, slowly turning purple as he strained to prevent Dean from falling to his death, and Dean honestly would rather have died.

Dean could hear yelling in the distance as they descended into the field. Castiel had somehow managed to slow their fall enough to keep him from dying, but not enough to keep them from tumbling roughly onto the grass when they finally landed.

“Are you alright?”

Dean groaned a little as he stared up at the sky. Besides feeling a little winded and a lot bruised, he was fine, but he wasn't going to give Castiel the satisfaction. He stood and completely ignored the other boy as he walked towards the flying figure of Professor Mills.

“Hey!”

Dean felt a hand on his shoulder.

“You're welcome,” Castiel said, obviously in disbelief that Dean wasn't currently worshipping the ground he walked on.

Dean turned and gruffly shoved the hand off his shoulder.

“You might want to wash your hand, now,” he muttered in contempt, and turned back around to where Professor Mills was currently dismounting. If Castiel knew he’d just saved a muggle-born,he’d probably wish he hadn't bothered.

“Are you alright?” she asked, reaching out to inspect him for any injuries.

“M’ fine.”

She let out a relieved breath. “Thank Merlin. Ten points to Gryffindor, Castiel. That was very brave of you.”

Dean scowled. So he had almost died, and Castiel was going to get rewarded for it? Wonderful.

Professor Mills continued the drills, but had seemingly decided to keep a much closer eye on those in the air.

If she decided to cut the class a little short, who were they to question her?

She’d taken him aside and asked if he was sure he didn't need to go to the hospital wing. He'd just brushed her off and thanked her for the lesson.

“Wow, how crazy was that?” Jo asked breathlessly, as she jogged to catch up with him on their way off the pitch. “I know that you already said you’re okay, but... are you okay?”

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. Still alive and stuff.”

Jo whistled and bumped up against his shoulder. “Thank goodness Castiel was there, right? I’m not as good of a flyer as he is.”

“I guess.”

In all honesty, Dean knew that he really should be grateful. Castiel had probably just saved his life, but he was too proud and too bitter to even think about acknowledging it to his face. If he was going to keep thinking that what Dean was is less than he is, then Dean could oblige the other way around.

Jo groaned and patted her stomach. “Well, I’m starving. Are you heading to lunch?”

He nodded, only just noticing that he was hungry as well. Really hungry, actually. Who knew that near-death experiences could do that to a person?

“We can’t sit next to each other though,” he pointed out. “We’re at different tables.”

“It’s encouraged to sit at our own tables. I don’t think anyone’s going to care if you come sit with me for one lunch.”

Dean’s gaze followed Castiel as he hurried past the two of them. “Uh, how about you come sit with me at my table?” he asked, wanting to avoid the other boy for as long as possible.

Jo shrugged. “Sure. C’mon, I’ll race you to the Great Hall.”

It was a race that involved getting chastised by two teachers as they ran by, knocking over three students, and running directly through the Fat Friar - an experience Dean hoped to never have again - and ended with Jo beating him by the skin of her teeth.

They both leaned against the wall as they laughed and caught their breath. “You cheated,” Dean huffed out.

“Nuh-uh,” Jo countered. “You’re just jealous.”

“I’m just hungry,” Dean muttered and quickly took an open seat at the Hufflepuff table. “C’mon. Let’s eat before they run out of food.”

Jo snickered as she sat down next to him. “They’re not going to run out of food, Dean. Hogwarts has magic and House Elves that work in the kitchens.”

Dean paused in his grab for a drumstick. “House Elves? What are those?” Immediately a vision of tall and graceful Mirkwood elves from the Lord of the Rings books his mom liked to read to him popped into his mind, but he definitely couldn’t imagine them doing all of the cooking.

“You know, they’re just…” Jo shrugged her shoulders as she piled potatoes onto her plate. “Elves. Little elves that help out with cleaning and stuff. Generally all really old and rich families have them, but Hogwarts has a lot.”

Dean took a bite out of his chicken leg as he mulled that over. There were obviously many things that he still didn’t understand about this magical world, but he was excited to learn as much as he could.

Elves. Elves that helped cook and clean.

Wait until he wrote to Sammy.

*

History of Magic was taught by an older redheaded witch with a very thick Scottish accent that Dean sometimes had a hard time understanding. Most of the class period was alright, but Dean quickly realized that most of the class had a really big head start on him when it came to their history. Of course, no one was perfect, but he’d see Charlie nod her head every once in awhile when she recognized a name or a date. To someone who had no clue about any of this until a few months ago, this was like learning the entire history of a fantasy novel that he’d never even heard of before.

Luckily, he didn’t have any Gryffindors to compete with in this class since he and the other Hufflepuffs were paired with the Slytherins today. He thanked his lucky stars that at least some days he wouldn’t have to worry about being judged in just about every single class.

This class in particular was going to be a struggle.

Professor MacLeod talked on and on about some wizarding war that Dean had never known existed, before finally giving them a homework assignment as she let them leave.

Great. Now Dean was going to have to work twice as hard as everyone else to learn all this crap.

He trudged back to his common room, a slightly more stressed out than when he’d left it.

“That history stuff is going to be a little rough, isn’t it?”

Dean glanced over when he heard the voice of Nick Munroe next to him. Nick was one of his four roommates in his Hufflepuff dormitory and so far they seemed to get along pretty well. They had a lot in common and Nick’s dad was a muggle, so he’d sort of gotten the best of both worlds growing up.

“You’re telling me,” Dean muttered, rubbing a hand against his forehead. “I feel like my brain is going to explode. Did you know any of that?”

Nick shrugged. “Not really. Sort of. Like I’d heard of some stuff before but I didn’t know dates or anything specific. Mom would mention history stuff every once in awhile but not super often.”

“You’ve still got a one-up on me. I don’t even know muggle history that good and now I have to learn this.”

Nick nudged at him playfully as they reached the entrance to their common room. Leaning up against the wall was rows upon rows of barrels stacked on top of each other.

And suddenly Dean forgot which barrel to tap. He’d already been inside of the common room a few times, but usually one of the older students tapped the password and he just tagged along.

“Uh… I don’t -”

“I think I remember.” Nick murmured, reaching out and tapping the correct rhythm onto a barrel in front of him.

An immediate stream of foul smelling vinegar shot out of the barrel, drenching Nick from head to foot as Dean jumped out of the way to avoid getting any on him. He snickered as Nick groaned and tried to shake some of the liquid off him, but the damage had been done. They’d been warned by their prefect what would happen if they did either the wrong rhythm or tapped it onto the incorrect barrel.

“Gross,” Nick muttered, shaking his hands in disgust. “Your turn.”

Dean took a nervous step forward and located the barrel that was two from the bottom, in the middle of the second row, and tapped out the same rhythm. He breathed out a sigh of relief when the top of the barrel swung open, revealing a passageway that was meant to be crawled through.

“I’ll go first,” Dean said, noting the vinegar dripping off Nick’s robes.

Nick muttered something under his breath as Dean hoisted himself up into the opening. He’d seen most of the older kids able to crawl in with ease, but seeing as he wasn’t quite that tall yet, he’d have to do a little lifting. Luckily, the bottom of the passage was padded for a more comfortable journey into the next room.

The Hufflepuff common room was one of the coziest things Dean had ever seen in his life. It was built just below ground level, so that sunlight spilled through windows near the ceiling into a decently-sized circular room filled with overstuffed couches and plants that were hung all around in various places, creating an overall sunny ambiance.Yesterday the plants were singing when he entered, but today it looked like they’d decided they would rather glow instead.

Dean crawled out of the passage and stood, brushing himself off and glancing around at his surroundings. The prefect had assured them the first time he and the other first years had seen the common room that it was very unique compared to the other houses’. It was a warm, friendly, and cheerful place to be.

It already felt like home.

A few of the students already in the common room wrinkled their noses the moment Nick made it through, smelling the sour scent almost immediately. Nick grumbled and reached for one of the towels next to the entrance that had been placed there for this specific purpose.

“I’m gonna go shower,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll meet you in the common room later and we can all go get dinner together? I think Thaddeus might get lost if we don’t take him with us.”

“Alright,” Dean nodded, secretly agreeing with his roommate. “Use lots of soap.”

He walked in the opposite direction of Nick, turning the knob of the doorway just opposite the giant painting of Helga Hufflepuff. When the door refused to open after a few good tugs, Dean flushed, realizing that he’d just tried to open the girls’ dormitories.

Looking around quickly to make sure no one had seen, he took a big step to the left and yanked the door open, revealing his own warmly-lit dormitory. Dean let out a breath and flopped down onto the quilt that covered his now made bed. (He was sure it hadn’t been made before, so it must have been those house elves Jo had been talking about.)

Dean glanced over at the bed across from him to see Thaddeus was adding even more posters to his already poster-clad wall.

“Who’s that?” Dean whipped his head over to the bed next to him to see where the voice had come from.

Philippe LeChat, a French boy with an extremely laid-back attitude, was lounging across his bed with a bemused expression on his face. He’d been so quiet and still, Dean hadn’t even noticed him before.

“Yeah, who is that?” Dean asked, noting that the poster of the pink-haired man in ripped wizarding robes was, in fact, moving. Right. Moving pictures were normal here. Dean had learned that after he’d been startled by a knight that had demanded they duel.

Thaddeus grunted as he pressed it against the wall one last time and stepped back with a smile. “That, you musically uncultured excuses for wizards, is the lead singer for Xylomancy. They had the most popular song of last year.”

Philippe rolled over lazily and raised an eyebrow. “He looks like an idiot.”

Dean snickered as Thaddeus looked highly affronted by that particular comment. The boy threw an accusing finger at Philippe.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of what?”

“That he looks cooler than you.” Thaddeus rested his hands on his hips with a smug grin. “I’m going to be just like him one day.”

Philippe sat up slowly and glanced at the poster before huffing out a breath of amusement. Dean blinked and suddenly his roommate’s hair was turning as pink as the poster’s.

Dean gaped, trying to figure out how he’d done it without a spell when Thaddeus groaned loudly and threw his hands up in the air.

“Great! I’ve got a Metamorphmagus as a roommate! This is gonna be effing amazing.”

Philippe threw a wink at Dean’s obviously bewildered stare.

“How did you--”

“Easily,” Philippe shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “Pick a color and an animal.”

Dean blinked and stumbled for words for a moment before answering.

“Uh, green and...cat,” he said, picking the first two things he could think of.

Philippe smiled and leaned forward and in the course of a few seconds, his eyes changed to bright green cat eyes before going back to normal.

“Holy crap,” Dean whispered, feeling like this amazing feat was worthy of his reverence. “How do you do that?”

Philippe chuckled. “I was born this way. I can change how I look whenever I want. Not bad, no?”

Dean held back the urge to whistle in admiration. “Yeah. That’s really cool.”

“It’s a cop-out,” Thaddeus called from where he was adding a newspaper article to his wall.

“It’s a gift,” Philippe murmured, lifting his hands behind his head and laying back down.

The modge-podge of roommates in Dean’s dormitory was going to be some pretty weird personalities clashing together at all hours of the day. Dean and Garth seemed to be getting along pretty well already. Nick always knew exactly what to say to any of them to de-escalate a situation and befriend his bunkmates, while Philippe prefered to keep to himself for the most part. Thaddeus wouldn’t shut up about his favorite bands, but Garth always liked to listen to him talk about the days when he was apparently going to be a rockstar, too.

It was going to take some getting used to, but Dean was going to be just fine.

Hogwarts was going to be just fine.

*

Dean was homesick.

He’d been here a few days now and he’d been so overwhelmed by everything that he’d sort of forgotten to be homesick until just now, holding a quill, and signing his letter to Sam and his mom.

Dean missed them.

Sam had cried when Dean got on the train in the station, and it had nearly broken his heart not to be able to do anything but wave goodbye as the train began to move forward. Now he wasn’t going to see him until school was over.

Last night he’d hummed his mom’s favorite lullabye to himself because there was no one else there to do it for him, and he suddenly wished he could hug her, just for a few seconds.

P. S. I miss you.

He wrote the addition and wiped at his nose with his school robe, glad that his dorm mates had left for dinner before him, leaving him to write his letter in silence.

Dean swallowed and folded up the piece of parchment, trying to hold in any emotion that might be showing as he made his way out of the dormitory and through the common room. It hadn’t taken much research at all to figure out that letters needed to be sent by owls if Dean wanted it to get to his mom quickly. A lot of the other students had their own as a pet that they used, but seeing as Dean didn’t, he’d have to resort to the owlery.

Garth had given him half-formed instructions on how to get to the owlery before he left, and Dean decided that he could just ask for directions if he got lost.

Letter in hand, Dean climbed out of the passageway and took a right, heading up the stairs like Garth had said.

Dean chewed on his lip as he walked, hoping he’d remembered everything he’d needed to say in the letter. Sam would love this place, and Dean intended to tell him everything he could every time he learned something new.

Dean was making his way up his seventh flight of stairs when he felt a rumbling beneath his feet. He grabbed onto the railing as his heart rate shot through the roof. The entire staircase began to shift and turn in the opposite direction of where he wanted to go, connecting to an entirely foreign area to him. A prefect had mentioned that the staircases moved sometimes, but Dean hadn’t really believed him until that moment.

‘No, no, no!” Dean gasped, clutching onto the stone until the staircase finally stopped moving. “Go back!” he said, daring to shake the banister a little. “Please go back. I need to get this letter to the owlery.”

He waited, hoping to feel the rumble of stone again, but the staircase remained still.

“Please?” he whispered, resting his head against the cold stone in a sign of the defeat he already knew had happened.

Dean groaned, and trudged up the stairs onto the next floor, wallowing in the misery that homesickness and frustration had created.

All he wanted to do was get this stupid letter up to the stupid tower so that he could tell his family about the stupid -

Dean paused when he saw a large colorful tapestry of trolls opposite a stone wall. He sighed after a few moments of staring, and looked back the way he came. Maybe if he just went back and stood on the stairwell long enough, it would go back to the way it had been before? Dean took a few steps forward before stopping. But what if there was a different way up? He took a few steps in the other direction.

Dean’s brain was in a whirl, too confused and overwhelmed by all that had happened recently. The tears finally started flowing as he thought about the letter that might never get sent because of how difficult this all was for him. Would he have been able to get the staircase to listen to him if he were a full-blooded wizard? Maybe if he wasn’t a muggle-born he would have known to bring his own owl and eliminate this whole situation.

Dean sniffled and wiped at his tears with his robes again, feeling ashamed for crying over something so stupid. He needed to calm down. Dean leaned against the tapestry and slowly sank to the floor as he took deep breaths in an attempt to get his head back on straight. It was going to be okay. He just needed to.. he needed… he needed something.

Whatever it was that compelled him to look up brought a strange door to his attention.

A door that had most definitely not been there a few seconds ago.

Distracted from his woes of before, Dean swallowed and picked himself up off of the ground, taking a few hesitant steps forward with a curious head tilt.

“Hello?” he called, not really expecting an answer, but figuring that he should probably cover all of his bases anyway.

When nothing answered, Dean took another bold step forward to grab the doorknob and watched with interest as it opened with ease.

Inside, the room was lit just like the Hufflepuff dormitories. It had warm copper lamps hung around the small space, giving just enough light to properly see the only other thing in the room.

Another door.

Dean sucked in a breath and vaguely noted the other door shutting behind him as he studied the next door. It was a shiny, chrome-painted masterpiece of gadgets, gears and mechanical devices, all interlocked together and covered in some places with metal plating. There was also pipes interwoven throughout the front in something that looked vaguely like...an engine?

It was the most Muggle-looking thing that Dean had seen in the entirety of his stay at Hogwarts.

Reaching out, he touched some of the gears, running his fingers along their familiar shape and wondering what something so mechanical could possibly be doing in a place of magic. The door was made of things that he’d seen his dad work on and mess with at his job, and the recognition piqued his curiosity, but he didn’t understand.

To the right of the door, where a door handle should have been, was just a clean sheet of metal: an empty space that made no sense.

Dean reached a hand behind the metal plating and tugged, hoping that the door would slide open on its own, but to no avail. So, switching tactics, Dean pushed against it, hoping for the same thing - but the strange door didn’t budge in the slightest either way.

Dean grimaced as he took a step back, remembering that he had somewhere to be, and would be needed at dinner right after, or his classmates would begin to worry.

“I need to go take a letter to the owlery,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “But I’ll be back.” He stuck his finger out at the door and gave it one last once-over before exiting the way he came.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Castiel let dry soil run through his fingers and back into the pot of dittany in front of him.

It was their second Herbology lesson of the year, and the Gryffindors and Slytherins were gathered around wooden tables in Greenhouse One. The air was sweet and slightly humid, smelling of rich dirt and pollen and dense foliage; Castiel took another deep breath of it, and then let it go. The class was quiet, focusing on repotting the dittany as they’d been told. Occasionally, there was a muted laugh or a flurry of movement as someone nearly dropped their pot. Jo was standing next to Castiel on one side, and Hannah on the other. He caught Jo’s eye as he reached over to pick up a big clay pot from the centre of the table, and she grinned at him. He smiled back.

He felt… happy.

Times like this, he could forget all about his troubles. He didn’t feel like a Gryffindor – he didn’t even feel like a not-Ravenclaw, which was the bigger problem – he was just… a student. One of many. Someone who belonged.

Underneath the layer of calm spread smooth over his mood like a bed of fresh soil, Castiel could feel the clang and clatter of his quiet worry still shaking his foundations. It had been days since the Sorting and he still hadn’t spoken to his mother, or Michael, or even Gabriel. He’d avoided their eyes, ducked out of the Great Hall, even skipped meals altogether to avoid speaking to any of them. Tomorrow, however, was Charms, with the Ravenclaws. Charms, with Professor Novak. With Naomi. His mother.

Castiel had considered feigning illness. In fact, he’d been hoping that they’d be working with a deeply poisonous plant today in Herbology, so that he could have snuck a little of it into his pocket, eaten it just before the class, and been transported to the Hospital Wing in a panic. It was just his luck that they were working with dittany, one of the most powerful healing plants in existence. Typical. Honestly, that just summed up the whole horrible situation Castiel was in.

“Concentrate, Mr Novak,” said a deep, thoughtful voice from behind Castiel’s shoulder. Professor Gadreel, his worn green robes swishing softly on the stone-flagged floor, was looking down at Castiel’s messy repotting work with an expression of faint disappointment. Castiel himself looked down at it too, surprised. He’d been totally wrapped in thought, his hands doing all the work without him paying the slightest bit of conscious attention.

“Don’t worry,” Jo muttered to him with a smile and a dig in the ribs, as Professor Gadreel moved on. “Look, just put a thin layer of soil in first. Then you put the plant in, and then –”

“I know,” Castiel interrupted, a little too sharply, feeling foolish. When Jo pulled back, he softened his voice. “I mean, I know. Sorry, Jo.”

“It’s OK,” she said with a little reassuring smile and a shrug. On her other side, Anna leaned forwards.

“You hate not knowing things,” she said.

Castiel blinked at her owlishly for a second. He could sense the gaze of the Slytherin girls across the table on him, making his face feel a little hot. Jo and Anna were both watching him too, waiting for him to say something.

“I don’t like being stupid,” he mumbled, trying to focus on his dittany, to sit it neatly in the soil this time.

“Too bad you’re a Gryffindor, then,” he heard one of the Slytherin girls say to the other. He looked up sharply, catching a redheaded short Slytherin giving a taller, brown-haired girl a look that was crossed between dislike and faint amusement.

“Shut up, Bela,” he heard the redhead say, not too harshly.

To his left, Castiel heard Hannah sigh.

“I don’t think not knowing something makes you stupid,” she said in her low little voice, just loudly enough for the girls over the table to hear. “I think it’s stupid to not want to seem stupid. Then you’re always pretending to be clever.” She scooped a handful of dirt into her pot. “And never actually learning anything.”

“Um, if you go around asking questions and looking stupid all the time, everyone will laugh at you,” scoffed the brown-haired Slytherin girl, Bela. “No thanks, right, Charlie?”

“That’s why it’s brave,” Hannah said, frowning at her. Castiel noticed her hands shaking ever so slightly behind her dittany pot; he hadn’t known her long, but he could guess what it was taking for her to argue with someone like this. “To want to learn instead of hiding what you don’t know.”

Bela rolled her eyes.

“And of course being brave is the most important thing,” she said, looking to Charlie to share a derisive laugh, but Charlie wasn’t looking at her. She met Castiel’s eyes across the table.

“Maybe sometimes the smartest thing is to admit you’re stupid,” she said with a little shrug. Castiel offered her a small smile, which she returned.

When Professor Gadreel let them go, Castiel walked with Jo, Anna and Hannah back up to the castle. He could hear the sounds of Ed and Harry arguing loudly behind them, and Bela chattering on to Charlie and another Slytherin boy that Castiel didn’t know. They wended their way up through the darkening grounds, across the bright candlelit Entrance Hall, and into the Great Hall for dinner.

Castiel pulled himself to a halt as soon as they entered the room, which was filled with chattering students and the smells of hot, delicious food. Above them, the sky was dark and cloudy, the stars shrouded from sight. Castiel cast his gaze swiftly over the Ravenclaw table, and then up to where the staff usually sat.

He couldn’t see any of his family, so if he ate quickly, he should be able to get away without seeing them again tonight. He knew it was pointless to keep hiding like this, but he couldn’t seem to help it. Somehow, going to the effort of running away seemed a lot more appealing than just facing the problem.

Jo hadn’t noticed that Castiel had stopped; she was still walking, waving towards someone on another table – the Hufflepuff table. Peering around her, Castiel caught sight of a familiar face, and his expression darkened. Dean Winchester.

Castiel couldn’t understand how Jo could still be friends with him, after he’d told her what Dean had said right after Castiel had literally saved his life, or at the very least saved him from breaking both his legs, during their flying lesson. She’d said that Dean just hadn’t wanted to lose face, that he’d been mad about looking stupid in front of all their classmates. Well, in Castiel’s opinion, Dean had made himself look even more stupid by acting so – so churlishly.

What had he even meant by that last dig – ‘you might want to wash your hand, now?’ Had Castiel acted like he thought Dean had fleas? He didn’t think so. He couldn’t remember being rude to Dean at all, in fact. He could only remember being snubbed by Dean on the train, and then – well, yes, he’d been a little competitive in Transfiguration – but other than that, what had he done to deserve that kind of brush-off? Whatever it was, Dean was obviously overreacting.

Well, Castiel had thought that he was from an old wizarding family – maybe there was a history he didn’t know about between their ancestors, or something.

“Little bro!”

A jubilant voice pulled Castiel from his reverie, and sent a thrill of panic through him. He clutched instinctively for his wand in his pocket, gripping it through his robes as he turned to face his grinning, triumphant brother.

“Gabriel,” he said, aware that he must look like a rabbit caught in a beam of wandlight. His brother stood and looked at him for a long second, shaking his head.

“Pretty smooth moves,” he said, hands on his hips. “Pretty smooth, little bro, I gotta admit. It’s not everyone who can outrun me for longer than a day. So, tell me…” he grinned, hazel eyes glinting. “How’s the Fat Lady?”

And in a rush, Castiel suddenly wanted to cry. He didn’t want to know how the Fat Lady was (generally irritable, since the first years kept forgetting the password); he didn’t want to be speaking to his brother by the door of the Great Hall instead of sitting together at their shared table; he didn’t want to be in stupid, horrible Gryffindor…

“Hey, easy,” Gabriel said, and then grabbed his little brother by the shoulders and pulled him into a hug. Castiel buried his head in the softness of Gabriel’s robes, which still smelled like the soap their house-elves used at home. Gabriel held him tightly, ignoring the people around them, for several seconds. Castiel gulped, and squeezed his eyes shut to force back any tears, and then pulled away.

“Come on, it’s not so bad,” Gabriel said, keeping one hand on his brother’s arm and squeezing. “You don’t have to answer riddles to get to your bed in the middle of the night. Or listen to first years squabble over who gets to use the common room telescope. I’m seriously considering turning them all into frogs for the Frog Choir.”

Castiel managed a smile.

“They have one of those?” he said in a small voice, and Gabriel grinned and nodded.

“Sure do,” he said. “You should join. Also, speaking of things you should do…” he gestured behind Castiel, who turned to see Naomi sweep into the room and head straight for the staff table. Castiel gulped at the sight of her forbidding expression.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said quietly.

“It’ll only get worse, the longer you leave it,” Gabriel said nonchalantly, staring out over the Hall towards the Slytherin table.

“Fine. Early tomorrow,” Castiel said, and Gabriel turned back to him with a smile. He pinched his little brother’s cheek.

“Who’s a good boy, talking to Mommy,” he teased. “I’ll see you around. Come eat with me sometimes, alright? And for Merlin’s sake, stop running away every time you see me,” he called over his shoulder, as he started to walk away. “I’m starting to feel like a Basilisk.”

He made fangs with his index fingers and hissed loudly, before laughing and walking over to his Ravenclaw friends. Castiel watched him go, with a little of the weight in his chest lifting. He’d thought that Gabriel probably wouldn’t even want to be seen around Castiel, failure of the family, anymore - but it seemed that nothing much had changed for them. And if Castiel had his brother’s support, this nightmare was just a little easier to bear. Even still, it hurt to watch his brother laughing with his friends at the Ravenclaw table, so at home in a place where Castiel himself could never belong.

Wanting to distract himself, Castiel glanced back over to the Hufflepuff table and saw that Jo had sat down to eat dinner with Dean and his Hufflepuff friends again. A small, twisted-up part of him wanted to go over there and sit with them, and be angry and unsociable the whole time, and pick a fight with Dean Winchester, because – well, because he felt like it. Felt like messing something up, making someone else as cross and confused as he was.

Castiel took a deep breath, and began walking – making for the Gryffindor table. As much as he might dislike Dean Winchester, Castiel wasn’t going to deliberately argue with him. He wasn’t going to let the clench of frustration in his stomach walk him over there and pick him a fight. He was going to sit down, and eat his dinner.

The food, cooked perfectly, tasted dry in his mouth. He did his best to be good company for Anna and Hannah, but he couldn’t stop his mind flitting to tomorrow’s Charms lesson. Would his mother speak to him as soon as he arrived in her classroom, or would she wait until everyone was gone after the lesson to start telling him off? Or would she ignore him completely – pretend that she didn’t know him, act as though he wasn’t even her son anymore?

Castiel pushed away his half-full plate of food and stood up suddenly.

“You look awful,” Anna observed, as blunt as ever. Hannah’s bright-blue eyes were full of concern. Castiel brushed down his robes and tried to look casual.

“I’m just not feeling very well,” he said. “I think I’m going to go upstairs to bed.”

He began to walk away before they could reply. He could just imagine how they’d be whispering between themselves, and then telling Jo later on. He felt hot and sick with anger, ready to burst. He was messing everything up. His friends were going to think he was completely weird and stop talking to him. He was going to be miserable here at Hogwarts forever, ignored and laughed at and stuck up in the wrong, red common room. He was going to hate his life here completely, and it was going to be entirely his own fault - because of the way he was made, because of how he was acting, because he was stupid, stupid, stupid.

He pushed his way out of the doors to the Great Hall and began to cross the Entrance Hall, heading for the stairway that would begin his walk up to Gryffindor Tower. He’d just placed his foot on the first step when a sharp voice rang out, calling his name.

Castiel froze.

“Castiel, come here,” said the voice, in tones that did not expect to be disobeyed. For one mad moment, Castiel considered haring up the stairs, making a break for freedom, hiding in a – a closet, or something, somewhere she’d never find him –

“Don’t even think about it, Castiel. Come here, at once.” Naomi’s voice could not be denied. Castiel turned and met his mother’s gaze. She looked tall and imposing in her steel-grey robes, her eyes a little narrowed, her mouth set in a thin line. Castiel gulped, and looked down at the floor as he walked over to her. He felt terribly small.

“Don’t think I haven’t realised you’ve been avoiding me, Castiel,” Naomi said. She sounded even more clipped than usual; Castiel hadn’t heard her words cut so short since the time he’d picked up her wand off the counter when he was six and accidentally vanished one of the legs on the dining-room table with it. His heart was thudding hard against his ribs.

“I only…” Castiel began, but Naomi was already talking over him.

“I presume you’re intelligent enough to understand that you couldn’t have avoided me forever. You were only delaying the inevitable by not coming to talk to me first, though I gave you multiple opportunities. I’m disappointed, Castiel. It’s childish to run away from your problems. I’ve never raised you to be childish.”

Castiel said nothing, too ashamed, his eyes tracing patterns on the stone floor.

“Then again, I never raised you to be a Gryffindor,” she added, her tone barely disguising her distaste. Castiel’s hands were curled into little fists, so that they wouldn’t shake.

“But I am one,” he said, a little helplessly. He wished Gabriel were here. He wished his mother, too, would fold him into her arms and tell him she didn’t care, it didn’t matter, she was still proud of him. He wished…

“I am aware of that,” Naomi said, without even a hint of dryness, utterly serious. “Something must have gone wrong. Every single member of our family has been in Ravenclaw, going back tens of generations, Castiel.” She sounded accusatory. It was no more than Castiel deserved, he knew.

“I know,” Castiel said hollowly, looking up at her. The lines on her face were strained.

“So why didn’t you ask to be put in Ravenclaw?” she said, frowning down at him. Castiel’s mouth was twitching downwards, little spasms of movement as he tried not to cry.

“I did,” he said, in a small voice. “I swear, Mom, I did, but –”

“You will call me Professor Novak whilst we are at Hogwarts,” Naomi snapped. “We spoke about that at home. And you obviously didn’t ask properly.”

“I begged, Mom – P-Professor,” Castiel amended quickly, ducking his head. He took a shaky little breath. “I begged.” He sniffed loudly, and Naomi grimaced at the sound. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, and she looked completely repulsed.

“People are asking me if I’m disappointed,” she said through clenched teeth. Castiel could see up her flaring nostrils, from where he was standing. “They ask if I always knew that you were different. Everyone thinks you are defective, Castiel. And they all think that I did something wrong, that I failed to instil in you the Novak values, that I failed to pass on the Novak brains. You embarrass me, Castiel. Stop wiping your nose on your sleeve, it is disgusting!” With a snap of her wand through the air, fast enough that Castiel flinched, she conjured a handkerchief and thrust it at him. He took it, trying to summon up something to say to calm her down, to make her realise that this wasn’t her fault – she hadn’t failed, he had, this was all because of him, Castiel...

“Professor, I – I’m going to – maybe there’s some way I can…”

“I expect you,” Naomi said, cutting through his mumbling, “to be top of all of your classes. Despite whatever… impediment you have that has landed you in Gryffindor, you will prove yourself a worthy Novak. I have written to your father, and I anticipate that he would expect nothing less. Don’t let me down, Castiel.”

And with that, she swept away. A few moments after her departure, the handkerchief she’d conjured – the magic made weak by her anger – disintegrated into dust.

*

Castiel roamed the castle, tears streaked down his face. He had no idea where he was. He’d run from the Entrance Hall blindly as the first students began to emerge from dinner, desperate not to be seen – and then promptly got himself utterly lost, taking staircase after staircase, not even caring where he was going.

He was a failure, a useless, stupid failure, and that’s all there was to it. He’d let down the entirety of his family with all its history, defecting to a rival House simply because – well, because he didn’t have the temperament for Ravenclaw. Defecting. Defective. Everyone thinks you are defective, Castiel…

The shadows twitched and flickered, the candlelight low and eerily fluttery this high up in the castle. He must have gone up – what, six floors? Seven? He pressed on down a corridor, trying to stem his tears by pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes – and when he lowered them again, a flicker of movement to his left caught his gaze – he grabbed for his wand and held it out in front of him –

But it was only a tapestry, the characters on it moving silently. A man, and what seemed to be a large amount of trolls wearing tutus. Castiel blinked at it once, and then moved on. He kept his wand gripped in his hand. It was all just so – so horrible, so wrong. Coming to Hogwarts was supposed to be the best thing he’d ever done, and somehow he’d managed to wreck it so catastrophically that he couldn’t see there ever being a way back. It didn’t matter what he did, it didn’t matter who his friends were, how well he did in his classes – he would always be the Novak failure, the boy who couldn’t. Members of his own family had probably strolled down these very same corridors – and they’d probably be just as dismayed by him as his mother was. And rightly so. He was a stain, a tarnish. He was stupid and uncontrolled and stupid. He wanted to scream, he wanted to scream until the whole castle thought there was a banshee in here with them, the anger inside him was building up like a potion about to boil over and explode –

His wand, still clenched in his grip, spat out a great, hot, furious fireball, that slammed into the door in the wall to his right, and almost destroyed it.

Castiel froze, breathless.

The door sizzled slightly, hanging off one hinge.

Castiel looked down at his wand. It was long in his hand, his fingers too small to look right when they gripped it. Tiny eleven-year-old hand, not good enough to grip the perfect wand, aspen and phoenix feather. His mother had been so proud of him, for this wand.

You embarrass me, Castiel…

Castiel’s mouth set, his fingers tightening around his wand. Not the right temperament, was he? Not calm and ordered enough to be a Ravenclaw? Well, in that case, he was going to do exactly what he was good at. He was going to wreck everything.

He began to walk down the long corridor in front of him, holding his wand out. He focused hard as the next door came up. His rage was still coursing through his veins, his hands not shaking anymore, tears still wet on his cheeks.

Failure?

BANG. There went the next door.

Embarrassment?

BANG. Another.

Defective?

BANG. A third. They all burst open as the fireballs hit them, leaving the wood scarred and glowing red. Castiel began to run.

Disappointing. Childish. Stupid.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The final door burst fully off its hinges as Castiel blasted it, the planks splitting as it groaned to the floor. Castiel stood stock still, breathing hard, his wand still held out in front of him. His eyes were wide with the shock of his own rebellion. He turned back, and looked at the mess of splinters and smoke that he’d left along the corridor behind him.

He swallowed.

He would be expelled for this, if he was caught.

He began to run back down the corridor, past the wreckage. He was trembling again, but for a different reason, now. He came to a halt by the tapestry of the trolls, trying to gather his thoughts. He should be fleeing the scene, but –

But what if it wasn’t such a bad idea if he got expelled? He could leave, stop being an eyesore and a disappointment to his mother… maybe he could live at home, still, as a Squib…

He took a few quick steps back towards the corridor of doors he’d blasted. If he waited there, someone was bound to come and find him, someone had to have heard the noise. They’d find him, they’d escort him to the Headmaster’s Office, and then he’d be sent home.

Oh, but the look on his mother’s face… she’d never get over him being expelled from Hogwarts. Castiel backed away from the corridor again. And then went back towards it, and then away again, panicking, heart thudding painfully in his chest, his mind a whirl of uncertainty. He just needed some peace and quiet, he needed a sign that would tell him what to do, he needed – help, he needed help –

Castiel blinked, coming to an abrupt halt.

There, in the wall next to him, was a door.

The door had not been there before.

For a brief, strange moment, Castiel thought that the door had seen the treatment the others had received, and was lining up for its turn. He shook off the thought; it was illogical. But if not that, then… what was this about? Where had the door come from?

Tentatively, Castiel reached out a hand. The wood felt sturdy under his fingers: textured, grainy, not an illusion. He glanced left and right, but saw no one… it could all be a trick, but if so, it was a strange one. Castiel slid the tips of his fingers down towards the doorknob, hesitated a moment at the touch of cool brass… and then twisted.

The door opened without a creak, the hinges working as smoothly as silk. Castiel stood framed in the doorway as it opened, and the room was revealed.

It was tall, the stone a soft amber colour. At the far end, about twenty feet of open space away from the doorway where Castiel was standing, was the room’s only feature. It was – Castiel frowned, and took a step inside, and then another. The door fell closed behind him as he walked the length of the room, and finally pressed his hand against the cool surface of…

Another door.

Castiel’s immediate worry was that he’d got himself caught up in some kind of never-ending cursed loop of doors. He hurried back to the first door and peered out.

No, the corridor was still there, with its faint scent of wood smoke and its troll tapestry. He closed the door behind him again, and turned to face the one in front of him. His mind was spinning. Doors everywhere, burning doors, wrecked doors, doors behind him, doors in front of him. He swallowed, and tried to concentrate.

The door before him, inside the room, was tall, at least thrice as tall as Castiel. It was made – it was made bizarrely, that was the best description Castiel could think of.There was silver-coloured piping and wheels of metal twisting in a delicate, silent lattice across the bottom half – and above that were two great panels of light, whitish wood, with strange symbols carved across them, seemingly haphazardly. In the middle, between the silver metal tangle and the wood, was a band of black iron with a great ornate doorknob in the centre. If Castiel stood on tiptoe, he thought he would be able to reach it.

Around the edge of the door was a stone frame, with more symbols carved on it – regularly, this time, gathered together in groups with spaces in between, like words. At the top of the frame, at the crest of the pointed arch of the door, was a stone-carved letter: an H.

Castiel could only stand, and stare. On the walls around him, copper-coloured lamps flickered. They were warm, and strangely comforting.

He frowned at the symbols on the door. He thought he recognised – yes, wasn’t that one there – he knew that one from his reading; the one that looked like a shallow ‘M’ was ehwaz, the symbol for partnership. He scanned the others, but didn’t recognise any of them. Partnership? Why would a door have ‘partnership’ written on it? Did the door have a double somewhere else in the castle?

Castiel stepped closer, and stared at the mess of pipes and sharp-toothed wheels he saw right in front of him. He’d never seen anything like it before; the metal was shaped as though it had some kind of – of mechanism, some kind of purpose. But why would it? Magic fulfilled every mechanism and purpose. What kind of door was this?

He chewed his lip for a moment, and then pushed hesitantly on the door. It didn’t budge. He frowned and then reached up – the doorknob wasn’t quite as high up as he’d thought it would be, he could wrap his whole hand over it – and tried to turn it with his right hand. That didn’t work, either.

Castiel took a step back, his wand hanging loosely by his side. This was a puzzle, a riddle. The symbols seemed to float off the wood, twirling in the air, laughing at him. Can’t solve us, they seemed to say. You wouldn’t have the temperament.

Castiel reached forwards, and slammed his palm against the silver piping. The whole door rattled. He would go to the library tomorrow and he would find a book on Ancient Runes, and he would come back here and solve this door. He would prove that he was clever, and patient... good at puzzles, good at solving things. And maybe when the door was open, he’d bring his mother here, and he’d show her what he’d done, and he’d watch the surprise and pride unfurl on her face. This door was exactly what he needed to prove himself, to solve all his problems. He show her he wasn’t stupid. He’d show her. He just had to decipher the runes, first, and he couldn’t do that without studying first.

“I’ll be back,” Castiel promised, his eyes hard with determination. He gave the door one last look-over before turning his back, and walking out of the room.

When he was facing the troll tapestry again, he let out a sigh. He was tired, and worn out from crying, and his fellow Gryffindors were probably wondering where he’d got to. It was time to try to find his way back. He’d made it a few steps up the corridor, when a hand closed on his shoulder.

Castiel jumped, wand up - and the burly, bearded man behind him quickly released his hold, hands up. He looked old and grizzled, his expression grumpy.

“Did you do that?” the man demanded. His robes were simple, functional. Was he the caretaker? He was gesturing back down the corridor that Castiel had run down earlier – the one with the all the blasted doors.

Castiel gulped. The man’s face didn’t look forgiving. Castiel considered lying – it would be easy, all he had to do was deny it and keep denying it – but… he sighed. He had done it. And that meant he had to accept his punishment.

“Yes,” he said in a small voice. “You can take me to Professor Shurley.”

“The Headmaster?” The caretaker’s eyebrows raised. Castiel shrugged and nodded.

“I’m being expelled, aren’t I?”

The caretaker looked him over for a long, long moment.

“You’re the Novak kid, aren’t you?” he said gruffly. Castiel nodded. “Saw your Sorting. Congratulations. I used to be in Gryffindor m’self.” His eyes were suddenly not quite so hard, so unforgiving. There was a twinkle of kindness in them. He held out his hand for Castiel to shake.

“Bobby Singer,” he said. “Mr Singer, to you.”

“N-nice to meet you,” Castiel said, shaking his hand and blinking, wrong-footed, trying to understand what was happening. Was he still in trouble?

“Wish I could say the same,” Mr Singer said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the corridor again. “Not bad aim, kid.”

Castiel looked down at his shoes, and said nothing.

“How about this,” Mr Singer said, after a moment. “You’re gonna come and do a detention on Saturday morning. Meet me in my office on the second floor. We’ll get you scrubbing silverware, or something else just as fun. Can't let you off without a punishment for this. But we’ll keep it between us, no need to dock points or tell your House Mistress. Just this once, you hear?”

Castiel could feel a different kind of tightness in his chest. He couldn’t help himself; he reached up his arms and wrapped them as far as he could reach around Bobby Singer’s waist. After a moment, Bobby put his big hands on Castiel’s shoulders, patting them awkwardly, but not unkindly.

“Now get back to your common room,” he said, prising Castiel away. “Where you belong.”

Castiel sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve, and then winced. Mr Singer pulled his own sleeve over his hand, and wiped away a bit that Castiel had missed.

“Go on,” he said gruffly, giving Castiel a little push. “Go.”

Castiel ran, finding his way more by intuition than good judgment. He felt as though his brain was going to overflow, it was so full. He wanted to fall into bed and sleep for a thousand years.

As he slipped into dreams that night, Castiel thought about Bobby Singer. How kind he’d been. Castiel wanted to be like that, wanted to be kind, wanted to be able to make a difference to someone like that. He wanted to be good like that.

He rolled over, and sank into darkness and silence. His body was wrung out, his brain more so.

His last conscious thought was, well... only seven more years of this to go.