Chapter Text
Steam curls in soft white ribbons along the platform, wrapping around legs and trunks and laughter.
Harry steps through the barrier between Nine and Ten, and the rush of magic hits him like a heartbeat. The train gleams under the station lamps, scarlet and proud, the sound of its engines pulsing through the glass roof.
He stops, takes a breath.
The air smells like coal and chocolate frogs, and for a heartbeat, he forgets how many lives he’s lived.
Children run past him, voices high and sharp with excitement. Their parents hover near the edge of the crowd, calling warnings, offering last-minute hugs. Harry stays apart. His ticket trembles between his fingers, a small, clean piece of parchment that feels like permission.
He catches sight of himself in a passing window — dark hair falling into his eyes, the faint silver slash cutting through what used to be a lightning bolt. The old scar is hidden now beneath the newer one, jagged and uneven.
The children who notice him whisper, eyes wide.
He can feel their fear, like a ripple through the air.
He doesn’t mind. Fear means distance.
And distance, for now, means peace.
He climbs aboard.
—------------------------------------------------------
He finds a seat near the back, an empty compartment washed in afternoon light. The window rattles in its frame as he slides the door shut. He sits with his back to the wall, facing the aisle, hands steady for the first time in days.
He opens a book and pretends to read. It doesn’t work.
He doesn’t take in a word.
Instead, he watches the reflections on the glass, the people outside waving their goodbyes, the swirl of colors and faces blurring into one long dream. His heart beats fast, too fast, but it’s not panic this time. It’s anticipation.
The whistle shrieks. The platform slides away.
He is moving again — not running this time, not chasing ghosts or fleeing consequences. Just moving.
The rhythm of the train thrums through the floorboards. The motion settles something deep in his chest, something that’s been restless for lifetimes.
He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he feels it.
—----------------------------------------------
The compartment hums with the rhythm of the rails, steady and low. Harry sits cross-legged on the seat, his fingers tracing the edge of his book without turning a page. The words blur—he’s not reading them; he’s listening. The world feels alive again, every sound sharper than it should be—the whistle’s cry, the shifting footsteps in the corridor, the faint laughter of children.
Then—
A soft knock.
He looks up.
The door slides open, hesitant. A boy stands in the doorway, round-faced, freckled, holding a small wooden box that’s clearly meant to hold something squirming and alive. Behind him is a girl with a halo of brown curls and an expression halfway between concern and calculation.
“Sorry,” the boy mumbles, glancing inside. “I—uh—lost my toad. His name’s Trevor. He keeps running off.”
Harry’s breath catches. The world tilts, just a little.
Neville.
He doesn’t mean to stand, but he does. The book slips from his lap and hits the floor.
“Neville?” he says, voice soft but cracking on the edges.
Neville blinks, startled. “Um—yes?”
Harry stares for a heartbeat that feels like a lifetime. He’s smaller, rounder, so painfully young—but it’s him. The thread hums in the air between them, faint but unmistakable.
Then Harry laughs—a breathless, disbelieving sound that startles them both.
“You found me,” he whispers.
Neville frowns, clutching his toad box. “I—what?”
“You found me.” Harry’s grin is wild now, the kind that teeters on the edge between joy and madness. “I’ve been waiting so long.”
He moves before he thinks and pulls the boy into a hug. Neville freezes like a deer caught in spelllight, but after a moment, something inside him loosens. A tremor runs through his small frame—half fear, half recognition.
Harry can feel it.
That old tether—the one that snapped when Neville died decades ago—stirs. It’s faint, but alive. A phantom limb coming back to life.
Neville’s eyes widen. There’s warmth spreading through his chest, an echo of something he doesn’t understand—like a missing piece of himself just found its way home.
“I…” Neville stammers, voice small. “I think I know you.”
Harry’s breath hitches. “You do,” he says simply. “Even if you don’t remember how.”
Hermione clears her throat in the doorway, awkward and defensive. “Excuse me—um—who exactly are you?”
Harry turns toward her, smile softening. “Harry. Harry Potter.”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh! I’ve read about you—well, a lot about you—though the books never mentioned you being so—uh—scarred.”
He chuckles under his breath. “They don’t mention a lot of things.”
Hermione hesitates, then adds, “You—you just hugged a complete stranger.”
Harry shrugs, still grinning faintly. “He’s not a stranger. He’s my godbrother.”
Neville blinks. “I’m your what?”
Harry kneels so they’re eye level. “My godbrother,” he repeats, quieter now, steady. “It’s not official yet. But it will be. And even if it weren’t—” He places a hand lightly on Neville’s shoulder. “—it’s true where it matters.”
Neville blushes scarlet, looking down. “That’s… nice.”
Hermione folds her arms. “That doesn’t help us find the toad.” She sniffs disapprovingly. “We should go, we need to go find him.”
Harry’s grin turns sly. He lifts his hand, the movement smooth and effortless. “Accio Trevor.”
A wet thwack echoes from down the corridor. A second later, a very indignant toad sails through the air, landing squarely in Neville’s box.
Neville gasps. “How—? You’re not even supposed to know that spell yet!”
Harry just smiles, eyes glinting. “I’m a quick learner.”
Hermione’s mouth opens, then closes again. “That’s fifth-year magic,” she says finally. “Summoning requires directional focus, an understanding of—”
“Intent,” Harry finishes for her. “Magic’s all about intent.”
She blinks. “That’s exactly… Wait—how did you know that?”
He leans back, the faintest amusement curling his lips. “Because you were going to say it.”
She stares at him, caught somewhere between curiosity and annoyance. “You’re… very strange.”
Harry nods. “Frequently.”
Neville, still holding the box, studies him. That warmth hasn’t faded—it’s grown. He doesn’t have the words for it, but he feels tethered to Harry, like there’s an invisible thread pulling at his chest. It’s comforting, but it aches too, the way an old wound does when it rains.
When Harry looks at him again, Neville blurts, “You really mean it, don’t you? About me being your family.”
Harry’s smile softens. “More than you know.You are singularly the most important person to me”
Neville blushes a beet red but it doesn’t hide his small, shy smile. He had never been the most important to someone ever. It was a nice feeling, even if it was from this strange boy who Neville feels like he should know but doesn’t.
Hermione sits down across from them, curiosity winning over caution. “So—if you’re Harry Potter, then you must be starting Hogwarts too. Which House do you think you’ll be in?”
He hesitates, eyes flicking between them. “Whichever one needs me most.”
“That’s not how it works,” she says briskly.
“Maybe not for everyone,” he murmurs.
Neville looks down at Trevor, fiddling with the latch. “Gran says I’ll be in Hufflepuff. She thinks Gryffindor’s for people like my dad. Heroes.”
Harry leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Your dad was brave, yeah. But bravery isn’t about never being afraid. It’s about standing up anyway. I’ve seen you do that, Neville.”
Neville looks up. “You’ve… seen me?”
Harry smiles faintly. “You’d be surprised what I’ve seen.”
Hermione’s brow furrows. “That’s awfully cryptic.”
Harry looks out the window. “So’s life.”
The train jolts around a bend. For a moment, the three of them sit in a pocket of warm silence. The hum of the rails fills the gap where fear used to be.
Neville finally whispers, “Do you think it’s bad if I end up in Hufflepuff?”
Harry shakes his head. “No. No matter where you go, you’ll have my support. You’re my brother, and that will always be enough.”
Something flickers in Neville’s magic—subtle, golden, alive. The bond responds, humming between them like a heartbeat just beginning to wake.
Hermione glances between them, curiosity bright in her eyes. “That was… kind,” she says quietly.
Harry looks back at her, smile small but real. “Kindness is underrated.”
She huffs, trying to hide a smile. “Well, at least someone on this train has manners.”
Neville laughs softly, a sound Harry hasn’t heard in years but has missed all the same.
For the first time since he crossed the Veil, the world doesn’t feel heavy. It feels possible.
—------------------------------------------------
The train rocks gently, steady as a heartbeat. The hum of the wheels becomes a rhythm—steady, hypnotic, alive. Neville’s toad snores quietly in his box and Harry didn’t know toads could snore. The sound makes him want to laugh, but he doesn’t.
Hermione sits across from Harry, posture perfect, her eyes bright with questions she’s barely holding back. Harry leans back in his seat, half-listening to the world outside, half-listening to the way magic feels around these two.
Hermione finally breaks.
“So,” she begins carefully, “you said ‘magic is intent.’ That’s not how most people describe it.”
Harry smiles faintly. “Most people haven’t spent long enough listening to it.”
“Listening to it?” she echoes. “Magic doesn’t talk.”
Harry hums. “Doesn’t it? Close your eyes for a second.”
Hermione hesitates, then—just to prove him wrong—closes them.
“What do you feel?” he asks softly.
“The train,” she says. “The air. The vibrations.”
“And underneath it?”
She frowns. There’s something—like a low hum under her skin, faint but constant. “It’s… warm. Like static.”
“That’s it,” Harry says quietly. “Magic’s always talking. You just have to listen.”
Hermione opens her eyes, caught between awe and skepticism. “You’re very strange, Harry Potter.”
He grins. “I get that a lot.”
Neville giggles, a small, unguarded sound that fills the compartment with something lighter. “I think it’s true, though. The listening bit. Sometimes when I touch my Gran’s old wand, it feels like it’s angry with me. Like it’s telling me to stop.”
Harry nods, serious now. “That’s because it’s not yours. Wands remember their owners, their loyalties. Magic likes to belong.”
Neville nods slowly. “So, if I ever get my own—?”
“It’ll sing for you,” Harry says simply. “Like it’s been waiting.”
Neville glows at that, cheeks pink, hope flickering across his face like sunlight through leaves. Hermione watches them both, and for the first time, something softens in her expression.
She shifts gears. “So, what about Houses?” she asks briskly. “You said ‘whichever one needs you most.’ What did you mean?”
Harry looks out the window. The countryside flashes past in streaks of green and gold. “The Sorting Hat doesn’t decide who you are. It asks who you want to be. But sometimes the world doesn’t need who you want—it needs who you can become.”
Hermione blinks. “That’s… unusually poetic.”
Harry’s lips twitch. “Comes with the scars.”
She opens her mouth to reply, but Neville beats her to it. “My Gran says I’ll be in Hufflepuff,” he says, voice quieter now. “Because I’m not brave enough for Gryffindor.”
Harry turns back to him. “Do you believe that?”
Neville shrugs. “I don’t know. I get scared a lot.”
Harry leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Being brave isn’t about not being scared, Neville. It’s about standing up anyway. I’ve seen you do it.”
Neville frowns. “You say that like you’ve been there.”
Harry’s expression softens, eyes far away. “Maybe I have. Maybe in another life.”
The words hang between them. Hermione tilts her head, studying him. “You talk like you’re older than you look,” she says.
“I feel older than I look,” Harry admits.
“You can’t be more than eleven.”
Harry’s smile is small, sad. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve lived a hundred years.”
Neville watches him, fidgeting with Trevor’s box. “If I end up in Hufflepuff, will you still—”
Harry interrupts softly. “No matter where you go, you’ll have my support. You’re my brother, and that will always be enough.”
Something ripples through the air—quiet, golden. The bond hums again, stronger this time, threading between them. Neville gasps, a hand going to his chest.
“Did you feel that?” Hermione asks quickly.
Neville nods, wide-eyed. “It’s like… something warm. Like the air’s buzzing.”
Harry smiles faintly. “That’s just the train,” he lies.
Hermione narrows her eyes, unconvinced. “You’re hiding something.”
“Probably,” Harry says easily.
She huffs, folding her arms. “You’re insufferable.”
He grins. “You’ll get used to it.” He says it with such confidence that Hermione almost believes him.
The compartment quiets again, but it’s a warm silence now—the kind that settles after laughter. The three of them sit together, their magic brushing against each other’s like the slow turning of constellations.
—--------------------------------------
The compartment grows warmer as the sun dips lower, casting slow, shifting lines of light across their faces. The three of them sit in that golden hush that comes after laughter — content, curious, suspended.
Hermione has started organizing her books into neat stacks on the seat beside her, muttering occasionally about the differences between “elemental practice” and “rudimentary spellcraft.” Neville doodles soft shapes in the condensation on the window, his thoughts drifting. Harry just watches them, a faint smile curving his mouth.
He can feel the bond still humming faintly — like a low note under everything. It’s stronger now, alive, threading warmth through the air whenever Neville glances his way. Hermione’s magic has its own kind of pull too, sharp and searching, brushing against his like it’s trying to remember him.
For the first time since he fell back into this world, Harry feels anchored.
Then the door slides open again with a squeak.
A red-haired boy leans in, lanky and freckled, clutching a half-eaten sandwich. His tie’s crooked. His bag’s half-open. There’s jam smeared on his cheek like war paint.
“Everywhere else is full,” he says. “Can I sit here?”
Harry glances at Hermione and Neville — both nod — then smiles. “Course you can.”
The boy grins, slides into the seat beside Neville, and exhales like he’s just escaped a dragon.
“Thanks. I’m Ron. Ron Weasley.”
Neville brightens. “I’ve heard of your family! Gran says the Weasleys have been around forever.”
Ron groans. “Yeah, that’s us. Like gnomes — can’t get rid of us.”
Hermione frowns. “That’s… not a very flattering comparison.”
Ron smirks. “You’ve never met my brothers.”
Harry laughs, the sound raw but real. “Fred and George, right?”
Ron pauses mid-bite. “How’d you know that?”
Harry just shrugs. “Lucky guess.”
Hermione narrows her eyes. “You keep saying that.”
“Maybe I’m lucky a lot.”
Ron’s gaze flicks to the scar slicing across Harry’s face. “Doesn’t look like it.”
Hermione gasps. Neville freezes.
Then Harry chuckles softly. “Fair point.”
Ron’s ears redden. “Didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—blimey, that’s a lot of scars for someone our age.”
Harry leans back, eyes half-closed. “Yeah. You should see the other guy.”
Ron snorts — then bursts into full laughter. It’s rough, unguarded, and it loosens something in the room.
The tension melts.
They talk easily after that.
Quidditch, sweets, wizard chess — all the small things that feel enormous when you’re eleven.
Hermione keeps trying to get them back on topic about “Hogwarts house reputations,” but Ron’s too busy making Neville laugh with stories about his twin brothers’ pranks.
And as the conversation flows, something in Ron settles.
It’s subtle — a long exhale he didn’t know he’d been holding.
There’s something about sitting here — with these three — that makes his pulse slow, his shoulders drop.
It feels safe.
It reminds him of when he was six and woke from a nightmare, too scared to breathe. He’d crept into Bill’s room in the dark, curled under his arm, and felt the terror dissolve just because someone bigger was there.
That’s what Harry feels like.
Not older — not really — but steadier. Like someone who’s seen every monster under the bed and still chose to leave the light on.
Harry catches him looking.
“What?” he asks, amused.
Ron shakes his head, embarrassed. “Nothing. You just—feel like you belong here, you know? Like you’ve done this before.”
Harry’s smile fades a little. “Maybe I have.”
Ron doesn’t press.
He just sits a little closer.
And for a while, the train carries them through the golden countryside, the light slanting over the glass, the hum of the bond filling the silence between heartbeats.
Harry closes his eyes and lets the warmth settle into his bones.
For the first time in years, it feels like the beginning of something — not an ending, not a war, but home.
They fall into easy conversation.
Hermione can’t help herself — she’s full of questions, and now that Ron’s joined them, her confidence blooms. “So what House do you think you’ll be in?” she asks him.
“Gryffindor, I hope,” Ron says immediately. “All my brothers were. Well, except Percy — he’s perfect about it. Fred and George said if I end up in Slytherin they’ll hex me bald.”
Hermione gasps. “That’s awful!”
Ron shrugs, unbothered. “They’re joking. Probably.”
Neville glances at Harry, quieter now. “I don’t know where I’ll go,” he admits. “Gran says Hufflepuff. But… I’d like Gryffindor.”
Ron perks up. “Really? That’d be great! You could sit with us at the table. And Hufflepuff’s not bad either, mind. They’ve got good food.”
Hermione raises an eyebrow. “You’ve read about them?”
Ron blinks. “No, I just like food.”
Harry laughs again, the sound softer this time. He looks at Neville. “Hufflepuff would be lucky to have you,” he says, voice steady and kind. “But so would Gryffindor. Houses don’t decide who you are, Neville. You do.”
Neville bites his lip, considering that. “You think so?”
Harry nods. “I know so. No matter where you end up, you’ll have my support. You’re my brother — that’s not changing.”
Ron glances between them. “You two related?”
“Something like that,” Harry says, and the warmth in his tone leaves no room for doubt.
Hermione watches all of this with quiet fascination. She doesn’t understand it — not yet — but she feels it. The air in the compartment hums like a low chord, the edges of their magic brushing together. Hers feels sharper, faster; Neville’s is steady and golden; Ron’s is warm and open, like a hearthfire.
And Harry’s… Harry’s feels endless. Old. Familiar.
She clears her throat. “And you, Harry? What about you? Which House?”
Harry considers for a long time. “The last time I was here,” he says slowly, “I thought Gryffindor meant being good. Being brave. Doing the right thing.”
Ron frowns. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” Harry says, smiling faintly. “But courage means different things to different people. Sometimes, it means knowing when to stay quiet.”
Hermione tilts her head. “You talk like you’ve already been through all this.”
Harry’s eyes flick to the window, where the hills slide past in streaks of gold. “Maybe I have,” he says.
For a moment, none of them speak. The rhythm of the train fills the silence — steady, comforting, alive.
Ron breaks it first, stretching his arms. “Well, whatever Houses we end up in, we should stick together, yeah? It’s better with mates.”
Neville nods. “Yeah.”
Hermione hesitates, then smiles. “Agreed.”
Harry looks at them — the three faces he thought he’d lost forever — and the ache in his chest softens into something else.
Hope.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Together sounds good.”
The train curves through open fields, the sky deepening into twilight. They sit in easy conversation — four kids, unaware they’ve already begun to change the shape of the world.
For the first time in longer than he can remember, Harry feels safe.
Not powerful.
Not burdened.
Just safe.
He leans his head against the glass, listening to their laughter, and lets himself believe — just for a while — that this is how it was always meant to begin.
—------------------------------------------------
The train slows.
The hum beneath their feet deepens, the landscape outside fading into shadow and mist. A soft voice calls down the corridor — “First years! This way, first years!”
The compartment stirs.
Ron sits up straighter. Hermione snaps her books shut and smooths her robes. Neville nearly drops Trevor again, catching him with a startled yelp. Harry just watches them, something gentle and fierce twisting in his chest.
It’s happening again.
After everything — the wars, the deaths, the years of fire and grief — they’re here. Back at the beginning. Back at the threshold.
He stands slowly, letting his hand rest on the window frame. The first glimpse of the lake appears — vast, black, endless, catching the moonlight like a mirror. His breath catches.
He remembers this.
He remembers every ripple, every spark of lantern light reflected on the surface, every tremor of anticipation that ran through the first-years as they saw the castle for the first time.
But this time, it’s different.
He’s not a boy seeing it with wonder.
He’s a ghost seeing it with longing.
“Come on!” Hermione urges, tugging at Ron’s sleeve. “We’ll miss the boats!”
Ron grumbles, but he follows. Neville’s already halfway out the door, clutching Trevor’s box like a shield. Harry lingers for a moment longer, letting his fingers rest on the glass — the faint hum of the castle’s magic vibrating through the air. It feels like a heartbeat calling him home.
He whispers to himself, too quietly for the others to hear.
“I made it back.”
—-------------------------------------------------------
Outside, the air is cool and alive. The scent of water and pine fills his lungs. The lake glows faintly under the moon, boats bobbing on the surface like tiny shadows.
“My word! Look at that man! He’s huge!” Hermione gasps, spotting the half-giant calling first years forward with a lantern.
Harry’s chest tightens. He hasn’t seen that face in lifetimes. The same wild hair, the same deep laugh, the same kind eyes.
“Firs’-years! No more’n four ter a boat!” Hagrid bellows.
Ron grabs Neville’s sleeve, steering them toward one. “Come on, let’s go together.”
Hermione hesitates only long enough to glance at Harry. “You coming?”
He nods and steps into the boat beside them. The wood creaks. The lake sways.
Hagrid raises his lantern. “Right then — FORWARD!”
The boats drift off, gliding over the dark mirror of the water.
Hermione gasps, eyes wide as the castle rises ahead — all spires and gold-lit windows, towering above the mist. It’s a dream made stone.
Neville breathes, “It’s beautiful.”
Harry smiles softly. “Yeah,” he says. “It always is.”
Ron squints. “You sound like you’ve seen it before.”
Harry’s gaze lingers on the castle. “Maybe I have,” he says quietly.
They fall silent as the boats slide into the cavern beneath the cliffs, glowing crystals lighting the passageway. Hermione is whispering facts she read about the founding; Neville clutches Trevor’s box to his chest; Ron leans forward, wide-eyed.
Harry just watches the ripples spread across the water, and for the first time in years, the tightness in his chest eases.
He’s home.
Not the battlefield.
Not Grimmauld’s haunted halls.
Home.
—-----------------------------------------------------------
The doors swing open with a rush of golden light.
Hundreds of candles float above the tables. The ceiling gleams with an enchanted sky — stars shimmering like they’ve been painted in real time. The long house tables stretch before them, filled with students in jewel-colored robes. Laughter, whispers, the scrape of plates and cutlery — all the noise of life.
Harry steps forward slowly, the rest of the first-years pressing close around him.
The magic of the castle hums, brushing his skin like recognition.
It knows him.
Remembers him.
He can feel it — the way the air bends slightly toward him, the way the torches flicker brighter. Hogwarts has always been alive, and it greets him now like an old friend.
“Wow,” Ron breathes beside him. “It’s— it’s bloody brilliant.”
“Language,” Hermione mutters automatically, but even she’s smiling.
Neville nods, speechless.
Harry watches the professors at the head table — McGonagall, tall and stern, her gaze sweeping the line of students. Dumbledore sits in the center, his eyes twinkling, the picture of wisdom and warmth. Harry feels an odd mix of grief and rage twist through him.
He knows too much.
He remembers too much.
But tonight isn’t for that. Tonight is for beginnings.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
The Sorting Hat sits on its stool, patched and ancient, humming with sentient magic.
When it begins to sing, the hall goes quiet. Harry listens — really listens — and the words sting with strange familiarity. The Hat’s song is older now, deeper. It talks of unity, of balance, of the danger of forgetting what connects them all.
It remembers too, he thinks.
Neville fidgets beside him. “What if I mess it up?”
Harry smiles gently. “You can’t mess up being who you are.”
Neville looks at him with wide eyes, the bond humming faintly between them.
Hermione squeezes her hands together. “I hope I’m in Ravenclaw,” she murmurs. “But—Gryffindor seems… nice too.”
Ron grins. “Nah, you’re a Gryffindor for sure. Look at you — already bossing me around.”
Hermione bristles, then smirks. “You’re not wrong.”
Harry laughs under his breath. It feels normal — something he hasn’t felt in so long.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------
When his name is called, the Great Hall stills like a held breath.
A ripple of whispers surges through the students — a soft, electric murmur.
“Harry Potter—”
“The scar—”
“He’s real—”
Harry walks forward through the silence. His boots make no sound on the stone floor.
He can feel hundreds of eyes crawling over the scars that cut across his face, the heavy mark that bisects his lightning bolt.
He keeps walking.
Professor McGonagall sets the stool before him, and the Hat — old, frayed, alive — sits waiting. Its magic hums like the echo of an old voice.
He sits. The Hat drops over his head.
Darkness. Silence. Then—
Ah, a voice murmurs inside his mind, low and warm, threaded with recognition. Back again, are we?
Harry exhales shakily. You remember me.
How could I forget? the Hat replies. You are a very difficult one to forget.
You used to call me brave, Harry says quietly. I don’t feel that anymore.
You’re still brave, the Hat says. Just quieter about it. The kind that doesn’t need an audience.
Harry’s throat tightens. You sound sad.
I am, the Hat admits. I can see your memories, child — shards of them, anyway. You’ve carried too much for too long.
Harry doesn’t answer. The Hat seems to sigh, fabric rustling softly.
Funny thing, it continues. I wonder why I fought so hard to send you to Gryffindor the first time. I think— it hesitates, a thoughtful hum rippling through his mind —I was trying to protect you. To keep you from Dumbledore’s reach.
Harry’s heart stutters. You knew?
Not knew, the Hat corrects gently. But suspected. I can feel intent when it brushes close. He wanted you… shaped.
Harry swallows. The Great Hall around him fades; it’s just the two of them, locked in a quiet space of thought and magic.
You’ve changed, Harry, the Hat says finally. There’s more iron in you now. Less fire, more stone. You could fit anywhere — Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff… but one House calls louder than the rest.
Harry closes his eyes. Which?
Slytherin.
The word lands like a strike of lightning. His breath catches.
The Hat’s tone softens. Not for ambition. For survival. For cunning. For control. It’s the only place you’ll be safe from what’s coming.
Harry stiffens. Safe? You mean from Dumbledore?
Among other things.
And then — a flash. A name.
A whisper of cold laughter.
A pale face, red eyes, the scent of snake venom and death.
He’d forgotten. He’d actually forgotten.
“Voldemort,” he breathes aloud.
The Hat tenses. Ah. You remember now.
Harry’s hands clench on the edge of the stool. His pulse races, echoing in his ears. He’s here. He’s alive in this timeline.
Not yet, the Hat says quickly, firm but kind. Not as you knew him. But the path is still forming. There is time to change it.
Harry’s breathing comes fast, shallow. His mind is spinning — wars, prophecies, the Veil, all collapsing into one endless circle.
Breathe, Harry, the Hat says softly. You’ve walked through death before. You can walk through this too.
Harry’s throat burns. I thought this was supposed to be my second chance.
It is, Alistair murmurs. And second chances are never gentle.
The silence stretches. Harry lets out a slow breath, steadying himself. All right then, he says finally. Put me where I can make the most difference.
The Hat hums — something like pride in its tone. Very well.
And then, aloud, its voice booms across the Great Hall:
“SLYTHERIN!”
The hall goes silent again — then erupts.
Some cheer. Others whisper. A few gasp outright.
Harry removes the Hat, setting it gently back on the stool. His face is calm, unreadable, but his heart is thundering in his chest.
He looks toward Neville, still waiting in line. Neville meets his eyes, startled — uncertain — but the bond hums faintly between them, warm and steady.
When Neville’s name is called next, Harry stands taller.
The Hat barely touches Neville’s hair before shouting, “GRYFFINDOR!”
The Gryffindor table explodes with applause. Ron whoops loudest. Hermione claps until her hands are pink.
Harry grins — wide, bright, unguarded. It’s the first real smile he’s worn since returning.
When Neville glances back at him, hesitant, Harry mouths the words:
I’m proud of you.
Neville’s face lights up. For a moment, Harry swears he feels the bond pulse between them — stronger, steadier, like an old melody being remembered.
He turns toward the Slytherin table. The students watch him with wary curiosity — a few smirks, a few calculating looks, and one pale-haired boy staring at him like a question waiting to be answered.
Harry lifts his chin and walks forward.
The whispers follow him all the way to his seat.
But under the noise, under the glances, under everything, he can still feel Alistair’s voice echoing quietly in the back of his mind:
You’re where you need to be, Harry Potter. This time, maybe we’ll get it right.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The tables glow with food — roasts, pies, puddings, and goblets that refill themselves with a flicker of light. Ron dives in immediately. Hermione makes a face, muttering about manners, but joins soon after. Neville eats quietly, smiling every so often.
Harry sits back, watching them all, laughter echoing through the Great Hall.
It’s strange, he thinks — how something so ordinary can feel like salvation.
For the first time in lifetimes, he isn’t running.
He isn’t fighting.
He’s just living.
He glances at his friends — Ron’s grin, Hermione’s curiosity, Neville’s shy contentment — and something inside him settles.
He doesn’t know what’s coming next.
He doesn’t know how long this peace will last.
But right now, sitting under the floating candles and starlit sky, surrounded by warmth and noise and laughter, he feels it deep in his bones:
He’s finally home.