Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ The Space In-Between ❯ Chapter 3 ( Chapter 3 )

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The train ride northward turned out to be the most peaceful stretch of time I’d had in longer than I could rightly remember. The gentle hum of the Hogwarts Express was oddly soothing. Predictable, even. The steady rhythm of wheels meeting track filled the compartment with a sound that was neither loud nor demanding, and for once, I felt no urgent need to brace for something worse. It was just… quiet.

Remus and I had managed to secure a compartment to ourselves—something of a small miracle, given the bustle on the platform earlier. I still wasn’t used to crowds of people not actively avoiding me. The door clicked shut behind us, muffling the distant chatter and footsteps in the corridor, and suddenly, it was just us and the sound of the rails.

I didn’t say much. For the first time in days—or maybe weeks—I could actually hear myself think.

I’d chosen the seat by the window without really meaning to, and now I sat there, watching the countryside roll past in waves of green and gold. Hedgerows whipped by in blurs, and every so often a lone tree would drift into view before vanishing behind us. Sheep dotted the hills in lazy clusters, and old farmhouses perched on distant knolls like they’d been dropped there a hundred years ago and forgotten. The sky stretched wide and pale above us, cloud-strewn but bright.

Remus, meanwhile, had produced a stack of parchment and a few battered-looking books from his case and was scribbling away—lesson plans, he’d told me. He chewed absently on the end of his quill whenever he paused, a faint crease forming between his brows as he reviewed whatever he’d just written.

Now and again, he’d glance up and offer some quiet bit of Hogwarts trivia, almost as though he couldn’t help himself. It was like the train itself drew the memories out of him.

“You know,” he said at one point, glancing up from his notes with a faint smile, “quite a lot of the students come from families with long histories at Hogwarts. Some go back generations. Grandparents, great-grandparents… they’ll talk about corridors like they’ve never really left them.”

His voice wasn’t wistful exactly—not quite—but there was a weight behind his words, something caught between memory and melancholy. I didn’t interrupt. He wasn’t saying it to boast or to make me feel out of place. He was remembering something. Maybe someone.

I nodded slightly, pretending the thought didn’t make my stomach twist. It had never really occurred to me, not in any serious way, that other kids might show up already knowing which common room their mum used to fall asleep in, or which professor their dad had played pranks on during third year. I didn’t even know how the Houses worked, to be honest. Everything I knew about Hogwarts came from secondhand stories and a few books I hadn’t fully understood.

Remus must have seen the hesitation flicker across my face. He set down his quill.

“You don’t need to have a family crest or a great-uncle who founded a House to belong at Hogwarts,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “You belong there because of who you are—not because of who anyone else was.”

I met his gaze and held it. There was no pity in it. No forced reassurance. Just Remus, who always seemed to know exactly how much I needed to hear and when. Something unknotted in my chest—a slow, warm feeling, unfamiliar but welcome.

I nodded again, this time with something approaching belief. “Thanks.”

He smiled, satisfied, and picked up his quill again.

For a while, we travelled in companionable silence. I leaned back, let my head rest against the seat, and closed my eyes for a moment. I wasn’t tired exactly, just… weary. There was still a tension wound tight beneath my skin, the sort that didn’t fade with sleep. But here, now, it felt easier to let my guard down. Just a little.

“Did I mention the lake?” Remus asked after a while, setting his quill aside again. “It’s enormous—cold as anything, but beautiful. And there are merpeople living in it. And a giant squid.”

I cracked one eye open. “A giant squid.”

“Rather friendly,” he said, grinning. “Though he gets grumpy if people throw things at him. Which, frankly, I’d say is understandable.”

I snorted. “You’re having me on.”

Remus raised his eyebrows innocently. “You’ll see. He’s quite fond of toast.”

Despite myself, I laughed. Not just the shadow of one. The idea of some grumpy, toast-eating squid sulking in the lake outside a school full of wizards was so absurd it had to be true. Somehow, that made it feel more real—more like a place I could belong.

Remus tapped the end of his quill thoughtfully against his chin, then glanced over at me again with that familiar spark in his eye—the one he always got when he was about to share something interesting.

“There’s a village not far from the castle,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Hogsmeade. Only all-wizarding village in Britain.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Really? A whole village?”

He nodded. “Shops, cafés, an excellent sweetshop you’ll probably never want to leave… and a pub or two, for the older students. The Three Broomsticks has the best butterbeer you’ll ever taste.”

My eyebrows lifted. “We’re allowed to go there?”

“Not in your first year, no—but you’ll have time,” he said with a smile. “There are also a few secret passages leading from the school to the village, though I’m not officially supposed to tell you that.”

I couldn’t help but grin. “How many are there?”

“Oh, more than Filch would like to admit. Most of them are hidden behind statues or under floorboards. Bit of a rite of passage, finding them. Though… Don’t go using that as an excuse to skive off class.”

I shrugged innocently. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He gave me a look that said he didn’t believe me for a second, then glanced back down at his parchment before seeming to think better of it.

“The greenhouses are just beyond the castle,” he added. “They’re massive. Each one filled with magical plants, some more temperamental than others. You’ll have Herbology lessons there. Professor Sprout’s in charge—lovely woman, but don’t underestimate her.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How temperamental are we talking?”

“Well,” he said, considering, “there was one year a vine tried to strangle an entire class because someone said something rude about its leaves.”

“…Right.”

He chuckled. “It’s not all dangerous, I promise. There are sloping lawns behind the castle that lead all the way down to the lake—a good place to sit when the weather’s nice. Or for duels, if you’re that way inclined. The Astronomy Tower’s one of the highest points in the castle. On clear nights, you’ll see stars you never even knew existed.”

My mind was spinning. It all sounded unreal—too grand, too enchanted. “And the Forbidden Forest?”

Remus nodded slowly. “Yes. Just beyond the edge of the grounds. Very old. Very magical. And very off-limits to students, though that rule gets broken more than it should.”

“What’s in it?”

He hesitated. “Creatures. Some friendly, some not. Centaurs live deep in the woods. You’ll learn about them eventually—proud beings, very private. But there are other things as well. Things that are best left alone.”

I stared out the window again, trying to piece it all together—this castle rising up from the wild Scottish hills, its turrets catching the light; the glittering black lake; the strange forest looming just beyond it. Secret tunnels, shifting staircases, creatures in the shadows, and stars waiting above a stone tower.

“You make it sound like something out of a storybook,” I said, barely realising I’d spoken aloud.

Remus’s voice was quiet. “In some ways, it is. But it’s real, Harry. And it’s waiting for you.”

That strange, fluttering feeling returned—not fear, exactly, but something close to it. A kind of breathless wonder, like I wasn’t entirely sure whether to be excited or terrified. Maybe both.

Remus smiled again and, at last, turned back to his parchment, muttering something about “curriculum gaps” and “age-appropriate hexes”. I let him disappear into his planning and leaned my forehead against the glass once more, watching the hills slip past.

The landscape had shifted again. We were leaving the gentle hills behind, heading into a wilder country now—all jagged ridgelines and dark stretches of forest that seemed to go on forever. The moors were sweeping and dramatic, windswept and lonely. It felt right, somehow, that Hogwarts would be hidden somewhere in a place like this.

By the time the train finally slowed to a halt, dusk had folded itself neatly across the hills, dimming the world in dusky purples and soft greys. The sky above was streaked with the last light of the day—not quite night yet, but heading there steadily.

The engine gave a long, weary hiss, and the familiar jolt of the carriages settling back into stillness passed through the train. A bell clanged somewhere distant, and then the doors slid open with a mechanical clatter. The corridor outside our compartment filled almost instantly with noise—excited voices, scraping trunks, and the impatient hoots of owls desperate to stretch their wings.

Remus stood, brushing parchment dust from his robes, and gave me a small smile. “Here we are.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice just then. My heart had started hammering somewhere around the last bend of the journey, and now it felt as though it had taken up permanent residence in my throat. I followed him out wordlessly, my fingers gripping the strap of my bag far too tightly.

The platform was chaos. Students spilt out of the train in every direction, a churning river of black robes and dragging trunks, faces reuniting after the summer and first-years gawking wide-eyed at everything around them. The sound was deafening—laughter, shouted greetings, a few mild arguments over misplaced owls or stepped-on toes—and I found myself instinctively drawing closer to Remus’s side, hoping no one would notice me in the rush.

We made our way along the winding path that led from the platform through the hills. Torches had been lit, casting flickering pools of golden light on the gravel, but I barely noticed them. My eyes were locked on what lay ahead—the silhouette of the gates.

They loomed in front of us, taller than I’d expected. Wrought iron, thick and twisted, with spiked tips and ancient runes carved deep into the metal. They looked less like something built and more like something unearthed—as though they’d always been there, waiting.

And then, just before them, I stopped.

I didn’t even realise I had until I felt Remus pause a few steps ahead and glance back.

“Everything all right?”

I swallowed. “Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just… taking it in.”

He gave a soft, knowing sort of hum and waited.

I didn’t move.

The truth was, my legs had simply refused to go any farther. It wasn’t fear—not exactly. Just something slower, heavier. Like my body was catching up to the fact that this wasn’t a dream. This was real. I was here. Hogwarts.

Students continued to flow past us in waves—some chatting easily, some yawning dramatically, a few already bickering in that way that only people who’ve known each other for years can get away with. They all moved with such effortless familiarity. No hesitation, no second-guessing. They belonged here.

And me? I wasn’t sure.

Remus didn’t push. He simply stepped back beside me, hands folded behind his back, watching the steady stream of students through the gates.

“The first time seeing it is always a bit of a moment,” he said quietly. “It’s all right to stop and breathe.”

I nodded stiffly, unsure how to put into words the tightness in my chest. I’d spent so long being shuffled between houses, between names and half-truths and pitying glances. Somehow, I’d managed to believe that this would be different. That magic might make it easier.

But even surrounded by wizarding robes and talking portraits and whatever else Hogwarts had to offer, that old voice in my head—the one that always wondered whether I truly belonged anywhere—hadn’t gone quiet. If anything, it had only grown louder.

“Everyone looks like they know exactly what they’re doing,” I muttered.

Remus followed my gaze. “Most of them are just bluffing,” he said dryly. “Teenagers are very good at pretending.”

I wasn’t convinced.

The groups passing through the gates told their own stories. The trio of boys in lopsided hats and highlighter-bright scarves who were cackling at some private joke—one of them nearly dropped his wand while mock-bowing to an invisible crowd. They were ridiculous but confident in their ridiculousness.

Then came the girls—a cluster of them in coordinated cardigans and clever hairclips, chatting over the whirr of their levitating trunks. They looked so polished I half expected them to pull out a camera crew and start filming a product advert.

And of course, there were the quiet ones—books clutched like shields, expressions focused, clothes neat to the point of rigidity. You could practically hear their internal monologues: Must arrive early. Must review spell components. Must not talk to anyone who might delay academic excellence.

Lastly, the ones who couldn’t care less—shirts untucked, ties askew, their laughter trailing behind them like the scent of too much cologne. One of them tripped over a pebble and went sprawling. His mates laughed themselves hoarse while he flipped them a rude gesture and rolled onto his back in defeat.

It should have all felt overwhelming. And it did—but not in a bad way. There was something reassuring in the chaos. It wasn’t tidy or predictable, but it was alive.

I turned my head slightly. “Do you think I’ll… fit in?”

Remus considered that. “No,” he said, and I blinked at him. But before I could form a reply, he added, “I think you’ll stand out—and I think you’ll learn to stop apologising for it.”

A lump formed in my throat. I looked back at the gates.

“Are you ready?”

Remus’s voice was gentle—not soft in the way people usually use around frightened animals or ill children, but steady. Honest. The kind of tone that offered a hand without insisting you take it.

He was watching me carefully. Not pressuring, just waiting—the way someone might wait beside you at a cliff’s edge, giving you the choice to jump or not.

I tried to answer. Took a breath. My lungs didn’t quite seem to work properly. My ribs felt tight—not from any old bruises this time, just nerves cinched up so tightly I half wondered whether I’d actually lost a few organs on the train.

“I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I managed, forcing a lopsided smile onto my face. It didn’t feel real, that smile, but I gave it anyway. Sometimes you had to pretend to be brave long enough for the pretending to start looking like the real thing.

“This feels like the part in the story where something explodes,” I added, only half-joking.

Remus gave a quiet laugh—low and warm, like he knew exactly what I meant. “Let’s hope not. I left my firefighting charms in my other cloak.”

That got a real smile out of me, however brief.

Then he reached out and gave my shoulder a firm squeeze. Not the sort of pat people give when they’re trying to be nice but haven’t a clue what you need—it was grounding. Steadying. The kind of gesture that reminded you where your feet were and that someone was standing beside you.

“We’ll be fine, Harry,” he said. “Trust me.”

And oddly—or maybe not so oddly—I did.

So we walked forward, side by side, through the looming black gates of Hogwarts. And the second we passed beneath the archway, the air changed.

It was like flipping a switch.

One moment we were two figures in a crowd. The next, the crowd wasn’t a crowd anymore. It was a ring of eyes, turned our way, watching.

Conversations died in half-finished words. Laughter stuttered out mid-breath. The students ahead of us slowed, parted, and cleared a path—not out of politeness, but out of a sort of stunned curiosity. As if Remus and I had stepped out of the wrong story and wandered into theirs.

I tried to keep my expression neutral, my pace even. Inside, I wanted to sink into the floor and vanish through the flagstones.

My face burnt. Ears, too. It felt as though someone had lit a pair of candles under them.

If I’d fancied this much attention, I’d have marched in wearing dragon-skin boots and juggled Bludgers.

“Is this… normal?” I muttered under my breath, leaning just slightly towards Remus.

“Not in the slightest,” he murmured back, mouth twitching. “But you’ll get used to it. Or you’ll learn to ignore it. Either way, it stops mattering.”

Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the Boy Who Lived. He was the Man With a Satchel and a Timetable.

Still, I kept walking.

One foot. Then the other. Not fast. Not slow. Just enough to remind myself that I could move—that this wasn’t another dream where my legs wouldn’t work or where the walls kept shifting whenever I turned my head.

I didn’t know what was waiting for me inside the castle, but something in my chest, quiet and stubborn, told me this was the right direction. That forward was the only way.

The corridors twisted inward, dim and echoing with the scrape of footsteps and the low hum of magic. I caught glimpses of staircases that didn’t seem to agree with the laws of architecture, portraits that whispered as we passed, and suits of armour that gave the distinct impression they were eavesdropping.

Eventually, we stopped in front of a wooden door. It was tall and plain, but the silence behind it felt heavy, like whatever was waiting inside had been standing very still for a very long time.

Remus gave a short knock and pushed it open.

The room we stepped into was softly lit, as though the torches themselves had been told to behave. Firelight danced gently across the polished floor, and the high ceiling arched above like it belonged to a cathedral, or maybe a very posh library. Everything smelt faintly of beeswax, lavender, and what I suspected might’ve been industrial-strength cleaning charms.

Standing at the far end was a woman who didn’t just stand—she commanded the space around her. Her robes were deep green, her posture immaculate, and her dark hair was pulled so tightly into a bun I wouldn’t have been surprised if it could deflect minor hexes.

She didn’t say a word, but her eyebrows did. They swept upward in such perfect disapproval that I nearly straightened my tie out of sheer instinct.

But this woman wasn’t just sniffing at someone else’s standards. She was the standard.

Remus stepped forward with the quiet, unruffled confidence of someone who’d done this sort of thing before—and not just managed it, but done it well. He smiled, the expression warm and open, carrying a bit of brightness into the stillness of the room.

“Good evening, Minerva,” he said, cheerfully—the kind of cheer that didn’t sound forced, just familiar. Like someone greeting an old friend, not a stern professor known for turning first-years into ferrets if they so much as sneezed during roll call.

She gave him a short, curt nod. Not unkind, but clipped, precise. Everything about her was like that: her posture, her robes, even the way her wand hand seemed to rest just slightly too near her sleeve, as though she never quite let her guard down. But still—there was something in her eyes. A flicker. Not quite a smile, not quite softness, but… something human.

Remus turned back to me then, laying a hand on my shoulder—not heavy, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone in the room.

“Harry,” he said quietly, “this is Professor Minerva McGonagall. She teaches Transfiguration—one of the more complicated branches of magic, so naturally, she’s the best in the country.”

That earned him a very faint, very dry look from the professor, but she said nothing—which I figured meant she didn’t entirely disagree.

I stepped forward before I could talk myself out of it. My palms were clammy—brilliant—but I extended one anyway, hoping I looked at least moderately composed and not like a lost child trying to shake hands with a living legend.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor McGonagall,” I said, and to my own surprise, my voice held steady. Polite. Not too squeaky. Almost confident, if you squinted.

She took my hand without hesitation—a firm, precise grip—and offered a smile. Not a wide one, not flashy, but real. Measured. Enough to let you know you’d done all right so far.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr Potter,” she said, in her clipped Scottish lilt. “I daresay you’ll find your time here rather eventful. There’s rarely a dull hour, let alone a dull day.”

I gave a nod. I wasn’t sure if I should be reassured or alarmed. ‘Eventful’ sounded dangerously close to ‘potentially fatal’ when said in that particular tone. Then again, with everything I’d just left behind, maybe ‘eventful’ was the best I could hope for.

“Thank you, Professor,” I said, before I could overthink it. “I’ll do my best not to accidentally turn anyone into a toad.”

McGonagall’s brow arched—just slightly—and something in her eyes glinted. It might have been amusement. It might’ve been a warning. Hard to say with her.

Remus, on the other hand, gave a soft laugh beside me. “Aim higher, Harry. At least a badger. Or a peacock, if you’re feeling ambitious.”

That made McGonagall let out a sound that might’ve been a chuckle—dry as dust and over before it had fully formed. But it was there, and I counted it as a win.

She turned back to Remus then, and her expression shifted—not warmer, exactly, but… fuller. Less of the formality. More of the woman beneath it.

“And welcome back, Remus,” she said, and this time, her voice dipped slightly—not in volume, but in tone. “It’s good to have you on staff again.”

It was the way she said it that caught me. Not just words. There was something else there—the sense that things hadn’t always been so simple. That the welcome had once come with hesitation or resistance. I didn’t know the story, but I could feel it brushing at the edges of the room.

Remus inclined his head, a flicker of emotion—gratitude, maybe, or relief—passing across his face.

“Thank you, Minerva. It really is good to be back. Feels a bit like… well. Like coming home, if I’m honest.”

There was a pause then. A quiet sort of silence, not heavy, but full. Full of the past, maybe. Full of things neither of them said aloud.

I stood very still, not wanting to break it. Not wanting to interrupt whatever long memory was being honoured between them.

Instead, I let my gaze wander. The room was tidy to the point of being unsettling. A single, high-backed chair stood in the corner, stiff and uninviting. The desk was covered in neat piles of parchment, with ink bottles arranged in a perfect row. A shelf behind it held books whose titles looked terrifying, and a row of teacups that—if I wasn’t imagining it—seemed to be standing to attention.

Even the crockery at this school had better manners than I did.

McGonagall turned her attention back to me.

“You’ll begin classes with the other students tomorrow,” she said, voice brisk again. “You’ve been placed in the same year as your age group, though naturally, allowances will be made while you catch up. There’s no need to worry about being dropped into the deep end unprepared.”

She paused, then added, as if on second thought, “And should you fall into the deep end, Mr Potter, rest assured someone will be on hand to fish you out again.”

That time, I was sure it was a joke.

I blinked—then gave a small smile. “That’s reassuring. I’ll try not to need rescuing… though I make no promises.”

The corner of her mouth twitched—barely—and she gave a small nod.

“Well,” she said, her tone sharpening into something final. “I’ll leave you both to settle in. There’s a great deal ahead of you, Mr Potter. But I expect you’ll find your place here soon enough.”

And then, just before she turned away, she said one last thing—quieter, almost gently.

“You’re among friends here.”

That sentence struck something in me—something sore and waiting. It wasn’t quite a promise. But it was close enough to hope.

“Thank you, Professor,” I said, and meant it.

She nodded once more and swept from the room, her robes trailing behind her with that same perfect precision, leaving behind a silence that somehow still felt full of presence.

The door clicked shut.

For a moment, neither Remus nor I said anything.

Then he gave my shoulder another light squeeze, and I turned to follow him back out into the corridor—and though the castle still felt enormous and unfamiliar and brimming with things I didn’t yet understand, I found myself standing a little straighter.

Not quite confident. But maybe close enough to pass for it.

The castle was quiet.

Not silent, exactly—there was always some sound: the far-off rumble of footsteps, the creak of shifting portraits, the soft hum of magic that seemed to hang in the very walls—but it was quieter. More watchful. As though the building itself were aware something was out of place.

Which, I suppose, I was.

Remus led the way through corridors that twisted in impossible directions, flickering torchlight casting our shadows into strange, angular shapes on the ancient stone. I tried not to stare too long at anything that moved. A staircase rearranged itself with an annoyed groan just as we reached it, and I couldn’t help a glance at Remus, who simply raised an eyebrow.

“Still temperamental,” he said mildly. “You’d think the years might’ve mellowed them out.”

I gave a weak sort of smile. “You’d think magic staircases might have better manners.”

That earned a quiet laugh, and I felt a flicker of something close to relief. If Remus was laughing, maybe I wasn’t completely out of my depth.

Still, every step we took deeper into the heart of the castle made my shoulders inch higher, my nerves twisting tighter. Not because I didn’t want to be here—I did, more than I’d wanted anything in a long time—but because there was still a part of me that couldn’t quite believe I was allowed to want it.

Because this wasn’t just any school.

This was Hogwarts.

And now, I was about to be sorted.

At seventeen.

Brilliant.

We climbed a spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever—up, and up, and up—until I felt slightly winded, though I tried not to show it. At the top, we stopped before a large, solid oak door with an ornate griffin-shaped knocker in the centre.

Remus turned to me, his expression suddenly a little more serious.

“All right?” he asked, quietly.

I nodded—though I wasn’t entirely sure I was.

“Dumbledore doesn’t bite,” he added, lips twitching.

“I’d be more worried about the hat,” I muttered.

This time, he didn’t laugh. Just gave me a look—one part encouragement, one part pride—and knocked.

The door swung open of its own accord.

Inside, the headmaster’s office was just as strange and wonderful as I’d imagined. Shelves bowed beneath the weight of books and magical artefacts, many of which looked like they might explode if you asked them the time. Several telescopes pointed at absolutely nothing in particular. A large desk sat near the far window, utterly chaotic and yet somehow elegant. The walls were lined with portraits—all of whom were pretending to sleep, but I could feel them watching.

And at the very centre of it all, seated in a high-backed chair behind his desk, was Professor Albus Dumbledore.

He looked up at us with that calm, blue-eyed gaze that seemed to see everything at once. His beard shimmered faintly in the firelight, and his expression was unreadable—not cold, not stern, but… measured.

“Harry,” he said simply. “Do come in.”

My feet moved before my brain caught up. I stepped forward, trying to ignore the way my heart was hammering in my chest, and Remus gently closed the door behind me, though he remained just inside, hovering like a silent shield.

Dumbledore gestured toward a squat, three-legged stool that looked entirely out of place in the grandeur of the room. Sitting atop it was the Sorting Hat.

Remus had told me all about it, and whether I’d like to admit it or not, I’d seen it in my dream—or a nightmare, depending on how you looked at it. I remembered the way it had sung, the odd, scratchy voice, the feel of it settling over my head. I hadn’t expected to meet it like this.

“It’s rare,” Dumbledore said quietly, as if reading my mind, “but not unheard of to be sorted at your age. Given your unique circumstances, I felt it only right to let the Hat decide where you belong. Hogwarts is not just walls and towers, Harry. It is home. And everyone must find their place in it.”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

Then I stepped toward the stool, sat down—knees awkwardly bent, trying not to look like I was about to bolt—and lifted the Hat onto my head.

It slid down over my eyes, darkening the room.

For a long moment, there was nothing.

Then—

“Well, well, well.”

The voice crackled to life in my ear, dry as old parchment and just as amused.

“This is not something I see every day. You’re a complicated one, Potter.”

I held still, not daring to speak.

“Bravery, certainly—plenty of that. Loyalty, yes, stubborn as they come. Clever enough, though you don’t always give yourself credit. And ambition… oh, you try to bury it, but I see it. You want to make a difference. You need to.”

I said nothing. I didn’t know if I was meant to answer—or if it would even listen.

“But this isn’t about potential, is it?” the Hat went on. “You’ve already been shaped. Scarred. Not just by dark magic, but by people. Loss. Loneliness. A hunger to be known for something more than survival.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard.

“Still, there’s something else here now. A quiet sort of strength. Not loud, not flashy. But steady. Determined. And good. Oh yes. Quite good.”

There was a pause. Then the voice softened—just slightly.

“It’s clear where you belong. You were always meant for—”

“Gryffindor!”

The word rang out, echoing through the room.

The hat was lifted off my head before I could even fully register it. I blinked against the sudden light and saw Dumbledore smiling—not broadly, but gently. Kindly.

Remus gave a low breath behind me, as if he’d been holding it the whole time.

“Gryffindor,” Dumbledore said, nodding once. “Yes. Just as I thought.”

He motioned toward a small box on his desk, which opened of its own accord. Inside was a silver badge—not a prefect badge, but a standard House crest—the Gryffindor lion gleaming proudly in red and gold.

Dumbledore picked it up and held it out.

“Welcome home, Mr Potter.”

And this time, I believed him.

I took the badge in trembling fingers, my throat thick, and nodded.

“Thank you, sir,” I managed.

Remus clapped me lightly on the back. “Told you the hat had good taste.”

I smiled, and together we left the office, stepping out into the corridor and into whatever came next.

Remus didn’t waste time. He gave me a tight smile and gestured for me to follow. I was glad to get moving—sitting still had only made the nerves worse—but I hadn’t expected the castle to feel quite so enormous. Or alive.

“Right,” he said briskly as we stepped into the corridor. “Let’s get you a lay of the land before the place starts shifting again.”

I wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.

The walls around us were stone—old and uneven, lit by floating torches that flickered just enough to make shadows dance in the corners. Every so often, a portrait would glance down at us, eyes following with lazy interest. Some even whispered. I did my best not to stare back. I had the oddest sensation I was being measured—not cruelly, just… curiously.

“You’ll find Hogwarts has a mind of its own,” Remus said as we climbed a narrow staircase that curved sharply to the right. “Corridors move. Staircases change their minds. Don’t panic. Everyone gets lost their first week.”

I nodded, though that wasn’t especially reassuring. I was already lost. Every turn looked the same to me—arched doorways, high windows, and long tapestries showing wizards duelling or dancing or occasionally being eaten by large, magical plants.

We stopped outside a set of enormous wooden doors, carved with runes and the school crest. I recognised the lion and the badger, at least. The other two—a snake and a bird—I could only guess at.

“This is the Great Hall,” said Remus, pushing the doors open with both hands.

The room inside made me stop walking altogether.

It was cavernous. The ceiling stretched up and up, painted—or enchanted, maybe—to reflect the outside sky. Sunset was bleeding into dusk above us, clouds bruised and golden. Long tables ran the length of the hall, polished so finely I could see the candlelight ripple across them. A high table stood at the far end, raised on a dais. I assumed that was where the teachers sat. Thrones for wizards.

“Meals are taken here,” said Remus, clearly used to the reaction. “Also school events, exams, assemblies, sorting ceremonies—that sort of thing. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

I wasn’t so sure.

He led me away before I could ask whether the ceiling was always like that.

“The classrooms are spread all over the castle,” he went on, moving at a pace that made me half-jog to keep up. “Charms is taught by Professor Flitwick—he’s small, but don’t let that fool you. Sharp as anything. You know the basics already, even some advanced charms, so I think you’re up to speed.”

I nodded mutely. I wasn’t even sure what Charms really meant. Spells? Incantations? Was there a difference?

He gestured to a tall door on the left. “Transfiguration—Professor McGonagall’s class. It’s not easy. I bet she won’t go easy on you.”

Another turn. Another staircase.

“Potions are taught down in the dungeons—a chilly place, damp too. Just don’t touch anything in the supply cupboard unless you like unexpected growths.”

We passed a tapestry of a wizard in heavy robes teaching goblins how to waltz.

“History of Magic is upstairs. Boring but required. Try not to fall asleep. The professor’s a ghost.”

“Sorry—a ghost?” I said, turning to stare at him.

Remus gave a small shrug. “He died a century ago. Didn’t let it stop him.”

I blinked.

He pointed out the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, which—thankfully—would be his this year, and then the library, hidden behind carved double doors that loomed larger than most shopfronts I’d seen.

“You’ll be in there often,” he said. “Madam Pince runs it. Don’t upset her. She’s protective of her books.”

That much I could understand. I was protective of the few I had, too.

He kept moving, and I followed—down another staircase, through a passage behind a statue of a one-eyed witch, past a group of third-years struggling to convince a painting to let them into their common room.

“Each House has its own dormitories and common room,” Remus explained. “You’re in Gryffindor. The password’s Flarewood, but it’ll change every week. The Fat Lady’s portrait guards the entrance. She sings sometimes. Badly.”

I must have looked even more bewildered than I felt, because he paused then, watching me closely.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” he said gently. “Give it time. Hogwarts is strange, but it makes room for people. Even when it doesn’t seem like it.”

I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak.

We stepped outside for the last stretch of the tour. The grounds opened up before us, wide and rolling, ringed by forest and water and sky. Everything smelt of grass and twilight and something that buzzed faintly with magic.

Remus pointed toward a distant pitch marked with tall golden hoops. “Quidditch pitch. Broom sports. Dangerous, but people love it.”

I didn’t say anything. I’d never flown before.

He gestured to the dark treeline. “That’s the Forbidden Forest. The name says it all.”

Beyond the trees, the Black Lake shimmered. I could just make out a flicker of something beneath the surface—a tail? A fin?

“And over there,” he added, “is the Owlery. Top of the west turret. If you need to send a letter.”

There was more, apparently—a greenhouse where Herbology lessons took place, a Room of Requirement that only appeared when needed, which sounded absurd, and a Hospital Wing for accidents—“which will happen,” he added cheerfully.

It was all too much. Too big. Too strange. Too full of rules I hadn’t learnt and names I couldn’t keep track of. My head felt full and hollow at the same time.

Eventually, we circled back toward the Entrance Hall.

Remus glanced at his watch and let out a low sigh. “I’ve got a staff meeting in five minutes—you’ll be all right on your own?”

I hesitated. Part of me wanted to say no. Wanted to ask if he could walk me through it all again—slower this time, with maps and labels and pauses where I could breathe.

But I was seventeen, not seven. And I didn’t want Remus worrying when he had his own world to manage.

So I gave him a wan smile, hoping it looked steadier than I felt.

“Yeah. I’ll manage.”

He searched my face for a moment longer, then nodded. “If you need anything—anything—my office is on the second floor. The staff room’s near the Defence corridor, behind the portrait with too many keys. Don’t be afraid to ask.”

“I won’t,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed myself.

He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze and disappeared up the nearest staircase.

And just like that, I was alone in the entrance hall of a castle that didn’t know me.

I took a breath, then another.

And then I picked a direction and started walking.