Inside the castle, we were met by a tall, stern witch in emerald robes.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said. "The Sorting Ceremony will begin momentarily. While you wait, please remain quiet in this chamber."
We filed into the room, buzzing with nervous chatter.
"What's the Sorting Ceremony like?" Harry asked me nervously. "Are there tests? Spells? Dueling?"
I chuckled. "No, nothing like that. There's a Sorting Hat—an enchanted hat. You sit on a stool, it's placed on your head, and it decides which house fits you best."
"Oh," Harry breathed. "What if it doesn't choose?"
"It always does."
Just then, the doors opened, and we were led into the Great Hall. Thousands of candles floated in the air. The ceiling above mirrored the night sky, twinkling with stars.
A stool sat at the front of the hall, and on it, the tattered Sorting Hat. Professor McGonagall called the first name.
"Abbott, Hannah."
Hannah walked nervously to the front and was sorted into Hufflepuff. More names followed:
"Bones, Susan!" — Hufflepuff.
"Boot, Terry!" — Ravenclaw.
"Brown, Lavender!" — Gryffindor.
"Bulstrode, Millicent!" — Slytherin.
Then:
"Granger, Hermione!"
Hermione practically sprinted to the stool. The Sorting Hat barely touched her head before it shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"
She beamed as she joined the cheering table.
Next:
"Longbottom, Neville!"
It took nearly a minute, but finally, the hat declared, "GRYFFINDOR!"
Then came:
"Malfoy, Draco."
"SLYTHERIN!" the hat called almost immediately. Malfoy strutted over like he'd won a prize.
Then:
"Potter, Harry."
The hall fell silent. Harry walked slowly to the front. The Sorting Hat took a while, debating between Slytherin and Gryffindor. But in the end: "GRYFFINDOR!"
Harry looked visibly relieved.
"Whitmore, William!" Professor McGonagall called.
I approached the stool, calm but curious. The hat fell over my ears.
"Ah, another Whitmore," the Sorting Hat murmured in my mind. "Brave, clever, curious. A fine mind, a daring heart. Could do well in Ravenclaw... but no, I see your core. You belong in—GRYFFINDOR!"
I joined Harry, Hermione, and Neville with a quiet smile.
Finally:
"Weasley, Ronald."
I blinked. Ron! I'd forgotten about him entirely. He looked pale and nervous but walked up and was quickly sorted into Gryffindor.
Cheers erupted as the final student joined the table. Dumbledore rose and gave a short speech, the highlight being his odd farewell: "Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
The feast began and food appeared instantly. We laughed, talked, and stuffed ourselves. Ron talked about Fred and George's pranks, and Hermione began rattling off spells she'd read about.
Afterwards, Percy, the Gryffindor prefect, led us through the portrait of the Fat Lady and up winding staircases to our dormitory.
---
Inside the cozy room with its red hangings and four-poster beds, I finally lay down, the soft mattress a welcome relief after the whirlwind of the day. My eyes roamed the darkened ceiling above, barely lit by the moonlight slipping through the tall windows.
I thought of everything that had happened—meeting Harry, the boat ride across the lake, the floating candles, the Sorting Hat murmuring in my ear, and the feast that followed. Faces swirled in my mind: Hermione's eager eyes, Neville's quiet courage, and Ron's wide-eyed wonder as he was sorted into Gryffindor.
Then a thought struck me.
Ron. He was supposed to be the one Harry met on the train. The one who became his first friend. But I'd taken that place—unintentionally, but completely. I was the one who had sat across from Harry, who had laughed with him, calmed his nerves, stood up to Malfoy by his side. I was the one who found him, not Ron.
It should've been Ron. He and Harry were meant to be best friends. And now… I was.
The idea gnawed at me for a moment. I hadn't meant to rewrite the story, not from the very beginning. All I ever wanted was to live in this world, not reshape it.
But maybe, despite everything, I'd become part of it now.
I knew Ron, as an individual, might not have had the biggest role. But the Weasleys… they were central. Arthur, Molly, the twins, even Percy in his own way. And Ginny—Harry's future girlfriend, future wife—she was Ron's sister. Their connection mattered. It still does.
And yet, here I was.
Maybe I was overthinking it.
Maybe the story didn't have to stay exactly the same. Maybe it could shift, just a little. Or a lot. After all, wasn't that why I was here? To live this life. To experience magic, friendship, danger, and hope. To help defeat evil—not as a spectator, but as someone who stood beside them. Like those isekai stories I used to read—thrust into another world, not to replace, but to make a difference.
I shouldn't overthink it.
This world is beautiful. I have a loving family, something I never truly appreciated until now. I have friends. And tomorrow, I'll wake up in a castle full of magic.
So I'll live this life to the fullest—with joy, purpose, and heart.
With that thought, I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of my bed and the soft breath of my roommates lull me to sleep, as Hogwarts held its breath for the days to come.
---
"There, look."
"Where?"
"Next to the tall kid with the golden hair."
"Wearing glasses?"
"Did you see his face?"
"Did you see his scar?"
Whispers followed Harry the moment he stepped out of the dormitory the next morning. Everywhere we went—down the tower stairs, through the corridors, outside classrooms—students stared. Some craned their necks for a better view, while others doubled back just to get a second glance. The Boy Who Lived was now walking among them.
I could see the discomfort on Harry's face. He didn't like the attention, not one bit. By the time we reached the Great Hall for breakfast, he looked thoroughly fed up. That's when Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect, handed out our class schedules.
I studied my schedule briefly, then folded it neatly, storing it in my inner pocket. I already read more books and know more spell then any third year. I was thinking of continuing my 'secret lesson' in school too, but I can't just disappeare time to time without raising some suspicions and in presence of Dumbledore.. nah I can just stick to library this year.
As I skimmed over mine, I felt a quiet rush of excitement. Potions with the Slytherins, Transfiguration with Ravenclaw, Defense Against the Dark Arts with Hufflepuff, and so on. Despite already knowing most of the first three years material, I planned to play it low—no showing off. Just a clever, hard-working student. But even with that intent, nothing could quite prepare me for our first Potions class.
---
The dungeons were colder and damper than the rest of the castle. As we settled into our seats, a chill ran through the room.
"This classroom feels… kind of creepy," Ron muttered beside me.
"It's like it's holding its breath," Harry added quietly.
Then the door swung open, and in walked Professor Severus Snape.
He moved like a shadow, gliding across the room with purpose, his robes billowing behind him. He didn't raise his voice as he took roll call, but his tone carried an eerie authority. Then he paused.
"Ah.. yes ..Harry Potter... Our new—celebrity."
Snickers echoed from Malfoy's corner. I watched Snape closely, intrigued. His eyes were cold, black, like still water in a deep well. Yet despite that, there was something else—something restrained, held back, like a fire tightly caged.
Unlike the others, I didn't see a villain. I saw a man with secrets—guarded, sharp, and brilliant. And oddly, I respected him for it.
Snape closed the register and drifted to the front of the class. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper, yet the entire room fell silent.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
The room was entranced. His words weren't just instructions—they were an invitation, a challenge.
"I don't expect you will truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Hermione Granger was practically vibrating with eagerness. Her hand hovered inches from her quill, ready to write.
Then Snape turned, his voice slicing through the silence.
"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry blinked, then glanced at me, confused. Hermione's hand shot into the air.
"I—I don't know, sir," Harry said.
Snape's lips curled.
"Tut, tut. Fame clearly isn't everything."
He circled slowly.
"Let's try again. Where would you find a bezoar?"
Again, Hermione raised her hand high, while Harry hesitated. "I don't know, sir."
"And what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"I don't know that either," Harry admitted.
Hermione looked ready to explode.
"Why don't you ask Hermione?" Harry finally said, tilting his head toward her. "She clearly knows all the answers."
A few students tittered, but Snape only narrowed his eyes.
"For your information, Potter, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat. It will save you from most poisons. And monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite."
He paused.
"Well? Why aren't you all copying that down?"
The room erupted into motion—quills scratching against parchment, books flipping open.
"And five points will be taken from Gryffindor—for cheek,"
I frowned slightly at the injustice, but I didn't argue. As the class resumed, I watched Snape more closely. I could see the harshness in his manner, the biting sarcasm, but there was something deeper—pain, perhaps, cloaked beneath layers of cold detachment.
I knew who he truly was. I'd read the books, watched every sacrifice he made, saw the quiet strength in the shadows. Severus Snape wasn't the villain Harry believed him to be. He was the silent guardian who carried his guilt like armor, the man who stayed loyal to the memory of Lily Potter until his last breath.
He wasn't cruel for cruelty's sake. He was a broken man forced to watch the son of the woman he loved walk the corridors she once did, bearing the eyes that haunted him. I didn't like how he treated Harry—not one bit—but I understood it. The anger came from grief twisted by time.
He was on the right side. Always had been.
And I respected him for it.
---