The Great Hall looked exactly as I remembered from the books — and yet it felt entirely different.
The vaulted ceiling vanished into shadow, and the enchanted sky above mirrored the real night sky with eerie precision. Stars shimmered lazily overhead, and the four long house tables — Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin — waited for us first-years like something inevitable. Like judgment.
I wasn't nervous. But I could feel... tension. Not inside myself — in the very air. Threads of magic trembled faintly, as if the castle itself were preparing to judge each of us.
In the center of the room stood a stool.And on it — her.
The Sorting Hat.
Its magical lines weren't like those I saw in living beings. They were tangled. Ancient. Etched with runes and enchantments layered over centuries. But it was alive. Not like a person — more like the echo of a mind. Wisdom without time. A voice without form.
One by one, names were called.
When my turn came: "Peverell, Oliver."
The hall fell silent — but not still.
A few whispers. Some raised eyebrows. The name meant something — but only to a few. I wasn't a "Potter." I wasn't a symbol. Not a legend. To most, I was no one.
And that was fine. I sat on the stool. The Hat dropped over my head.
Silence.
But only outside. In my mind…
"So it's you… Peverell," the Hat whispered. Its voice was smooth, but carried the weight of centuries. "You're… interesting. So many contradictions in one mind."
I didn't reply. I knew I didn't need to.
"You'd do well in Ravenclaw… brilliant mind. Or Gryffindor — there's courage here, though not the reckless kind. Yours is colder. Sharper."
A pause.
"But that's not your path. You don't crave knowledge — you seek purpose. You plan. You think ahead. Coldly. Deliberately. You do not fear the dark — you understand it. You know when to stay silent, and when to strike."
And then—
"Slytherin!"
The word echoed across the hall.
I said nothing. I slid the hat off my head and stepped down from the stool.
No one at the Slytherin table welcomed me. One boy gave a small nod. A girl glanced my way and returned to her conversation. Draco Malfoy whispered something to Crabbe — never once looking at me. Perfect.
The Sorting continued. After each name, there was polite applause. No loud cheers. No warm welcomes. In Slytherin, names only mattered if they were already known.
I sat at the end of the table — far from Malfoy and his entourage. I didn't need them.
Instead of eating, I watched.
At the Gryffindor table, chaos reigned. Laughter. Fists pounding the table. Someone threw a pea. Fred and George Weasley — easy to spot. Identical, but distinct in movement. One had a cut on his chin. Typical.
Across from them sat Harry and Ron, deep in conversation. Hermione was further down, already absorbed in her booklist — which she probably knew by heart.
Ravenclaw was quiet, methodical. Students spoke in hushed tones, some flipping through notes — during the feast, seriously? One girl already had a telescope out, planning her next stargazing session. Their magic was cold. Precise. Like the gears of a clock.
Hufflepuff… was different. Smiles. Genuine joy. When a nervous girl was sorted into their house, they all burst into applause. It was... kind. Their magic felt warm. Gentle.
But I wondered — would warmth alone be enough in the real world?
I glanced up — toward the staff table.
Dumbledore sat in the center. His magic was strange — diffuse. Not linear. As if he was everywhere and nowhere at once. He smiled gently, but his eyes were sharp. Focused. I knew he was watching me. Not with suspicion — with curiosity. The threads of magic around him were unlike anything else. Fluid. Free. And terrifyingly deep.
Next to him sat Professor McGonagall — upright, focused. Her magic was clean, structured. Built from rules and expectations. She valued discipline — not only in others, but in herself.
Further down was Snape — a black void amid the others. His gaze swept across the hall like a blade through mist. When his eyes met mine — just for a second — I felt a soft pressure at my temples. He was probing.
And my eyes… they saw his magic.
Dense. Suppressed. Layered with warnings. A mind wrapped in danger.
One more figure caught my attention — nearly hidden behind a purple turban.
Professor Quirinus Quirrell.
In the books, he was comic relief. A stuttering coward, always apologizing for his own existence. But what I saw now, with eyes that pierced the veil, told me something different.
He wasn't just awkward.
His magic was twisted. Quiet — and doubled. As if something inside him didn't belong. The threads around his body were tangled, uncertain. One thread in particular was barely visible — but powerful. Heavy. Familiar.
The other teachers blurred into the background. For now.
But I wouldn't forget a single one of them.
After the feast, the prefects led us down into the dungeons. The corridors twisted like the veins of some ancient beast. The stone beneath our feet was cold, whispering.The magic down here was heavier. Harsher. More deliberate.
When we reached the Slytherin common room, I understood something immediately: This place did not welcome.
It tolerated.
It was beautiful — in a cold, distant way. Stone arches. Serpent carvings. Green-tinted light from underwater windows. The Black Lake pulsed beyond the glass, slow and full of quiet life. Shadows slid along the walls, as if even light didn't linger here.
But I wasn't afraid.
It felt… familiar.
The threads of magic curled beneath the ceiling like mist. They wrapped around chairs and shelves, steeped in old enchantments and even older expectations.
Even the echoes down here had heritage.
The room buzzed softly — students unpacking, trading quiet comments, whispering about classes, speculating who had Snape's personal favor. No one spoke to me.
That was fine.
I didn't seek company. If someone asked — I'd answer. If not — silence was welcome.
And then, before bed, he entered.
Snape.
He didn't say a word.
His black robes whispered across the floor like a second shadow. He moved among us, handing out schedules. When he reached me, he paused — just a fraction too long.
"Peverell," he murmured, tasting the name. "Interesting..."
And then he moved on.
That was all.
Tomorrow, the real lessons would begin.
I fell asleep quickly. Not because I was tired. But because I was ready.
I woke before dawn.
Not because of an alarm. Not out of nerves. It was simply... my rhythm. My discipline.
I threw off the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed. The Slytherin dormitory was soaked in twilight — a greenish, still light filtering in through the windows buried beneath the lake.
Everyone else was still asleep. Breathing evenly. Some snoring softly. For them, this was the first day of school. For me... it was the first step.
I stood, pulled on black trousers and a shirt, slipped on lightweight shoes over bare feet.I didn't need anything more.
I left the dormitory.
The dungeon corridors were cold and empty at this hour. Perfect.
I found a quiet spot on a lower level — where the stone was dry and the air less damp.
And I began. Push-ups. Twenty. Slow. Controlled.
Then squats. Side planks. A few sets of isometric holds. Finally: stretching.
This wasn't a warm-up. It was a ritual. A reminder to the body that weakness wasn't an option.
Because magic — no matter how powerful — won't save you if you lose your wand. And a wand can be taken.
My body was slim, but trained. Tight. Controlled. I didn't look impressive — but I didn't need to.
What mattered was readiness.
I breathed evenly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. My heart beat faster — but steadily.
Afterward, I returned to the dorm's bathroom. The marble floor chilled my feet. The shower was brief. Cold. Refreshing.
When I got back, the others were beginning to stir. Shuffling shoes. Yawns. The rustle of fabric. Their rhythm was late.
My day had already begun. I didn't speak to anyone. I grabbed my bag and left first.
The Great Hall
The Great Hall in the morning felt different than the night before. Quieter. Calmer.
Sunlight spilled through the eastern windows, casting long beams across the stone floor.The enchanted ceiling mirrored the pale sky above — soft clouds drifting slowly.
I sat at the end of the Slytherin table. There were still plenty of empty seats.
Plates appeared from thin air — breakfast served by magic: toast, eggs, porridge, roasted tomatoes, pumpkin juice.
I took only what I needed — a bit of porridge, half a slice of toast. I ate slowly. Deliberately.Not because I wasn't hungry. Just because eating was... a task. A function.
Around me, students murmured quietly, stealing glances at the Gryffindor table. Remembering faces from the night before. Mapping the social terrain.
I didn't join them. I watched.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley was already laughing. Loudly. Harry sat beside him, more reserved — unsure of himself. Hermione, unsurprisingly, was reading a parchment — during breakfast.
At Ravenclaw — focus. Students ate while talking quietly. A few had already opened books. During breakfast. Truly.
Hufflepuff was different. Lively. Cheerful.A girl with blonde braids passed cookies down the table — at breakfast. Their magic felt warmer. Softer. Pleasant. Like tea with honey.
And Slytherin?
Whispers. Measuring glances. Cold smiles — the kind that only lift one corner of the mouth.
I noticed that some avoided my eyes. Not because they didn't want to talk. But because they couldn't.
As if something in me made them look inward. And that was good. I finished my meal. Left nothing.
I stood up first.You don't show up late to Herbology.
Herbology
The Hogwarts greenhouses stood beyond the castle, past the gardens, on a slope above the lake. The air was humid — rich with the scent of damp earth. Filtered sunlight shimmered through fogged glass, falling over plants — some with teeth, thorns, or worse.
We gathered outside Greenhouse Three. The Slytherins stuck together. The Ravenclaws stood apart. Typical. You could already sense the rivalry. Quiet. But present.
Professor Sprout entered briskly — wearing gloves and an apron stained with soil, like she'd just wrestled something that bit back.
"Good morning, first-years!" she said cheerfully. "Today, we'll be getting to know... the Devil's Snare."
Someone near me gasped softly. A Ravenclaw boy — dark-skinned, sharp eyes. I'd learn later his name was Theodore.
We entered the greenhouse.
Plants. Dozens of them. In pots, crates, hanging from hooks. The air buzzed with magic — and I could see it.
Webs of energy. Some plants shimmered with their own threads — slick, restless, snake-like. Alive.
The Devil's Snare looked... unremarkable. Thick, dark green tendrils. But to my eyes, in the magical spectrum — it moved. Subtly. Like it was dancing with a shadow only it could see.
Professor Sprout explained its nature — its aversion to light, its instinct to constrict.
Then she asked: Why is it dangerous, even though it's not poisonous?
I raised my hand.
"Because it doesn't need poison," I said. "It acts fast. It strangles. There's no time to react."
She looked at me, a little surprised. Then nodded.
"Well said, Mr. Peverell. Very well said. Five points to Slytherin."
I didn't feel pride. Just... satisfaction at saying it correctly.
The rest of the class focused on identifying plant health. Some fumbled. One Slytherin nearly got grabbed by the Snare — he hadn't noticed the change in the tendrils. I had. I saw its intention a second before it moved.
At the end of the lesson, Professor Sprout handed each of us a small clay pot with a Floremental sprout — a magical plant that reacts to the holder's touch and emotions.
Mine didn't bloom. Didn't wither.
It just... trembled faintly in my hand. Still. Quiet.
"Very cold hands," Sprout said with a light chuckle.
I didn't respond.Sometimes, silence was better than a smile.
Magical Theory
After a short break — and a truly unpleasant lunch (pumpkin pudding should not exist) — we headed to Magical Theory.
The class was taught by Professor Babbling — a short, broad-shouldered witch with silver hair braided thick over her shoulder. Her voice was firm, oddly melodic — like every sentence had a ritual rhythm to it.
"Magic is a language, children," she said at the start. "But not one you speak. It's a language you feel. Today's lesson: the nature of intent."
I froze.
Intent.
In my previous life, fanfiction authors rarely understood it. But here, in reality — it was everything.
A spell wasn't just words and movement. It responded to tone. To thought. To truth.
Three words appeared on the blackboard:
Intention. Direction. Form.
Professor Babbling asked: How does a spell cast in anger differ from the same spell cast in defense?
I raised my hand. Second time today.
"The form doesn't change," I said. "But the effect might. Magic... chooses. It doesn't just follow."
She nodded slowly.
"Well put. That will be the subject of our next lesson."
Most of the Slytherins sat stiffly, scribbling notes. The Ravenclaws whispered — exchanging theories, citations. And me?
I watched the threads of magic in the room.
Every movement of Babbling's wand left echoes. Diagrams drawn on the board lingered in the air long after they were erased.
The classroom itself was alive.
After class, I returned to the common room. I had no friends.
But I had notes. And a book.