The journey to Platform 9¾ was a procession befitting the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. We arrived by enchanted carriage—a sleek black conveyance pulled by creatures visible only to those who had witnessed death. In my case, memories of a previous life's end qualified me to see the thestrals, their leathery wings folded against skeletal bodies as they trotted through London streets, unnoticed by Muggles.
Father had insisted on a full family escort. "A Black son departing for Hogwarts is a significant occasion," he'd declared at breakfast. I suspected the display was less about celebrating my milestone and more about reminding wizarding society of our family's position.
As we crossed the barrier onto Platform 9¾, I felt the familiar tingle of magic wash over me. The platform bustled with activity—tearful goodbyes, excited reunions, owls hooting indignantly in their cages. The scarlet Hogwarts Express belched steam, momentarily obscuring the crowd.
"Remember who you are," Mother murmured, adjusting my perfectly straight collar. Her touch was light, almost imperceptible, but her eyes held an intensity that brooked no argument. "You carry our name, our legacy."
"I will bring honor to the House of Black," I recited, the words hollow in my mouth yet necessary for the performance.
Narcissa, the only one of my sisters still at Hogwarts, stood slightly apart from our parents. As a fifth-year prefect, she'd need to attend the prefects' meeting once the train departed. Her pale blonde hair was pulled back in an elegant twist, her Slytherin tie already perfectly knotted.
"I'll save you a seat in the common room after the feast," she said, her public coolness belied by the gentle squeeze she gave my shoulder. "The firsties usually need a proper introduction to Slytherin traditions."
I nodded, grateful for her small kindness. Of all my sisters, Narcissa best understood the delicate balance of upholding family expectations while maintaining one's sanity.
"Speaking of tradition," Father said, his voice dropping to ensure privacy, "remember what we discussed about your wand."
The Serpent's Fang, secured in its holster beneath my sleeve, seemed to warm at the mention. In the three weeks since receiving it, I'd practiced basic spells in the privacy of our ancestral home, where the Ministry's Trace couldn't penetrate the ancient wards. The wand performed magnificently—almost too well, turning simple levitation charms into displays of power that sent objects shooting toward the ceiling.
"I understand, Father. Its nature remains private."
He nodded approvingly. "Your grandfather's wand choosing you is significant. Some may ask questions. You will simply say you visited Ollivander's like everyone else."
The warning whistle blew, signaling five minutes until departure. Around us, families made their final goodbyes, the platform growing more chaotic.
"Ah, speaking of significance," Mother said, her gaze shifting behind me. "It appears we're not the only family marking an important departure today."
I turned to follow her line of sight and felt my heart stutter. Walking toward the train, accompanied by an entourage of house-elves carrying luggage, was a family I recognized instantly: Orion and Walburga Black, escorting their younger son to his first year at Hogwarts.
Regulus. My cousin. Which meant...
With absolute, crushing certainty, I finally knew my place in the timeline.
If Regulus was starting Hogwarts, then this was 1972. Sirius had been sorted into Gryffindor the previous year. Bellatrix had just graduated and would soon marry Rodolphus Lestrange. Andromeda had recently married Ted Tonks—a Muggle-born—and been blasted off the family tapestry. Narcissa was in her fifth year and likely already secretly corresponding with Lucius Malfoy.
More importantly, Voldemort's first rise to power was well underway. The wizarding war had begun. And somewhere out there, the Marauders were forming their legendary friendship.
The full weight of my knowledge settled on me like a physical burden. James and Lily Potter had perhaps six years to live. Regulus, the boy approaching us now, would die even sooner, drowned by Inferi in a cave after betraying Voldemort. And Sirius... Sirius would spend twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit.
Could I change any of it? Should I?
"Cousin," Regulus greeted me with the formal nod our families had drilled into us since infancy. At eleven, he was still soft-featured, lacking the gaunt handsomeness that would mark him as Sirius's brother in later years. "It seems we'll be year-mates."
"Regulus," I returned with equal formality, though I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and warn him of the future awaiting him. "I look forward to sharing a dormitory."
His eyes brightened slightly at that. "You're certain of Slytherin, then?"
Before I could answer, Uncle Orion interjected, "Of course he is. Corvus knows where he belongs, unlike some." The bitterness in his voice made clear the wound of Sirius's sorting remained fresh.
"Speaking of belonging," my father said smoothly, "I trust Walburga and Orion have impressed upon you the importance of upholding family traditions, Regulus. After last year's... disappointment."
Regulus straightened his already rigid posture. "I understand my duty to the family, Uncle Cygnus."
The poor boy. So desperate to please, so determined to compensate for his brother's perceived betrayal. I knew his fate—how he would eventually rebel against Voldemort in his own way, sacrificing his life to weaken the Dark Lord. Looking at him now, it was hard to imagine this proper, rule-following child would find such courage.
The final whistle blew. Narcissa touched my arm. "We should board."
Farewells were exchanged with the minimal physical affection typical of our family—brief embraces from our mother, formal handshakes from our father. As Regulus and I followed Narcissa toward the train, I heard Uncle Orion's parting words to his son: "Remember, the heir now falls to you."
No pressure, I thought wryly, watching Regulus's shoulders stiffen further.
The Hogwarts Express was exactly as described in the books—carriages lined with compartments, corridors filled with excited students reuniting after summer holidays. Narcissa directed us to a compartment occupied by several Slytherin first-years whose families moved in the same pure-blood circles as ours.
"I need to attend the prefects' meeting," she told me. "Stay with these compartment-mates. They're appropriate company." Her emphasis on 'appropriate' made clear what she meant: pure-bloods or acceptable half-bloods, no Muggle-borns or blood traitors.
As she departed, I surveyed my traveling companions. Regulus had taken a window seat and was staring out at the platform where our families still stood, watching the train. Beside him sat Evan Rosier, a boy with sharp features who would grow up to become a Death Eater, killed by Aurors during the first war.
Across from them were two girls I recognized from various pure-blood gatherings: Emma Vanity, who would later captain the Slytherin Quidditch team, and Lucinda Talkalot, another future Quidditch player. Both came from families with less extreme views than the Blacks but still firmly entrenched in pure-blood society.
The final occupant was unfamiliar to me—a thin boy with sandy hair who looked decidedly uncomfortable among the pure-blood elite.
"Corvus Black," I introduced myself, taking the seat beside the unknown boy. "Heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."
Formal introductions were customary in our circles, though I deliberately softened my tone to sound less pretentious than my father would have preferred.
The thin boy startled slightly. "Barty Crouch Junior," he said, his voice carrying a nervous quaver. "Pleased to meet you."
I nearly choked. Barty Crouch Jr.—the Death Eater who would impersonate Mad-Eye Moody and help resurrect Voldemort. Here, now, just an anxious eleven-year-old trying to fit in.
Rosier raised an eyebrow. "Crouch? As in Bartemius Crouch from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement?"
Barty nodded, his discomfort visibly increasing. "My father, yes."
"Interesting," Rosier said, his tone suggesting it was anything but pleasant. "I've heard him speak rather... unfavorably about many of our families."
Crouch Senior's crusade against dark wizards would eventually lead him to authorize Aurors to use Unforgivable Curses and send suspects to Azkaban without trials. He was no friend to families like the Blacks, Rosiers, or Malfoys.
"I'm not my father," Barty said, a flash of defiance cutting through his anxiety.
How true that would prove to be. In my knowledge of the future, Barty would reject his father's principles so thoroughly that he'd become one of Voldemort's most devoted followers. The irony wasn't lost on me.
"Family isn't everything," I said carefully, earning surprised looks from the others. "It's influence and power that matter most." A statement ambiguous enough to please my pure-blood companions while offering Barty an olive branch.
The tension eased slightly as the train pulled out of the station. Conversation turned to the upcoming sorting and subject preferences. I participated minimally, my mind racing with the implications of my situation. Every compartment potentially held people whose futures I knew—people who would become heroes or villains, victims or survivors.
When the trolley witch arrived, I purchased chocolate frogs for everyone, partly as a goodwill gesture and partly because I was curious about which cards I might receive. My own revealed Salazar Slytherin, which Rosier declared "a good omen" for my sorting.
Midway through the journey, our compartment door slid open to reveal a tall boy with platinum blonde hair and a prefect badge gleaming on his chest.
"Ah, the newest Blacks," Lucius Malfoy said, his drawling voice already perfected at seventeen. "I promised Narcissa I'd check on you both."
Regulus straightened in his seat. "Thank you, but we're quite alright."
Malfoy's eyes settled on me, studying with unconcealed interest. "Corvus Black. I've heard interesting things about you."
"All favorable, I hope," I replied, meeting his gaze steadily.
A small smile played at his lips. "Your father mentioned you've shown... unusual aptitude for certain branches of magic. I look forward to seeing your talents develop in Slytherin." His emphasis suggested he knew about The Serpent's Fang and its properties.
"I appreciate your interest," I said neutrally.
Malfoy nodded, satisfied with our exchange. "If any of you require assistance," he addressed the compartment at large, though his gaze lingered on Barty with slight disdain, "do seek out a Slytherin prefect."
After he departed, Rosier let out a low whistle. "Malfoy never checks on first-years. Your sister must have significant influence with him, Black."
I shrugged, unwilling to discuss Narcissa's budding relationship with the future Death Eater. "Familial connections have their uses."
The conversation drifted to Quidditch teams and summer holidays, with Regulus gradually becoming more animated as he described the professional match our uncle had taken him to see. I observed more than participated, cataloging details about my companions—Rosier's casual cruelty, Emma's sharp intelligence, Lucinda's diplomatic nature, Barty's desperate desire for acceptance.
By the time the train began slowing for our arrival at Hogsmeade Station, I had developed a clearer picture of my immediate peer group and the challenges ahead. I would be surrounded by future Death Eaters, in a house known for its dark inclinations, during the early years of Voldemort's first rise.
"First-years!" Hagrid's booming voice called as we disembarked, his massive form illuminated by a lantern that seemed toy-sized in his hand. "First-years, this way!"
Regulus stiffened beside me. "Is that... a giant?"
"Half-giant," I corrected automatically, then silently cursed my slip. That wasn't common knowledge yet. "I believe he's the gamekeeper," I added smoothly.
We followed Hagrid to the boats that would carry us across the Black Lake. I ended up sharing with Regulus, Barty, and a quiet girl named Helena Hodge who hadn't been in our compartment.
"They say there's a giant squid in the lake," Barty said, peering nervously over the edge of our boat.
"Among other things," I murmured, thinking of the merpeople, grindylows, and other creatures inhabiting the lake's depths.
As our flotilla of boats rounded the bend, Hogwarts Castle came into view, majestic against the night sky, windows glowing with warm light. Despite everything—the complications of my rebirth, the dangerous times ahead, the web of fate I was now entangled in—I felt a surge of wonder.
Hogwarts. Real, not fictional. And for the next seven years, my home.
The Great Hall exceeded my expectations. Thousands of candles floated beneath the enchanted ceiling, which perfectly mirrored the clear night sky outside. Four long tables stretched the length of the hall, packed with students in black robes distinguished by house-colored ties and accents.
At the front, the staff table formed a crescent where familiar faces from the books sat in the flesh—a much younger Dumbledore with auburn still streaking his silver beard; McGonagall, stern but less lined; tiny Professor Flitwick; a middle-aged woman who must be Sprout; and others I recognized with a surreal sense of déjà vu.
But it was the student tables that truly captured my attention, particularly Gryffindor, where four specific students sat together midway down: James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew—the Marauders, already inseparable in their second year. Sirius was laughing at something James had said, his head thrown back in the carefree manner so at odds with the haunted man he would become after Azkaban.
My cousin. The wrongly accused. The escapee who would die protecting Harry.
His gaze suddenly met mine across the hall, and his laughter faltered. For a moment, something unspoken passed between us—recognition, perhaps, or the shared blood of the House of Black. Then James nudged him, breaking the connection as McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat on its stool.
The hat's song echoed themes familiar from the books—unity, division, the qualities of each house. I listened with half an ear, my mind racing with possibilities. The Sorting Hat would see everything—my past life, my knowledge of the future, my complicated relationship with the legacy I'd been born into.
Would it honor my family's expectations and place me in Slytherin? Or would it see something else in me?
"When I call your name," McGonagall announced, "you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted."
The first few students were distributed among the houses with applause greeting each announcement. Barty Crouch Jr. was called early and sat trembling beneath the hat for nearly two minutes before it declared "SLYTHERIN!" to polite applause from the green-and-silver table.
Interesting. In my timeline knowledge, Barty had been a Ravenclaw. Had my presence already caused ripples of change?
"Black, Corvus!"
The hall quieted slightly. Two Blacks sorted in consecutive years was noteworthy, especially after Sirius's unexpected placement in Gryffindor. I walked to the stool with the measured pace I'd been taught since childhood, feeling hundreds of eyes upon me.
As the hat dropped over my eyes, I was plunged into darkness and silence.
"Well, well," a small voice spoke in my ear. "What have we here? Another Black, yes, but oh my... what an extraordinary mind. Two lives intertwined, knowledge you shouldn't possess, and secrets that could reshape destinies."
You see everything, then, I thought.
"Indeed. I see your previous existence, your awareness of events yet to come, your fear and ambition and courage. Most unusual. Most complex."
Where do I belong?
"That is the question, isn't it? Your family expects Slytherin, of course. And you have cunning and ambition in abundance—a desire to change the course of history, to save those you know are doomed. That requires great ambition indeed."
The hat fell silent for a moment, considering.
"Yet I also see tremendous courage in you. The willingness to stand against a tide of darkness, perhaps even against your own family. Gryffindor could help you develop that bravery."
Like Sirius, I thought, and felt the hat's agreement.
"Your intellect is formidable as well. Knowledge from two lifetimes, analytical and sharp. Ravenclaw would nurture that brilliance."
It paused again, delving deeper.
"And such loyalty to ideals and people you've never even met in this life—a willingness to protect those who don't yet know they need protection. Hufflepuff values that deep dedication."
You're saying I could fit anywhere, I realized.
"Few students truly could. But you, with your unique circumstance... yes. You could thrive in any house, though each would shape your destiny differently."
I considered what that meant. In Gryffindor, I might befriend the Marauders, perhaps prevent Pettigrew's betrayal. In Ravenclaw, I could focus on acquiring knowledge to defeat Voldemort. In Hufflepuff, I might form alliances across house lines, building networks of trust.
But in Slytherin, I would be positioned at the epicenter of the coming darkness. I would witness the recruitment of Death Eaters firsthand, possibly influence those on the fence, and gain insights into Voldemort's operations that Harry Potter never had access to in the original timeline.
Slytherin, I decided. I can do the most good from inside the serpent's den.
"Are you certain? It is the most dangerous path for one with your knowledge."
I'm certain. Place me where I can change the most fates.
"Very well. With that motivation, it must be SLYTHERIN!"
The hat shouted the last word to the hall. As it was lifted from my head, I saw the Slytherin table erupting in applause, Narcissa's face showing visible relief. Across the hall, Sirius watched with an unreadable expression, neither disappointed nor surprised.
I made my way to the Slytherin table, where Lucius Malfoy had cleared a space beside him—a significant honor for a first-year and a clear message about my status. As I sat, he clapped a hand on my shoulder.
"Welcome to where you belong, Black," he said, his voice carrying just far enough for nearby housemates to hear. "Slytherin will help you achieve greatness."
Regulus joined me shortly after, the hat barely touching his head before declaring him a Slytherin. The relief on his face was palpable as he took his place beside me, shoulders finally relaxing from their rigid set.
"We did it," he whispered. "We upheld the family honor."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The irony crushed me—I knew Regulus would uphold a greater honor in the end, rejecting everything our family stood for to strike a blow against Voldemort, sacrificing his life in the process.
Could I save him? Should I? Or was his death necessary for Harry's eventual victory?
These questions haunted me through the remainder of the sorting, through Dumbledore's welcome speech with its subtle references to the growing darkness outside Hogwarts' walls, through the magnificent feast that appeared on golden plates.
As the prefects led us down to the dungeons afterward, I caught Sirius watching me from the grand staircase. He gave me a barely perceptible nod—acknowledgment, challenge, or warning, I couldn't tell.
The Slytherin common room spread before us, a long, low-ceilinged room with greenish lamps and carved chairs. Through the windows, the dark waters of the lake cast shifting patterns across the stone floors. Home for the next seven years.
"First-years, gather round," Lucius called, assuming the authority of Head Boy. "Welcome to Slytherin House, where you'll find your true friends and allies. We look after our own here."
As he continued outlining house rules and traditions, my hand unconsciously moved to my forearm where The Serpent's Fang rested in its holster. I had chosen this path, this house, this danger. Now I would need to navigate it without revealing what I knew while trying to subtly alter the course of a war already in motion.
Our dormitory was located down a corridor marked "First Years," a circular room with five four-poster beds hung with green velvet curtains. My trunk had been placed at the foot of a bed between Regulus's and Barty's, with Rosier and another boy, Augustus Rookwood, taking the remaining beds.
Three future Death Eaters as dormmates. One future hero who would die too young. And me, caught between knowledge of what would come and uncertainty about what my presence had already changed.
As I changed into pajamas, carefully placing The Serpent's Fang beneath my pillow, Rookwood commented on my wand.
"That doesn't look like Ollivander's work," he said, eyes shrewd. "Family heirloom?"
"Something like that," I replied vaguely. "It's been in the family for generations."
"My father says old wands have personalities," Barty interjected, seeming eager to contribute. "They remember their previous masters and carry their... tendencies."
How right he was. I'd felt The Serpent's Fang's inclinations during practice—its eagerness for combat spells, its resistance to healing magic, its affinity for transfiguration.
"Then Black's wand must have quite the dark history," Rosier said with a smirk. "The Noble and Most Ancient House specializes in certain branches of magic, after all."
"All magic is just power," I said, echoing my father's words but infusing them with my own meaning. "It's how we wield it that matters."
Regulus glanced at me with slight surprise, perhaps hearing an echo of Sirius in my philosophy. But he said nothing, already learning the Slytherin art of observation before action.
As we settled into our beds and the lamps dimmed, I stared up at the green canopy, listening to the lake water lapping against the windows. Somewhere above us, the Marauders were probably plotting their first prank of the term. Somewhere in Britain, Voldemort was gathering followers and power. And here I lay, an anomaly of fate, a soul with knowledge that could save lives or destroy the delicate web of events leading to Voldemort's eventual defeat.
Tomorrow, classes would begin. My education as a wizard—and my real work of navigating this dangerous timeline—would commence in earnest.
I closed my eyes, The Serpent's Fang a reassuring presence beneath my pillow, and dreamed of a chamber with towering serpentine statues, where a basilisk whispered warnings about meddling with fate.