The train ride north was the calmest stretch of time I'd had in as long as I could remember. The hum of the Hogwarts Express was steady, almost hypnotic, the kind of sound that made you forget to brace for whatever came next.
Peace on the way to war always felt like a trick of the light, as though the calm itself were holding its breath.
Remus and I had managed to secure a compartment to ourselves, a small miracle, given the bustle on the platform earlier. When the door clicked shut, the chatter and footsteps in the corridor faded, leaving only us and the rhythm 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 taken the seat by the window without thinking, and now I sat watching the countryside roll past in waves of green and gold. Hedgerows blurred by, and every so often a lone tree would drift into view before vanishing behind us. The sky stretched wide and pale above, cloud-streaked but bright.
Remus had produced a stack of parchment and a few battered-looking books from his case and was scribbling away—lesson plans, he'd said. He chewed absently on the end of his quill whenever he paused, a faint crease forming between his brows as he reread what he'd written.
Every so often he'd glance up and share some quiet scrap of Hogwarts trivia, as though he couldn't help himself. It was as if the train 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 students come from families with long histories at Hogwarts. Some go back generations—grandparents, great-grandparents. They talk about corridors as if they've never really left them."
He wasn't saying it to boast or make me feel out of place. He was remembering something. Maybe someone. His voice carried that quiet ache I was starting to recognise, the kind that came from remembering a world that no longer existed.
I nodded slightly, pretending the thought didn't make my stomach twist. It had never really occurred to me that other students might arrive already knowing which common room their mum had fallen asleep in or which professor their dad had played pranks on during third year. I didn't even know how the Houses worked. I'd never been to a proper magical school. Everything I knew about Hogwarts came from second-hand lessons and whatever Remus dared to teach me in safe houses. There were a few books I'd never properly understood. Half of it read like someone describing a social club for ghosts.
Remus must have seen the hesitation flicker across my face, because he set down his quill.
"You don't need a family crest or a great-uncle who founded a House to belong at Hogwarts," he said, 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 there, 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 close to belief. "Thanks."
He smiled, satisfied, and picked up his quill again.
For a while, we travelled in companionable silence. I leaned back, letting my head rest against the seat. I wasn't tired exactly, just weary. There was still a tension wound tight beneath my skin, the sort that never faded with sleep. But here, it felt easier to let my guard drop, if only 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 actually 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, like a place ridiculous enough to be true.
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 shifted again. We were leaving the gentle hills behind, heading into wilder country now—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 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, painting the world in muted purples and soft greys. The sky above was streaked with the last light of day; not quite night yet, but heading there steadily.
The engine gave a long, weary hiss, and the familiar jolt of the carriages settling into stillness passed through the train. A bell clanged somewhere distant, and then the doors slid open with a 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 permanent residence in my throat. I followed him out wordlessly, my fingers gripping the strap of my bag too tightly.
The platform was chaos. It should have felt safe, like coming home, but my skin prickled like the air before a storm. Students spilt out of the train in every direction—a churning river of black robes and dragging trunks, faces reuniting after the summer, first-years gawking wide-eyed at everything around them. The noise was deafening: laughter, shouted greetings, and mild arguments over misplaced owls or stepped-on toes. I found myself edging closer to Remus's side, hoping no one would notice me in the rush.
We made our way along the winding path leading from the platform through the hills. Torches burned along the way, casting flickering pools of golden light on the gravel, but I barely noticed them. My eyes were fixed 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 realise I had until Remus paused a few steps ahead and looked back.
"Everything all right?"
I swallowed. "Yeah," I said quickly. "Just… taking it in."
He made a quiet, knowing sound and waited.
I didn't move.
It wasn't fear. Just something slower, heavier, as if my body was catching up to the fact that this wasn't a dream. This was real. I was here. Hogwarts.
Students flowed past us in waves, some chatting easily, others yawning or bickering in that way only people who've known each other for years can manage. They all moved with 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 describe the tightness in my chest. I'd spent so long being shuffled between houses, names, half-truths, and pitying glances. Somehow, I'd managed to believe this would be different, that magic might make it easier.
But even surrounded by wizarding robes and talking portraits and everything Hogwarts promised, 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 bluffing," he said dryly. "Teenagers are very good at pretending."
He wasn't wrong. Teenagers were brilliant at pretending. I'd done it for years.
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 an advert.
And of course, there were the quiet ones, with books clutched like shields, expressions focused, and 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 as 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. Before I could reply, he added, "I think you'll stand out, and you'll learn to stop apologising for it."
A lump rose in my throat. I looked back at the gates.
"Are you ready?"
Remus's voice was gentle, not soft in the way people use around frightened animals or ill children, but steady. Honest. The kind of tone that offered a hand without insisting you take it.
He watched me carefully. Not pressuring, just waiting, the way someone might stand beside you at a cliff's edge, leaving the choice to jump or stay.
I tried to answer. Drew a breath, though my lungs didn't seem to work properly. My ribs felt tight, not from old bruises this time, but from nerves wound so hard I half wondered whether I'd left a few organs behind on the train.
"I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be," I managed, forcing a lopsided smile. It didn't feel real, but I gave it anyway. Sometimes you had to pretend to be brave long enough for the pretending to start looking like the truth.
"This feels like the part in the story where something explodes," I said, only half-joking.
Remus laughed quietly, low and warm, as though he knew exactly what I meant. "Let's hope not. I left my firefighting charms in my other cloak."
That earned a real smile from me, brief but honest.
He reached out and gave my shoulder a firm squeeze, not the awkward pat people give when they're trying to be kind but haven't a clue what you need. It was grounding, steadying, the sort of touch that reminded you where your feet were and that someone was standing beside you.
"We'll be fine, Harry," he said. "Trust me."
And strangely, or perhaps not, I did.
We walked forward, side by side, through the looming black gates of Hogwarts. The moment we passed beneath the archway, the air changed, as if a switch had been thrown.
One moment we were two faces in a crowd. The next, the crowd wasn't a crowd at all but a ring of eyes turned our way. They weren't staring because they knew who I was. They stared because something in me made them think they ought to remember—and couldn't.
Conversations broke off mid-sentence. Laughter caught mid-breath. Students ahead of us slowed, parting to clear a path—not out of politeness, but a kind of stunned curiosity, as though Remus and I had stepped out of the wrong story and wandered into theirs.
I kept my expression neutral, my pace steady. Inside, I wanted to sink through the flagstones and vanish.
My face burned—ears too. It felt as if someone had lit candles beneath them.
If I'd wanted this much attention, I'd have marched in wearing dragon-skin boots and juggled Bludgers.
"Is this normal?" I muttered, leaning slightly towards Remus.
"You're new," he murmured back, mouth twitching. "You'll get used to it, or 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 I could move, that this wasn't another dream where my legs refused to work or the corridors changed each time I blinked.
I didn't know what waited inside the castle, but something quiet and stubborn in my chest told me this was the right direction. 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 ignored the laws of architecture, portraits whispering as we passed, and suits of armour that looked far too interested in what we were doing.
Eventually, we stopped before a tall wooden door. Plain, but the silence behind it was heavy, as if whatever waited inside had been standing very still for a very long time.
Remus knocked once and pushed it open.
The room we stepped into was softly lit, as though the torches had been told to behave. Firelight moved gently across the polished floor, and the high ceiling arched overhead like it belonged to a cathedral, or perhaps a very posh library.
At the far end stood a woman who didn't simply 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 half expected it could deflect minor hexes.
She didn't say a word, but her eyebrows did. If eyebrows could issue detentions, hers already had.
I'd never met anyone who could weaponise silence so efficiently. Her eyebrows lifted in such perfect disapproval that I nearly straightened my tie out of instinct.
But this woman wasn't judging by anyone else's standards. She was the standard.
Remus stepped forward with the calm assurance of someone who'd done this sort of thing before and done it well. He smiled, warm and open, bringing a flicker of brightness into the stillness of the room.
"Good evening, Minerva," he said cheerfully, the kind of cheer that sounded natural, not forced. Like someone greeting an old friend, not a stern professor known for turning first years into ferrets if they sneezed during roll call.
She gave him a short, curt nod. Not unkind, but clipped and precise. Everything about her was like that: her posture, her robes, even the way her wand hand rested just near her sleeve, as though she never quite let her guard down. Yet there was something in her eyes—a flicker. Not quite a smile, not quite softness, but something human.
Remus turned back to me and laid 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 most complex branches of magic, and she's the best in the country."
That earned him a faint, dry look from the professor, but she said nothing, which I took to mean she didn't entirely disagree.
I stepped forward before I could talk myself out of it. My palms were clammy, but I offered one anyway, hoping I looked at least halfway 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 surprise, my voice held steady. Polite. Not too squeaky. Almost confident, if you squinted.
She took my hand without hesitation, her grip firm and precise, and offered a smile—not wide or showy, 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 nodded, unsure whether to feel reassured or alarmed. 'Eventful' sounded suspiciously close to 'potentially fatal' in that particular tone. Then again, after 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 slightly, and something glinted in her eyes. It might have been amusement. It might have been a warning. Hard to say with her.
Remus laughed softly beside me. "Aim higher, Harry. At least a badger or a peacock, if you're feeling ambitious."
McGonagall made a sound that might have been a chuckle, dry as dust and gone before it fully formed. But it was there, and I counted it as a win.
She turned back to Remus, and her expression shifted; not warmer, exactly, but fuller. Less formality. More of the woman beneath it.
"And welcome back, Remus," she said, her voice dipping 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—a history, maybe, or a hesitation once overcome. I didn't know the story, but I could feel it moving quietly through the room.
Remus inclined his head, a flicker of emotion—gratitude, perhaps, or relief—crossing his face.
"Thank you, Minerva. It's good to be back. Feels a bit like… coming home, if I'm honest."
A pause followed. A quiet kind of silence. Full of the past, perhaps. Full of things neither of them said aloud.
I stood still, unwilling to break it or interrupt whatever long memory was being honoured between them.
I let my gaze wander instead. The room was tidy to the point of 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 with terrifying titles, and a row of teacups that, unless I was 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 briskly. "You've been placed in your age group, though allowances will be made while you catch up. There's no need to worry about being thrown into the deep end unprepared."
She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "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 smiled faintly. "That's reassuring. I'll try not to need rescuing, though I can't promise anything."
The corner of her mouth twitched, 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."
Just before she turned away, she added, more softly, "You're among friends here."
The words caught 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 with that same perfect precision, leaving a silence that 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 into the corridor.
Somewhere deep in the walls, the magic shifted, as if the castle had just exhaled.
The castle was hushed.
Not silent, exactly; there was always some sound: the distant rumble of footsteps, the creak of shifting portraits, the soft hum of magic that seemed to resonate in the very walls. It was quieter, though, and more alert, as if the building itself were aware of the anomaly.
Which, I suppose, I was.
Remus led the way through corridors that twisted in impossible directions, torchlight flickering and casting our shadows into long, angular shapes on the ancient stone. I tried not to stare too long at anything that moved. A staircase rearranged itself with an audible, irritated groan just as we reached it, and I glanced at Remus, who simply raised an eyebrow.
"Still temperamental," he said mildly. "You would think the years might have mellowed them."
"I would have thought magic staircases might have better manners," I said.
He laughed quietly, and something close to relief flickered through me. If Remus could laugh, perhaps I was not completely out of my depth.
Still, with every step deeper into the castle, my shoulders inched higher and my nerves pulled tighter. Not because I did not want to be here; I did, more than I had wanted anything in a long time. It was because a part of me could not quite believe I was allowed to want it.
This was not just any school. This was Hogwarts. And now, at seventeen, I was about to be sorted. Brilliant.
We climbed a spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever, up and up, until I felt slightly winded, though I tried not to show it. At the top we stopped before a large oak door with an ornate griffin-shaped knocker at its centre.
Remus turned to me, his expression suddenly more serious. "All right?" he asked, quietly.
I nodded, though I was not entirely sure I was.
"Dumbledore does not bite," he added, lips twitching.
"I am more worried about the hat," I muttered.
This time he did not laugh. He only gave me a look, part encouragement and part unspoken pride, then knocked.
The door swung open of its own accord.
Inside, the Headmaster's office was as strange and wonderful as I had imagined. Shelves sagged beneath books and magical artefacts that looked liable to explode if you asked them the time. Several telescopes pointed at nothing in particular. A large desk sat near the far window, cluttered yet somehow elegant. The walls were lined with portraits, all of them pretending to sleep, and I could feel their scrutiny.
At the centre of it all, seated in a high-backed chair behind his desk, was Professor Albus Dumbledore.
He looked up with that calm, blue-eyed gaze that seemed to take in everything at once. His beard caught the firelight, and his expression was unreadable; not cold, not stern, but deliberate.
"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 hammered, and Remus closed the door behind me, remaining just inside like a quiet shield.
Dumbledore gestured toward a low, three-legged stool that looked entirely out of place in such a grand room. Resting on it was the Sorting Hat.
Remus had told me about it, and whether I liked to admit it or not, I had seen it in my dreams. I remembered the scratchy voice and the weight of it settling over my head. I had not expected to meet it like this.
"It is rare," Dumbledore said quietly, as if reading my mind, "but not unheard of to be sorted at your age. Given your circumstances, it seems right to let the Hat decide where you belong. Hogwarts is not only walls and towers, Harry; it is a home, and everyone must find a place within it."
I swallowed and nodded.
I stepped to the stool and sat, knees awkwardly bent, trying not to look as if I might bolt, then lifted the Hat onto my head.
It slid down over my eyes and dimmed the room.
For a long moment there was nothing.
"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 are 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 do not always give yourself credit. And ambition… you try to bury it, but I see it. You want to make a difference. You need to make a difference."
I said nothing. I did not know whether I was meant to answer or whether it would listen.
"But this is not only about potential," the Hat went on. "You have already been shaped. Scarred. Not only by dark magic, but by people. Loss. Loneliness. A hunger to be known for more than survival."
I clenched my hands in my lap and hoped the Hat could not hear that as well.
"Still," it murmured, its tone shifting, "there is something else… curious wards upon memory. So many minds that should know you, and do not. A veil woven through thought itself. Powerful work—very old, very deliberate."
The words sank through me like cold water.
"Yet here you are," it said softly, almost kindly. "Still standing. Still choosing."
It paused. "There is something else. A quiet strength. Not loud, not showy, but steady and determined. And good. Oh yes, quite good."
There was a pause. The voice softened. "It is clear where you belong. You were always meant for…"
"Gryffindor!"
The word rang through the room. It hit like a spell: bright and final.
The Hat lifted from my head before I could fully process it. Dumbledore was smiling, not broadly, but kindly.
Behind me, Remus let out a breath, as if he had been holding it.
"Gryffindor," Dumbledore said, nodding once. "Yes. Just as I thought."
He motioned toward a small box on his desk, which opened by itself. Inside lay a silver badge, a House crest, the lion gleaming in red and gold.
Dumbledore picked it up and held it out. "Welcome home, Mr Potter."
He paused, studying me over the rim of his half-moon spectacles, and his voice dropped to something quieter, almost private.
"Your name has been restored to Hogwarts' records, Harry—here, and here alone. Beyond these walls, the charm still holds. The world may not remember you, but this castle will. Hogwarts remembers those who truly belong."
The words struck deeper than I expected. For the first time in years, I wasn't just hiding behind another name. Within these walls, I existed.
I took the badge with trembling fingers, my throat tight, and nodded. "Thank you, sir."
Remus clapped me lightly on the back. "Told you the Hat had good taste."
I smiled, and together we left the office, stepping into the corridor and whatever came next.
Remus didn't waste time. He gave me a tight smile and gestured for me to follow. I was glad to be moving again; sitting still had only made the nerves worse. I hadn't expected the castle to feel quite so colossal or quite so alive.
"Right," he said briskly as we stepped into the corridor. "Let's get you a sense of the layout before the place starts shifting again."
I wasn't entirely sure he was joking.
The walls were rough stone, uneven and cool beneath flickering torchlight that threw shadows into 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. It felt like being quietly assessed; 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 it wasn't especially reassuring. I was already lost. Every turn looked the same: arched doorways, tall windows, and long tapestries showing wizards duelling or dancing or being eaten by large magical plants.
We stopped before a pair of enormous wooden doors carved with runes and the school crest. I recognised the lion and the badger. 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 sight made me stop short.
The hall was vast. The ceiling stretched high above, enchanted to mirror the sky outside. Sunset bled into dusk, clouds bruised and gold. Long tables gleamed beneath rows of candles, their surfaces polished so smooth the light rippled across them. A high table stood at the far end on a dais. Thrones for wizards.
"Meals are taken here," said Remus, clearly used to the reaction. "Also assemblies, exams, and ceremonies. Don't worry, you'll get used to it."
I wasn't so sure.
He led me out before I could ask whether the ceiling was always like that.
"The classrooms are spread across the castle," he said, striding at a pace that made me half-jog to keep up. "Charms is taught by Professor Flitwick—small chap, but sharp as a curse. You have learned the basics with me, enough not to look lost. The rest you will pick up fast."
I nodded mutely. I wasn't even sure what Charms covered. Spells? Incantations? Was there a difference?
He gestured to a tall door on the left. "Transfiguration—Professor McGonagall's class. It's not easy. She won't go easy on you either."
Another turn. Another staircase.
"Potions are down in the dungeons. Cold, damp, and full of ingredients that would rather eat you than be bottled. Don't touch anything unless you like surprises."
We passed a tapestry of a wizard teaching goblins to waltz.
"History of Magic is upstairs. Tedious but compulsory. Try not to fall asleep. The professor's a ghost."
"Sorry—a ghost?" I said, turning to stare.
Remus shrugged lightly. "Died a century ago. Never stopped teaching."
He showed me the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom—his—and then the library, tucked behind carved double doors taller than most shopfronts.
"You'll be in there often," he said. "Madam Pince runs it. Don't cross her. She's fiercely protective of her books."
That much I could understand. I was protective of the few I owned, too.
We kept moving. Down another staircase, through a passage behind a statue of a one-eyed witch, past a group of third-years arguing with a painting that refused to let them in.
"Each House has its own dormitories and common room," Remus explained. "You're in Gryffindor. The password's Flarewood, though it changes every week. The Fat Lady guards the entrance. She sings sometimes. Badly."
I must have looked as bewildered as I felt, because he paused, studying me.
"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 to."
I nodded, still unsure I could speak.
We stepped outside for the last part of the tour. The grounds opened before us—wide, rolling, edged by forest and lake. The air smelt of grass, twilight, and something faintly magical, like a spell left half-cast.
Remus pointed to a distant pitch marked by tall golden hoops. "Quidditch pitch. Broom sport. Dangerous, but everyone loves it."
I didn't reply. There had been only a few times Remus let me near a broomstick. It wasn't something he approved of when it comes to my safety.
He nodded toward the dark treeline. "The Forbidden Forest. The name says it all."
Beyond the trees, the Black Lake shimmered. I caught a glimpse of something moving beneath the surface—a tail, maybe. Or a fin.
"And up there," Remus said, pointing to the tallest turret, "is the Owlery. If you need to send a letter."
There was more, apparently: a greenhouse for Herbology, a Hospital Wing for accidents, which, according to him, would happen, and a room that only appeared when needed. That one sounded made-up, but then again, so did most of this place.
It was all too much. Too big. Too strange. Too full of rules I didn't know and names I couldn't remember. My head felt both full and empty.
Eventually, we circled back to the Entrance Hall.
Remus glanced at his watch and sighed. "Staff meeting in five minutes. Will you be all right on your own?"
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to say no. Wanted to ask him to walk me through it all again—slower, with maps and pauses to breathe. But I was seventeen, not seven, and he already had enough to worry about.
So I smiled, hoping it looked steadier than it felt. "Yeah. I'll manage."
He studied me for a moment longer, then nodded. "If you need anything, my office is on the second floor. Staff room's near the Defence corridor, behind the portrait with too many keys. Don't hesitate 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.
Somewhere above, the castle groaned—a sound like shifting stone, or the start of a heartbeat.
It felt as though the place had noticed me.