Mist clung low over the lake, thick and slow, swallowing sound and light alike. The lanterns bobbed quietly in the boats, their faint glow swallowed by the mist. Marcus sat close to the edge, hands gripping the worn wooden side, watching the dark water slip past. Other first-years whispered behind him, voices hushed with a mix of excitement and fear.
Ahead, the castle rose from the fog — windows aglow, a scattered pattern of yellow light spilling out from deep within its stone walls. The towers cut jagged shapes into the heavy gray mist. Rain had left the stone slick, black and cold underfoot, iron gates massive and still as if they had stood watch for centuries.
Marcus's eyes traced the worn bricks, the heavy ironwork, the arches and towers stacked impossibly high. It wasn't just a building. It was something older, something that held its breath and waited. The castle was watching — not with malice, but with a quiet, unreadable patience. It did not welcome or reject; it simply was.
Behind him, the thud of heavy boots sounded as Hagrid approached, lantern held high. His voice was low and steady, directing the group forward. As they reached the gate, it groaned open on its own, heavy wood creaking, dry limbs in the winter wind.
Marcus stepped forward, feeling the cold stone beneath his feet. The castle was silent, walls stretching upward and inward. It did not seem like a place made for comfort. It was a place to be measured and tested.
Inside, the hallway was narrow and dim, lined with portraits that shifted quietly behind their frames. Faces whispered among themselves, eyes following every movement. The air was cold, touched by something ancient and unseen. Marcus moved carefully, the sound of footsteps swallowed by the thick stone walls.
They reached the antechamber before the Great Hall. The space was large but empty, cold torches flickering along the walls, distant murmurs drifting from beyond. Students clustered in small groups, some laughing quietly, others silent, waiting. A heavy stone pressed on Marcus's chest, the weight of what was coming settling in.
He found a spot near the wall, hands in his pockets, watching. Tobias bumped into him, voice low. "You made it, then."
Marcus nodded without looking. Anya stood nearby, fingers stained with ink, eyes sharp and distant. Silas grinned, nudging Marcus with an easy confidence. "Bet ten Sickles you get Gryffindor."
Marcus didn't answer. His gaze drifted to Evelyn, Ilse, and Thorne—no words passed between them, just exchanged glances like silent acknowledgments. The ghosts moved past, one muttering about lost souls and misfiled memories, barely noticed.
A first-year girl began to quietly cry by one of the columns. No one approached her. A boy tried to offer her a handkerchief, was waved off, then drifted back to the wall. No professors intervened.
It reminded Marcus of a day in Knockturn — late July, midday sun turned to ash by factory smoke. He had stepped into Borgin and Burkes while Eustace spoke with a warlock about ward-stones. A young man, no older than fifteen, had been brought in, unconscious, his robes scorched and mouth bleeding. The shopkeeper didn't flinch. Just asked, "Where was he found?" The answer had been one word: "Streatham." No outrage. No reaction. The boy was carried behind a curtain. Something had moved behind it. Whispered. Then silence.
Now, in the hallway, the same feeling returned. That quiet expectation that no one would explain anything unless you asked, and even then, only if you already knew the answer.
Professor McGonagall appeared, her voice clipped and firm as she gave the briefest of introductions.
"Silence. This is no ordinary night, and this is no ordinary place. The castle sees all, remembers all, and it does not forgive weakness. Each of you will be tested — by your courage, your will, your heart. Steel yourselves. We move now, for they are waiting."
The great doors swung open, and a rush of warmth spilled into the hall. The magic in the air thickened, sharp and heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.
The Great Hall stretched high above them, candlelight floating in mid-air, flickering against a ceiling that mimicked the stormy sky outside. Thunder rumbled faintly overhead, though no sound came from the walls. Four long tables filled the space, occupied by students in black robes. Hundreds of eyes turned to watch the first-years enter, silent and expectant.
Marcus didn't look down. His gaze moved slowly across the hall — enchanted banners of each House hung above, swaying without wind. Platters gleamed, still empty. The High Table loomed at the far end. Teachers sat in a row, some upright, some distracted. Dumbledore sat in the center, still as a statue.
A stool stood before the crowd. Upon it, a worn, patched hat.
It didn't sing. Instead, the brim twitched, and from it came a voice — slow, deep, and dry.
"A thousand years — or maybe more —
When Hogwarts first began,
Four founders dreamed a mighty dream,
To teach young witch and man.
Gryffindor honors courage bright,
Ravenclaw prizes wisdom's light,
Hufflepuff stands for hearts that stay,
And Slytherin, the clever way.
Each picked their students carefully,
From all the gathered lot,
But when they passed, they left to me
The task of choosing spot.
So place me now upon your head,
Don't fear, I won't cause pain —
I'll peek inside your clever mind
And choose your house again."
The silence after the speech stretched like a wire.
One by one, names were called.
"Avery, Ruth."
"SLYTHERIN."
"Bones, Edgar."
"HUFFLEPUFF."
A few whispered reactions, a burst of claps. The Hat worked quickly, speaking aloud only for the result.
When " Ilse Durand" was called, the hall went quiet. She moved with the same silence as always, spine straight, chin high.
"SLYTHERIN."
"Tobias Flynn."
There were more whispers this time. Tobias grinned crookedly. The Hat barely touched his head.
"GRYFFINDOR."
"Evelyn Rowle."
A pause — longer than most. Marcus watched her face; it didn't move, didn't shift. Just waiting.
"SLYTHERIN."
"Thorne Merrick."
"RAVENCLAW."
More names. A few cheers. A few sighs.
Then—
"Marcus Thark."
He walked calmly. Not slowly, not rushed. Every step deliberate. The stool was cold. The hat came down over his head, heavy and dark.
And the voice came, this time only for him.
"Ah… now this is an interesting mind. Brave, yes — but not the reckless sort. No, no… you act despite fear, and always with purpose. I see a keen, analytical mind, sharp as a blade and just as precise. You think before you act, calculate before you speak. You're not one for showy displays or sentimental outbursts. No, your strength lies in control — of your thoughts, your feelings, even your image. But you're not cold. You're… focused. There's ambition here. A burning desire to understand magic's deepest secrets, to grow powerful — not for glory, but for certainty, for mastery. And yet… relationships are tricky for you, aren't they? You observe more than you engage, keep your cards close unless there's something to gain. Hufflepuff would stifle you. Gryffindor — tempting, but you'd find them too brash. Ravenclaw? Perhaps… but your ambition outweighs your curiosity. No… there's only one place where your talents, your discipline, your drive will be truly at home. Better be…
SLYTHERIN!"
He removed the hat without expression and walked toward the Slytherin table.
Applause came, quiet and brief. A few nods, some faint curiosity. Evelyn shifted to make space. Ilse gave the smallest of nods. He sat.
Marcus glanced back once — Tobias already deep in conversation at the Gryffindor table, Silas grinning wide and waving. Anya hadn't been called yet.
Thunder echoed faintly above. Somewhere, a ghost passed silently along the rafters.
As the last name echoed through the hall and the Sorting Hat was carried away, silence settled once more.
Dumbledore rose.
He didn't gesture. Didn't smile. His robes were dark blue, edged in silver thread. His beard shimmered faintly in the candlelight. When he spoke, his voice didn't rise — but it carried.
"Welcome," he said. "To those beginning their time at Hogwarts, and to those continuing it — may the castle serve as both shield and mirror."
The words hung, strange and precise.
"You have been Sorted. You may feel elation. Or disappointment. Neither will last. Who you are will change — what you choose will not. Remember that."
He paused, scanning the students. His eyes passed briefly over Marcus — unreadable, pale and sharp.
"You are here to be safe," Dumbledore said. "You are here to be educated. In spells, in discipline, in restraint. Magic is not a birthright. It is a burden. Treat it with arrogance, and it will teach you humility — if you are lucky."
A few whispers rose and died.
"I will now introduce your professors. Listen carefully. You'll answer to them more often than you'll answer to me."
He turned slightly toward the High Table.
"Professor McGonagall — Transfiguration. Deputy Headmistress. Her classroom is not a place for half-hearted efforts or excuses.
Professor Flitwick — Charms. If it moves, sings, or shimmers on command, thank him.
Professor Sprout — Herbology. The greenhouse is not a garden. Tread carefully.
Professor Slughorn — Potions. Respect his ingredients and he may one day respect you."
Slughorn gave a mild chuckle. His mustache twitched as he reached for a wine glass.
"Professor Binns — History of Magic. Yes, he is a ghost. No, that does not excuse inattentiveness. Professor Hooch — Flying. Listen to her, or fall."
Murmurs again. Someone at the Gryffindor table chuckled. Dumbledore ignored it.
"Professor Caldus — Astronomy. The stars do not lie, but they do test patience.
Professor Vesper — Defense Against the Dark Arts. She has served with the Aurors. If you plan to challenge her, do so after careful thought."
Professor Vesper, gaunt and grey-eyed, inclined her head but did not smile.
"And finally — Professor Trelawney, recently appointed to Divination."
Dumbledore let the pause stretch again.
"Two announcements."
Silence.
"First — the Forbidden Forest remains forbidden. Any student found within its boundaries without supervision will face suspension or expulsion."
A few glances, some raised eyebrows.
"Second — no one is permitted to leave school grounds. There will be no Hogsmeade weekends this year. Do not ask."
A few older students shifted in frustration.
Dumbledore nodded once, and the candlelight flickered as if on cue.
"That is all. Eat."
Around him, conversation began to bloom — quiet, clipped, like testing a floorboard in the dark.
The golden plates filled themselves with no fanfare. One blink and they were heaped with roast beef, potatoes, steam still rising. The scents came next — gravy, bread, butter, and a faint undertone of something spiced. Marcus didn't reach for anything at once. He watched.
To his left, Evelyn had already begun cutting her food with clean, exact movements. Across the table, Ilse examined a goblet of pumpkin juice as if it were a potion she hadn't seen before. Marcus looked further down. Cassius Vance — the boy from the shop with the brass watch and stiff collar — sat at the far end, speaking in a low voice to an older student, probably a prefect. He caught Marcus's gaze once and nodded slightly, then returned to his conversation.
The Gryffindor table was louder — red and gold flickering brighter than the rest. Silas was there, laughing with his mouth full. Beside him, Anya tried to say something serious, waving a fork like a wand. A few seats away, two redheaded boys bickered over a piece of treacle tart. A wand sparked.
Marcus found Thorne at the Ravenclaw table. Thorne was already surrounded by books — or perhaps someone else's — one elbow leaning against a fat leather-bound volume while he ignored the food entirely. Beside him, Clara sat with a careful posture, eating slowly and watching the Hall, just as Marcus was. Their eyes met for a moment. Thorne gave a small shrug. Not quite a greeting. More like: So this is it.
A soft laugh drew Marcus's attention to the Hufflepuff table. The girl from the train — the one who'd been harassed — sat near the end, a yellow scarf clumsily bunched on her shoulder. She was laughing now, half shy, half relieved, surrounded by others who looked content simply to be there.
Above, the enchanted ceiling had calmed to a steady, cloud-streaked gray. A storm had passed, but it hadn't entirely left.
He took a bite. The food was good — surprisingly so — but his thoughts remained elsewhere. The Hall was full of motion and heat, but for him it stayed distant, like watching fire through thick glass. He memorized faces. Houses. Alignments. Quiet nods. Who looked at whom. Who didn't.
It wasn't paranoia. Was it?
Cassius appeared beside him at some point with a second plate, as if he'd always been there. He said nothing at first, just slid into the bench space. Finally:
"They don't warn you how loud it is."
Marcus replied without turning: "No. But I expected it."
Cassius hummed, almost a laugh. "Course you did."
Evelyn cut in from across the table. "You're both being dramatic. It's a school, not a fortress."
Cassius raised an eyebrow. "Says the girl who checked her spoon for curses."
"I was checking for polish," she muttered. "It smelled odd."
"It's pumpkin juice. It always smells odd."
"Yours does," Evelyn said, eyeing his goblet. "I think yours is moving."
Cassius stared at it, suspicious. "...Is it?"
Ilse leaned in, bored. "It's not. And you're both idiots."
Cassius grinned. "Well, we made it to Slytherin. Guess it's allowed."
Evelyn sipped calmly from her cup. "Speak for yourself."
Ilse rolled her eyes. "We are."
Marcus didn't say anything. He was watching the High Table again, lips pressed together.
Dumbledore stood.
"Prefects. Take your Houses."
Benches scraped. Cloaks moved. The hall began to empty, slow and steady.
Marcus rose with the others.
There was silence. And stone.
Past the Great Hall, the light faded. Stone walls closed in, damp with the breath of the lake. The torches burned lower here, green-tinted and steady. There were no windows. No portraits. Just the sound of feet and water — slow, distant, constant.
At the front of the group, the Slytherin prefect moved without speaking. Her black boots made no sound. She led them down a final turning and stopped before a blank wall of dark stone. Moss lined the cracks. A serpent was carved faintly into the arch above — worn down with age.
She turned to face them.
"You'll forget the way," she said plainly. "Don't panic. Just follow another Slytherin. We always find each other."
She turned back and spoke the password:
"Salazar."
There was a pause.
Then a low hiss — drawn out, almost like breath through teeth. The stone in front of them split down the middle and peeled away without a sound. The opening shaped itself into an arch — no hinges, no frame — just a gap in the rock. A coiled serpent was engraved into the stonework around the arch, its eyes gleaming faintly in the torchlight.
Beyond the archway: silence, and the green shimmer of the lake beyond.
The prefect stepped through.
They followed.
The Slytherin common room opened slowly, a secret not fully revealed. The space stretched wide, longer than it was tall, a long hall pressed beneath the lake. One entire wall was made of thick glass, slightly warped by pressure. The Black Lake loomed on the other side — heavy, still, and full of movement. Shapes drifted by. Light shifted with them.
Columns lined the space, supporting a vaulted ceiling carved with intertwining runes. Iron lanterns hung from chains, their flames burning low and steady. The floor was slate — not polished, but clean, uneven in places where the stone had settled. The fireplace was long and deep, burning a slow green fire that gave off little heat and no smoke.
There were high-backed chairs and long, low couches, all in deep green or black leather — uniform, but worn with age. The arrangement was deliberate, symmetrical. Nothing here was mismatched, and nothing felt accidental. Tables with nicks and dents. Bookshelves filled with things that weren't books: bones, jars, vials of dried herbs. No one seemed to be watching the room, but it watched them all the same.
Evelyn was already by the glass, one hand resting on the stone window frame. She didn't speak.
Ilse crossed her arms. "Where are the dorms?"
The prefect pointed.
"Boys' rooms down the left corridor. Girls on the right. First-years at the bottom level. Don't wander up."
That was all she said.
Then she turned and walked away, robes brushing the floor in a soft, deliberate sweep.
The dormitory had four beds, spaced evenly between high stone arches. Curtains hung heavy and dark. The lake outside cast slow, moving shadows across the walls.
They entered in silence. Shoes soft against stone. No chatter.
Cassius went to the bed nearest the shelves and sat down, starting to unlatch his trunk.
The taller boy with short dark hair looked around once, then picked the bed nearest the far wall.
"Archer," he said simply. "Archer Vale."
The last boy — smaller, with a tired face — nodded toward the next one over. "Ren Talbott."
Cassius gave a quick gesture, half a wave. "Cassius Vance."
Marcus walked straight to the bed by the window. "Marcus Thark."
No one commented further. That was enough.
They unpacked in quiet. One or two muttered something about socks. Drawers opened. A hinge creaked. The sound of the lake outside pressed faintly against the glass, steady and strange.
It didn't feel like home, but it didn't feel hostile either.
Just… still.
After a while, the others settled behind their curtains. The green lantern dimmed slightly on its own.
Marcus stayed a moment longer, then slipped out into the corridor. Back into the common room.
It was empty now. The fire had burned low, its light barely touching the stone floor. One or two books lay on a table, unopened.
He sat by the window.
The glass was cool under his fingers. Outside, the lake moved in slow drifts, shadows without shape. Not threatening. Not friendly. Just there.
He rested his chin against his hand.
The fire behind him cracked once, quietly. The common room didn't echo — the walls were thick, the air heavy. A few candles still burned, their reflections flickering across the green-tinted glass.
It was late. He should sleep.
He replayed the day in pieces. The station. The train. The corridor. The boats. Faces. Voices. Weighing them, sorting them.
Hogwarts.
He was inside the place he'd only read about — heard about in bits and pieces, from his father, from old books. Not stories anymore. Real stone. Real magic.
Real wizards.
He wondered what came next. Not just classes. Other things. Spells. Duels maybe. Secret corridors. Talking portraits. Ghosts.
Friends?
He wasn't sure what that word meant here. He knew Evelyn, Ilse, Cassius — kind of. But that wasn't the same as knowing what they'd do when things got hard.
He looked at the flickering candle near the stairs. It danced a little, like it might float up and vanish.
Anything felt possible now. Not safe. But possible.
His hand was resting on the windowsill, and he found himself tracing a pattern in the dust. Not a rune. Not a word. Just... something.
He didn't feel tired. Not really. His body did — feet sore, head a little heavy — but his mind kept moving.
He tried to imagine tomorrow. The first class. What they'd make them do. Would it be wands out, or just rules and parchments and waiting? Would he mess up? Would the others?
He finally stood. Quiet, slow. No creak from the floor. Just the soft whisper of his breath.
The dorm would be cold, but the curtains would block most of it. And sleep, eventually, would win.
But first — one last glance back.
Still here.
Still real.