In the kitchen at number 17 Godric's Hollow, the sun filtered through the curtains with a lazy warmth, announcing the peak of summer. The clock on the wall read 8:17 in the morning when the first shout of the day broke the tranquility.
—Rose, that's not done!!
Harry Potter pushed away his cereal bowl just in time to dodge the blast of milk his sister had just thrown at him with her spoon. Rose, with her innocent face and tangled red hair like a nest, let out an unholy laugh.
—You were daydreaming again!
"Because I'm waiting for something important!" Harry growled.
"More important than breakfast?" a cheerful voice asked from the doorway.
Lily Potter walked into the kitchen with her hair in a messy bun, a cup of tea in her hand, and a look that saw everything, even before it happened.
—Rose, go brush your teeth. Harry, don't bite the spoon. And if there's an owl at the window, I'll let it in, okay?
Harry snorted. He knew his mother was as expectant as he was. Today was July 1st, and at just eleven years old, the Hogwarts letter was the only thing on his mind.
He had dreamed of nothing else these past few weeks: black robes, steaming cauldrons, whirring wands, and, above all, freedom. Not that his home life was unhappy. On the contrary: with a mother like Lily and a godfather like Sirius, his days were filled with love, mischief, and a light dose of magical chaos.
But something inside him, something that perhaps dated back to the day he survived Voldemort when he was just a baby, told him that Hogwarts was the place where he belonged.
As if his thoughts had summoned the moment, a sharp knock on the window brought him out of his reverie.
—MUM! —Harry shouted—. AN OWL!!
Lily walked over, rolled down the window, and allowed a sandy-colored owl to clumsily fly in and leave a thick envelope on the table before leaving.
Harry took it with trembling hands.
The envelope was a tan parchment, with emerald green writing that danced slightly under his breath. He turned it over.
Harry James Potter
East Bedroom, Second Floor
Godric Valley
Lily put her hand on his shoulder, gently.
—Open it, honey.
Harry broke the red wax seal—the Hogwarts emblem proudly engraved on it—and unfolded the parchment. His gaze scanned the first few lines, and a huge smile spread across his face.
—I got accepted! I got accepted to Hogwarts!
Rose, who had sneaked back from brushing her teeth, squealed with delight.
—You're going to Hogwarts! I want a letter too!
"You have one more year," Lily replied, smiling, although her eyes were slightly moist.
Harry looked at her strangely.
-Are you OK?
She hugged him.
—Of course. It's just... it's a moment your father dreamed of his whole life. He would be so, so proud, Harry.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was warm, full of memory. James's absence was a familiar shadow, no longer as painful, but never quite gone.
And then, like a well-timed explosion, green flames burst from the fireplace.
"Is it here yet? Is it here yet?!" roared an unmistakable voice.
Sirius Black emerged from the fire with his black coat covered in ash and a mischievous child's smile.
—My godson is officially accepted into Hogwarts! I knew it! I owe Remus ten Galleons, but I knew it!
"Sirius!" Lily laughed, shaking his shoulder. "Don't mess up the floor again!"
—Where's my boy? Come here, Harry!
Harry ran into his arms. Sirius picked him up as if he were still five years old.
—What did I tell you? That if you didn't receive that letter today, we'd march to the Ministry with a broom and demand justice.
"It wasn't necessary. It arrived," Harry laughed.
Sirius ruffled her hair.
—You're going to Hogwarts. They'll teach you how to fly, charm quills, dodge ghosts, and eat magic pudding without exploding.
—Do you think they'll put me in Gryffindor?
Sirius winked at him.
"Wherever you go, you'll be great. But if you get put in Hufflepuff, Remus will cry tears of joy. And if you end up in Slytherin... well, I've already got a list of excuses ready to pretend you're not my godson."
"SIRIUS!" Lily and Harry shouted in unison.
—Just kidding! Just kidding! Well... almost a joke.
Lily gave him a look that said I'll kill you and come back to kill you again.
Harry turned to his mother.
—When will we go for the books?
—This weekend. Sirius wants to come with you. And Rose insisted, too.
"You can't leave me behind!" the girl said, crossing her arms.
Sirius leaned towards her.
—Perhaps you too will have a letter soon, little witch. But now it's your brother's time.
Harry held the letter tightly. Suddenly, the world opened up before him. Hogwarts was waiting.
pov: jon snow
The morning at number twelve Grimmauld Place dawned like all the others: with the heavy sound of a grandfather clock ticking away each second as if counting steps toward something unavoidable, and sunlight reluctantly filtering through the dust-covered windows.
Jon Arcturus Black was already awake.
Like many other nights, he dreamed of snow, of fields and forests, of snow-covered mountains as far as he could see, of a 700-foot wall of ice, and of a great ancient stone fortress called Winterfell.
He sat on the edge of his bed, his black hair disheveled as if he had just walked out of a storm, and stared at the wall covered by a family tapestry: an enormous family tree embroidered with gold threads, showing the Black family from times so ancient that not even ghosts remembered them.
"Always pure," he murmured with a sigh, running his fingertip over his own newly embroidered name at the bottom of Regulus's branch.
He was what was left.
a pov was heard and kreacher, the house elf of house black, appeared at his side.
"Young master, breakfast is ready," he said.
"I'll be there soon, Kreacher."
Breakfast was as usual: silent and rigid. Mrs. Walburga Black, her grandmother, sat with her back perfectly straight, pouring her tea as if every movement had centuries of nobility behind it. Orion, her grandfather, read the Daily Prophet behind a barrier of parchment.
"Jon Arcturus," Walburga's voice was a whisper of old silk, sharp and cold. "Back straight. And use your knife properly. A Black doesn't pounce on his food like an animal."
Jon squared his small shoulders, the fork heavy in his tiny hand. He responded with a barely audible "Yes, Grandma," his gaze fixed on his plate. His gray eyes, strangely luminous in his young face, betrayed no inner turmoil. Orion, his grandfather, sitting at the head of the long table, only nodded with an imperceptible movement of his hook-nosed head. He was the heaviest silence in the house, a commanding presence with hardly any words, only judicious glances from behind the rims of his glasses.
Life at Grimmauld Place was a constant study of blood purity, of unsullied lineage, of the past glory of the House of Black. The walls were covered in family tree tapestries, each name a link in an unbroken chain of pure-blood wizards and witches. Jon had memorized every name, every date of birth and death, every union with other pure-blood houses. "Blacks do not mix with scum," was a daily lesson, burned slowly into his young mind. "We are superior. We are the pinnacle of our kind." He'd been taught to despise Muggles, half-bloods, "blood traitors" like the Weasleys, even before he truly knew what those words meant.
But sometimes, at the most unexpected moments, the cold, musty, and oppressive reality of Grimmauld Place would blur. It happened most often when the chill penetrated the bones of the old house, or when the silence became so profound it seemed to scream.
And then, the snow came.
Not the damp, dusty chill of Grimmauld Place, but the dry, pristine bite of the true North.
The morning routine at Grimmauld Place was as unchanging as the stars, and as cold as the ice on a tomb. Jon Arcturus Black knew this with every fiber of his being. Breakfast was a silent procession of formality, where the only sound allowed was the discreet clink of silver against china and, occasionally, the faint crackle of firewood burning in the grate. His grandmother, Walburga, presided over the table with sphinx-like rigidity, her dark eyes scrutinizing Jon's every movement, every bite, every sip of steaming tea. Orion, his grandfather, barely spoke, but his presence was a weight, a silent expectation that Jon felt in his bones.
"Jon Arcturus," Walburga's voice was a scrape of silk and disapproval. "Butter doesn't spread that way. An even stroke. Always elegant."
Jon corrected the motion of his knife, the pale butter spreading on the toast. His fingers, for an instant, felt too large, too coarse for the delicate task. A fleeting image flashed in his mind: his own hands, in another life, gloved in thick leather, breaking stale bread over a campfire, heedless of etiquette. The contrast was a familiar pang.
While he was having breakfast he remembered the moment when he had transformed into a ghost, he remembered the freedom of running in the snow, of living outside these walls, when his grandmother saw him, at first she was surprised along with his grandfather, then his grandfather waved his wand and he became Jon Arcturus Black again.
His grandfather had called this transformation an Animagus, and made him practice controlling it. I remember as I explained to him what Animagi were, there was pride in his eyes at the sight.
Just then, a thunderous knock shook the dining room window, causing Walburga's fine china to vibrate with a sharp clink. It was a sharp, authoritative knock, loud enough to shatter the morning's rigid decorum.
Walburga frowned, her fork halfway to her thin lips. Her dark eyes stared out the window with a mixture of indignation and surprise. No one, no one, dared interrupt breakfast at Grimmauld Place like that. Orion, for the first time that morning, raised an eyebrow slightly.
Outside, perched on the narrow stone sill, was a tawny owl with a sturdy chest and piercing amber eyes. It wasn't one of the Black family's loyal, disciplined owls, who always delivered their messages with the utmost discretion. This was a stranger. It held in its beak an envelope of thick, yellowish parchment, sealed with a large red wax crest—a seal Jon recognized immediately, not because he had seen it at Grimmauld Place, but because of a deep resonance in his memory that he couldn't explain.
It was the Hogwarts seal.
"Ah," Orion said in a deep voice, slowly folding the newspaper. "Finally."
Walburga stood up immediately.
"Orion," he said, his voice strained, though his eyes shone as if he'd been waiting for this for years. "It's the letter."
Orion nodded slowly. He stood up solemnly, crossed the dining room, and opened the window.
The owl flew in unceremoniously, flapped its wings, and dropped the envelope onto Jon's plate, scattering a little gooseberry jam.
Jon didn't move. He stared at the letter as if it were a living creature.
The envelope was thick, made of yellowish parchment, and had a red seal with the Hogwarts crest: a lion, a badger, a raven, and a snake, entwined around a capital "H."
"Mr. J. A. Black
East Room,
No. 12, Grimmauld Place,
London"
"Open it," Walburga ordered, holding back her excitement.
Jon did it with steady hands, though inside he felt something close to nervous. He broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter.
"Read it, Jon Arcturus. Out loud. It's your letter," his grandfather told him.
Jon reached out, his fingers slender but strong, and took the parchment. It was heavier than he had expected, the paper rough beneath his fingertips. The wax seal, so imposing with the House crests, felt both foreign and familiar. He unfolded the letter carefully. The elegant, cursive script, the emerald-green ink—everything exuded an authority and tradition that resonated with a part of his soul. His gray eyes settled on the words, and he began to read, his voice initially low, almost a whisper, but gaining confidence as he went:
"HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Director: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief of Magi, Supreme Leader of the International Congress of Magi, International Confederation of Magi)
Dear Mr. Black:
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A list of the required books and supplies is attached. Classes begin on September 1st. We expect your owl no later than July 31st.
Very attentively,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Director
Jon finished reading, and the letter felt almost alive in his hands. It was real. Not a dream, not a fleeting memory, but a tangible confirmation of a path he'd always known, in some corner of his mind, he'd always known he was meant to take. A strange feeling of predestination settled in his chest.
Walburga looked at him with pride and a slight smile that for her was almost an explosion of joy.
"Dumbledore," he hissed, as if the word would leave a bad taste in his mouth. "That crackpot old man. It's a shame he still runs the institution. He allows all sorts of... scum... into his classrooms." His gaze settled on Jon, assessing him. "But Hogwarts is still the place. For better or worse, the foundations are still solid. And a Black must go to Hogwarts. Naturally, we expect your sorting into Slytherin. Every Black, without exception, has belonged to that house. It is our destiny. There is no other choice."
Orion nodded, his face impassive. "It is tradition. And the opportunity to make the right connections. You will need to forge alliances, Jon Arcturus. Don't be distracted by the... diversity... that Dumbledore seems to tolerate." There was an implicit warning in his tone, a reminder of the purity they expected of him.
Jon listened, nodding automatically, but his thoughts were far from his grandparents' warnings. His mind had latched onto the phrase: "Schools start on September 1st." One date, one beginning.
The enclosed list of supplies was almost as fascinating as the letter itself. Quills, ink bottles, a pewter cauldron, a set of glass vials, a telescope. And the books: "The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)," "A History of Magic," "Magical Theory," "A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration," "One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi," "Magical Draughts and Potions," "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them," and "Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection."
As she read the list, each object, each title, seemed to ignite a spark in her memory. Not of explicit knowledge, but of a deep familiarity. As if she'd already held a wand in her hand, as if she'd already mixed potions in a steaming cauldron. She imagined the ancient classrooms, the smell of parchment and potions, the murmur of voices, the crunch of boots on the old stone floors.
And then, an image overlapped that of the Hogwarts halls. The Great Hall of Winterfell. The huge wooden tables, the crackling torches. The camaraderie, the noise of life. The smell of stew and sweat, so different from the stale air of Grimmauld Place. She remembered the voices that echoed there: Robb laughing, Arya scampering, Sansa murmuring with her friends, Ghost's soft growl at her feet. The feeling of belonging to something vast and living.
"Well?" Walburga interrupted, her voice high-pitched. "You seem… lost in thought. Is there anything on the list you find incomprehensible?"
Jon blinked, returning to the grim reality of the Black Hall. "No, Grandma. I was just... imagining the classes." He struggled to keep his voice flat, not betraying the confusion of his overlapping memories.
"Good. It is a place where excellence is expected," Walburga continued, her tone a little softer now, the stiffness giving way slightly to pride. "You shall excel in Potions. Potions princes are usually Slytherins, as they should be. And don't make a fool of yourself with that silly Care of Magical Creatures subject; the only value beasts have is their usefulness." Her gaze darkened slightly. "Though your... fondness... for beasts, Jon Arcturus, is... peculiar." The faint tone of disapproval was mixed with a hint of fascination and veiled awe, an unspoken reference to his Animagus form.
He nodded again, the letter now gently crumpled in his hand. The promise of a new world, of magic around every corner, lay before him. But also, the weight of a legacy he hadn't chosen, and the echoes of a life that, though blurred, felt more authentic than all the decorum of Grimmauld Place. Hogwarts. It was the next step. And for the ancient soul trapped in a child's body, it felt like a return.