Chapter Text
The Great Hall doors opened with a solemn creak. Floating candles lit up the enchanted ceiling that mirrored a moonless night sky, while the crowd of students filled the room with laughter, whispers, and anxious glances.
Harry moved forward with the rest of the first-years, but he didn’t rush. Each step measured, each glance averted.
Warm light bathed him as he entered, and suddenly he felt it: the weight of so many gazes, so many masks.
Ron Weasley, taller than he remembered at first, laughed carelessly among a pair of red-haired boys who were surely his brothers.
Minerva McGonagall, upright in her seat, wore the same expression Harry had seen so many times... before he let her down.
Severus Snape, with sharpened eyes and a face carved in venom, drank from a silver goblet.
And of course, on the throne of false smiles and clouded eyes, Albus Dumbledore.
How easy it was for them all to forget, Harry thought, forget what we did for them. What it cost me... what it cost her.
He didn’t want to see them. He didn’t want to hear them.
And if they looked at him too long, he feared his body —still small, but with a fury far too large to contain— wouldn’t be able to help but respond.
He drifted away from the group and stayed at the rear. The voices dimmed. His breath, measured.
His hand, inside the pocket of his robe, brushed against the vial that held a faint violet mist —enchanted smoke, one of his inventions. He didn’t plan to use it. Not yet. But it calmed him to know he could.
The tables packed with children and teenagers were no different than before. Same houses, same rivalries.
Draco Malfoy strutted among the first-years like a golden swan.
Pansy Parkinson smiled as if the world already belonged to her.
Harry closed his eyes and let the dining hall’s murmur turn to white noise.
The past wanted to push up from his chest, but no. Not this time. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
“ Calm… “ he whispered to himself, barely moving his lips “ . Not yet. Not here. Not now. “
And somewhere behind him, a breeze with no owner seemed to brush his cheek, soft as a voice that wasn’t there, but that he knew by heart.
Hermione.
She hadn’t arrived yet, at least not fully.
But Harry was no longer alone.
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The Great Hall shimmered with its usual enchanted glow. Hundreds of candles floated in the air. The ceiling, bewitched to mirror the outside sky, showed a misty afternoon that hinted at rain. But no one was looking at the heavens—every eye was fixed on the line of first-years, standing tense, some trembling, others thrilled, all waiting to be called.
“Potter, Harry!”
Silence fell across the entire hall.
Everyone was waiting for the arrival of the Boy Who Lived.
A boy with messy hair and deep green eyes stepped forward. His uniform was still slightly crooked, as if he’d put it on without caring about the ceremony. He walked with steady steps, unflinching, though he was no more than eleven years old. But there was something in his gait… something strange. Something old.
Professor McGonagall offered him a small, tense smile and gestured for him to sit. Harry did so without looking at anyone. McGonagall lifted the Sorting Hat —an old, patched, seemingly harmless object— and placed it carefully on the boy’s head.
Then everything changed.
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Darkness. Silence. Then, a raspy voice, deep and ancient like the echo in a forgotten cavern.
— Well, well… What a tangled mind we have here. —whispered the Hat—. A well-built fortress, young Potter. But that won’t be enough. I have seen more than you dream of —
— You won’t get in here . —Harry replied in his mind, with an almost chilling calm—. You sort houses, not unearth corpses . —
— Unearth? Ha. There’s more darkness in you than a moonless alley, boy. Who are you, Harry Potter? Because you’re not just the child who was meant to arrive —
— And who are you? You’re more than a talking rag. Aren’t you, Calatúrien? —
The Hat fell silent. No one had spoken that name in centuries. Calatúrien, the name Rowena Ravenclaw gave it when it was still an enchanted crown, not a hat. Only the Founders knew it. Only them… and now this boy.
— How do you know that name? —
— Let’s just say I’ve had time to learn what matters. Now stop trying to see what isn’t yours to find. —
— Insolent. Intolerable. More defiant than some who came before... At least he didn’t try to control me. —
— And why do you think he lost? Because he underestimated the pieces on the board. I won’t. —
The Hat growled. Outside, the professors were beginning to exchange nervous glances. It had been over six minutes without a decision. Some students whispered. McGonagall pressed her lips together.
— You could go to Slytherin. Oh, you know it well. You’d be great. You have the ambition, the mind, the coldness… —
— I can go wherever I want. But you won’t decide for me. —
— Then… Gryffindor? —
— Not because I’m brave. But because it’s the most efficient path for what I must do. No one watches the lions too closely. —
— You have a plan. A purpose. And it’s not noble —
— And you think the Founders were noble? I know what they did. —
The Hat fell silent for a moment, pondering what the boy had said—how it was possible that he knew something about the Founders, and more than that, such accusations. It tried to slip deeper into young Potter’s mind. It had to know how he knew.
Darkness again.
But not like before.
This time, it was the Hat that trembled. Calatúrien stirred in the depths of Harry’s mind, and for the first time in centuries, it felt dizzy.
— Get out of my mind! —it roared with a broken, nearly desperate voice—. This is a violation! —
— You enter minds without permission and call it a violation when someone looks into yours? —Harry’s voice was deeper now, less childlike, laced with a chilling calm—. There is no justice without balance, Calatúrien. —
An invisible pressure pulled at him. It wasn’t magic as humans understood it, but something older living, unwilling. Harry faced it the way one parts a curtain: firm, unafraid.
— What are you looking for? —
— What Helga hid. You know it. You saw it. You were in her mind when she did it . —
Space folded. A crack opened in the void, and then he fell.
Not literally. He fell into memory.
—
The Age of the Founders – Hogwarts, 10th Century
The scene was magnificent and primal. The stone walls had just been laid, still damp. Floating chandeliers hovered above, but they were few, and the magic sparked wildly, still untamed.
Helga Hufflepuff walked alone through one of the secret corridors only she knew. Her light brown hair was braided with herbs. In her arms she carried an ancient book, bound in living leather that breathed softly. Her eyes were resolute.
The image was sharp, as if Harry were truly there. The Hat watched from its place—then still a simple crown atop Rowena’s head.
Helga entered a room with no doors, one that opened only through a magical pattern blending earth, kindness, and… something else. The will to protect.
— This is the place… —
The Helga from the memory knelt and opened a crack in the floor with the tips of her fingers. It was a symbolic gesture, heavy with ritual. She placed the book inside and whispered, “The one who comes without thirst for power, with stolen memory and a broken heart… will find me.”
She sealed the crack. No one saw.
Except the Hat.
And now, Harry.
Back inside the mind
— There you are. —murmured Harry, raising his hand as if he could touch the memory—. Thank you, Helga… —
The vision dissolved, but a golden light lingered, floating. Harry reached out and took it, as if plucking a feather from the air. The memory’s magic allowed him to wrap it, carry it with him.
Behind him, the Hat’s echo still trembled.
— Who are you? —it asked in a torn voice—. You’re not a child. You shouldn’t know these things. You shouldn’t be able to… steal my memories. —
— I’m not the child you think I am. I’ve lived, I’ve died, and now I’ve come back. Not to save the world. Not to repeat mistakes. This time… —and his eyes gleamed like embers— …this time it’s personal. —
Then, from the darkness, a familiar figure materialized.
A shadow shaped like a young girl, her brown hair falling in quiet waves. Her eyes, still cloaked in twilight, met Harry’s.
She nodded.
And smiled.
Harry smiled back calmly, hand still raised as if holding an invisible promise.
— I found it. —
And the memory faded.
A heavy stillness lay over the Great Hall like a veil. The houses whispered among themselves, confused. The Sorting Hat still rested on the head of a boy who looked too still to be awake… but far too present to be asleep.
The professors exchanged tense glances. Some stepped forward, others held back, afraid to disturb the magic. No one dared to touch young Potter.
He had been sitting there… more than fifteen minutes.
But inside his mind, Harry was no longer arguing.
He had already won.
— It’s been a pleasure, Calatúrien. —
— You are insufferable. —
— And you’re rusty. Give me the sorting and let’s end the show. —
The Hat growled with a mental rumble.
— Fine. Sly—
— I’ve already chosen. I don’t need your voice to manipulate public perception. —
Harry removed the hat with an elegance unusual for an eleven-year-old. He stood, ignoring the gasps from the students.
And before anyone could approach him…
BANG!
A sphere of black smoke burst beneath his robe, releasing a thick mist that smelled of incense and tar. Screams. Confusion. Shadows dancing under the torches. Professors raising their wands. Nothing could be seen.
When the fog cleared, Harry was no longer on the platform.
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In a rarely traveled corridor, the shadows seemed to slide on their own will. Harry emerged from one of them, cloaked in a light robe inscribed with concealment runes. On the other side, another figure also stepped out from the wall, as if the stone itself had granted permission.
“ You took your time “ said a familiar voice. Cold. Soft.
“ The Hat is denser than I remembered “
Hermione.
Or rather, the version of Hermione that was now with him. She looked just as he remembered at that age, had the same smile, her hair more tamed—but most of all, she was wrapped in a darkness he could not quite touch.
It was the same Hermione who had stood by him during the war and after it, the only one who stayed until the end, the one who came back with him to the past, though not in the way either of them had wished. But knowing that death had been both of their fates, the mourning and the tears were long behind them. Now, they had a mission: to be together again in the same plane of life—and they didn’t care what it took.
After all, both of them had died at the hands of those who didn’t need a hero.
“ Did you find it? “
“ Yes. “
“ And did it read? “
“ No. But it suspects. Calatúrien has forgotten nothing. Not even the things it was never meant to know. “
They moved in sync, slipping past two prefects running from the Great Hall. The concealment spells were perfect. No one would see them. No one would remember them.
They arrived at a forgotten section near the main entrance. At first glance, it was just another wall. But Hermione extended her hand and traced a geomantic pattern—one Helga Hufflepuff had created using the latent energy of the school and the earth itself.
“ Pact rune. Blood seal. True intention. “
Harry placed his hand over the pattern. The wall shimmered, subtly, and a small stone compartment opened as if the structure itself had exhaled.
Inside, a book with no title, wrapped in purple cloth with golden edges and written in a dead tongue.
“ Do you know what this is, Harry? “
“ The key to being together again “
“ And are you ready for what comes after? “
“ I’m ready to face death if it means bringing you back to my side again, miome “
He closed the book with steady hands, and without another word, raised his free hand.
Harry tried to take hers—but as always, it passed through. And once more, she gave him that sad smile in return.
And in that moment, both of them vanished, leaving Hogwarts in chaos, unaware that the Chosen One had returned… but not for them.