Chapter 9
When Harry saw Hogwarts for the first time from the boat, he finally understood why, in the books, Hogwarts had always felt like home to him. The experience went beyond awe—it wasn’t just the sight of something magical and fantastic. Harry could feel the magic in the air around him, thick and almost tangible. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever known, and it stirred something deep inside him, making him feel as if he were where he truly belonged for the first time in his life.
As the boats docked and they climbed out onto the shore, Harry found himself standing in front of the grand entrance. Hagrid’s booming voice rang out, “Firs’ years, Professor McGonagall.”
"Thank you, Hagrid. I’ll take them from here," said a stern voice.
Harry, now among the crowd of first-years, finally laid eyes on Professor McGonagall. It was surreal to match a face to the name he had read about for so long. She was exactly as he’d imagined—tall, black-haired, with a strict expression that could command respect with just a look.
As they gathered near the entrance, Harry made sure to position himself behind Ron Weasley, hoping to recreate the familiarity he knew from the books. Professor McGonagall began her speech, which was word-for-word from the book. Harry tried to focus, but his mind was already racing with excitement. He kept nervously smoothing down his hair, trying to to hide his famous lightning-shaped scar.
He also noticed something odd: Ron’s nose wasn’t smudged with dirt like it had been in the book. Whoever had sat with him on the train had obviously looked out for him, ensuring Ron arrived at Hogwarts without the usual mess. Another small change from the original timeline.
Just then, Harry heard Ron mutter, "What do you think they're going to make us do? Fred said it hurts a lot, but I reckon he was joking."
Harry recognized the line instantly. It felt like the perfect opening to strike up a conversation with Ron, to establish the connection that he knew would be so important. He opened his mouth, ready to respond, but before he could say anything, there was a loud scream.
Startled, Harry turned to see that a group of students had been startled by the sudden appearance of several ghosts floating through the walls. The transparent figures glided effortlessly through the air, each one wearing robes from a different era. Their ancient, flowing wizarding garments were unlike anything Harry had ever seen, both familiar and completely otherworldly. It was nothing like the history books or movies about ghosts that he had seen in the Muggle world—these ghosts carried an air of magical history with them, adding to the mystery and wonder of Hogwarts.
Professor McGonagall returned moments later, calling the first-years to line up. Harry fell into line behind Ron, trying to calm his nerves as they were led into the Great Hall. But no amount of reading could have prepared him for the breathtaking sight of the room. The enchanted ceiling glittered with stars above them, mirroring the night sky outside, while hundreds of floating candles illuminated the four long house tables.
The moment the Sorting Hat burst into song, Harry felt the weight of his anxiety ease slightly. The familiarity of the scene helped steady his nerves. He knew what was coming, yet his heart still raced as Professor McGonagall began calling names.
One by one, his future classmates were sorted. Harry listened carefully, matching names to faces he knew from the books: Susan Bones, niece of Madam Bones; Lavender Brown, who would join him in Gryffindor; Crabbe, with his dull expression. Harry's gaze darted across the Hall, observing the students whose names he recognized.
When Hermione Granger was sorted into Gryffindor, Harry heard Ron groan next to him and couldn't help but chuckle quietly. At least some things hadn’t changed.
As more names were called—Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy, Padma and Parvati Patil—Harry felt his nerves creeping back. Then, Professor McGonagall's voice rang out, clear and firm: "Harry Potter."
A ripple of excited whispers swept through the hall as every eye turned to him. Even though Harry had expected this reaction, having read it in the books, he still didn’t have the courage to meet anyone’s gaze as he walked forward and sat on the stool.
The Sorting Hat was placed on his head, and almost immediately, a small voice spoke in his ear. “Hmm… Difficult. Very difficult.”
Harry’s heart raced as the Hat considered him. He knew what he needed to do.
"Gryffindor," Harry thought firmly. "Please, put me in Gryffindor. That’s where I need to be."
The Hat hummed thoughtfully in response. “Curious... Very curious indeed. I see ambition in you, yes, and resourcefulness. You could do great things in Slytherin, you know. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather—”
"No, please," Harry interrupted, a sense of urgency building in his chest. "I have to be in Gryffindor. It’s where I belong."
The Hat paused again, considering Harry’s request. “Ah, I see. You’ve already set yourself a very difficult task. You’re determined, that much is clear.
Very well, then…”
“GRYFFINDOR!” the Hat shouted aloud.
The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers, and Harry breathed a sigh of relief as the Hat was lifted from his head. His legs felt weak with both relief and exhaustion as he made his way over to join his new housemates. His mind was still reeling from the encounter with the Hat. For a brief moment, Slytherin had seemed like a possibility. But now, sitting at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by cheers and warm smiles, Harry knew he had made the right choice.
He glanced down the table, catching Ron’s eye as he sat down. Ron was staring at him, wide-eyed and speechless, but Harry was quickly and warmly welcomed by the rest of the Gryffindor students. As the Sorting continued, Harry joined in clapping for each new addition to Gryffindor, feeling a growing sense of belonging with every cheer. When Ron was finally sorted into Gryffindor, he took the seat beside Harry, still casting him curious looks, as though he couldn’t quite believe he was sitting next to the Harry Potter.
Throughout the feast, Harry chatted with the other boys at the table, noticing that with each passing minute, they stopped gawking at him as though he were some kind of zoo exhibit. The initial shock of being in such close proximity to the Boy Who Lived was starting to wear off. But even as he exchanged pleasantries with Seamus, Neville, and Dean, Harry found himself focusing most of his attention on Ron. He wanted their friendship to develop naturally, just as it had in the books, and he found himself enjoying Ron's company.
It wasn’t just because Ron’s friendship was key to many of the events in the books. It was also because, for the first time in his life, Harry had the chance to make a real friend. There was a part of him, long neglected and starved of companionship, that craved this connection deeply. He wanted Ron to trust him, and he wanted to be able to trust Ron in return.
When the food appeared on the tables, Harry’s jaw nearly dropped. He had never seen so much food in one place before—so much food that he was allowed to eat. The feast was overwhelming in both its variety and abundance, and Harry found himself helping to everything from roast chicken to mashed potatoes, barely knowing where to start.
Beside him, Ron had stuffed his plate full and was already tucking in with enthusiasm, his mouth full to bursting. Harry had to smile at the sight. It felt so normal, so right, to be here among friends, enjoying a meal like any other eleven-year-old wizard. As the initial hunger wore off, Harry began to relax and look around the hall.
The first thing that caught his attention was the staff table. From the descriptions in the books, Harry could identify several of the teachers. Hagrid and Professor McGonagall were seated prominently, with McGonagall looking just as stern as ever. Further down, Harry spotted Professor Quirrell, nervously adjusting his ridiculous purple turban. But what really drew Harry’s gaze was the man sitting next to Quirrell—a sallow-faced, hook-nosed man dressed entirely in black. There was no mistaking him: this was Professor Snape.
Sitting just beyond Snape was a small professor with an impish appearance—Professor Flitwick, Harry guessed, the Charms teacher with a likely goblin heritage. Harry’s gaze traveled further down the table, where he saw a tall professor with a missing hand. This, Harry knew, was Professor Kettleburn, who taught Care of Magical Creatures before Hagrid took over in Harry’s third year.
Harry also recognized Filch, the dour caretaker of the school, Professor Hooch a flying teacher with short hair and piercing gaze, the plump and a kind-looking witch who must be Professor Sprout, the Herbology professor. However, there were other faces Harry couldn’t place—three women, the youngest of them was particularly memorable, with white hair and a pale complexion that made her look almost like one of Hogwart ghost. Her white robes only added to the effect, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder who she was. She certainly didn’t resemble Trelawney, the Divination professor described in the books, and Harry had no memory of ever reading about her.
And then, of course, there was Dumbledore. The headmaster sat at the center of the staff table, wearing a brilliantly colored robe that seemed to shimmer with every movement. His long, silver beard flowed down to his chest, and his twinkling blue eyes scanned the hall, exuding an air of calm and wisdom. But as Harry watched him, he felt something strange stir inside him—an uneasy mixture of awe, admiration, and... doubt.
In the books, Dumbledore had always been portrayed as the ultimate figure of good, a wise and powerful leader who guided Harry through his journey. But now, after everything Harry had learned, things didn’t seem so black and white. Dumbledore knew more than he ever let on, controlled more than Harry had ever realized. The headmaster had influenced his life from the very beginning—leaving him with the Dursleys, withholding crucial information, and guiding events in ways that didn’t always seem to have Harry’s best interests in mind.
The more Harry thought about it, the more he wondered just how much control Dumbledore truly had. He wasn’t just the headmaster of Hogwarts—he was a political figure in the wizarding world, the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, and the one person everyone seemed to look to for guidance. How much of Harry’s future had already been determined by this one man?
For a moment, as Harry watched Dumbledore smile serenely from the staff table, he felt a twinge of unease. Could Dumbledore be trusted as fully as the books had suggested? Or was there more to the headmaster than Harry had been led to believe?
Ron’s voice interrupted Harry’s thoughts. “Blimey, this is the best food I’ve ever had!” he exclaimed through a mouthful of roast beef.
Harry forced a smile and nodded in agreement, though his mind was still racing. He would have to keep a close eye on Dumbledore. As much as Harry wanted to believe in the old man’s wisdom and good intentions, he couldn’t ignore the nagging doubts in his mind. Too much had changed—too much was at stake.
For now, though, he let himself enjoy the feast. There would be time to sort everything out later.