"Don't let the world tell you who you are." — John Green
Harriet had already completed the train ride back to Hogwarts.
The chatter, the sweets, the nervous laughter of first-years packed into the corridors—it had all happened almost on autopilot. She barely remembered sitting down in a compartment, barely recalled the scenery rushing past the windows. Some journeys no longer required attention. They had become routine, ingrained, almost mechanical.
Now, however, she was fully present.
The Great Hall was exactly as she remembered it.
Four long tables stretched beneath the enchanted ceiling, candles floating serenely in midair, their flames casting a warm glow over hundreds of students dressed in black robes trimmed with their House colors. The staff table stood at the front, elevated just enough to remind everyone where authority resided.
And at the center of it all stood the Sorting Hat.
Watching first-years being Sorted always stirred something uncomfortable in her chest.
Nostalgia, perhaps. Or unease.
It was difficult not to remember her own arrival—how huge everything had felt, how loud the Hall had seemed, how her heart had raced while waiting for a piece of enchanted fabric to decide her future in front of an audience. The nervous hope. The fear of being judged. The desperate wish to belong somewhere.
From the outside, now, it was painfully easy to see the flaws.
Centuries ago, the system might have made sense. When magical education was fragmented, when disciplines were closely tied to philosophy, temperament, and specialization. Grouping students based on inclination could have streamlined teaching, fostered mastery.
But now?
All classes were shared. All subjects taught to everyone. The Houses no longer represented paths of study—they were brands. Labels assigned to eleven-year-olds before they had any real sense of who they were.
And labels stuck.
You couldn't claim love everyone… yet judge children the moment they arrived.
Not when you allowed them to be categorized, compared, stereotyped.
You already failed at that moment, Dumbledore, Harriet thought coolly.
No matter what speeches you give afterward.
"Gryffindor!"
The word rang out clearly across the Great Hall.
For a split second, the small Asian girl froze—then her face lit up like she had just been handed the world itself.
Sakaki Mutsuko, eleven years old, practically bounced as she removed the Sorting Hat. She bowed reflexively to Professor McGonagall—again, actually bowed—before hurrying toward the Gryffindor table, nearly tripping over the hem of her robes in her enthusiasm.
Applause erupted in red and gold.
Harriet watched her closely.
Mutsuko was short, slim, her black hair tied back with almost military neatness, but there was nothing restrained about her expression now. Her burgundy eyes shone brightly, darting everywhere—taking in the Hall, the candles, the ceiling, the students.
And then—
Her gaze landed on Harriet.
It lingered.
She looked away quickly, only to glance back again moments later, cheeks faintly flushed. Excitement buzzed through her entire posture, like she was barely containing herself. Whatever nerves she had were being drowned out by something much stronger.
Awe.
Or admiration.
Or both.
Ah, Harriet thought dryly.
One of those.
If this world truly was some strange hybrid of wizarding Britain and manga logic, then colorful-eyed, overly earnest Gryffindors who latched onto someone they found impressive made a certain kind of sense.
Mutsuko finally sat down among her new Housemates, but even then, she kept sneaking glances in Harriet's direction, as if checking whether she was really there.
Harriet sighed inwardly.
Wonderful. Another one enchanted by me… well, at least she's an adorable little thing.
Then—
"Ahem."
The sound alone was enough to sour the mood.
Dolores Umbridge stood up from the staff table, her pink cardigan and saccharine smile clashing violently with the ancient stone and solemn atmosphere of the Hall. She cleared her throat again, clasping her hands together as though addressing a tea party rather than a school of young witches and wizards.
She began speaking.
Something about the Ministry. About order. About tradition. About how Hogwarts would benefit from guidance. From oversight. From structure.
Harriet barely listened.
She didn't need to.
She remembered this speech. The careful phrasing designed to sound reasonable while hollowing out autonomy from the inside. The passive-aggressive insistence that the Ministry knew best. That deviation was dangerous. That control equaled safety.
Around Umbridge, the other professors looked like they'd swallowed insects.
McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin line. Snape's expression was dark, unreadable—but displeased. Flitwick avoided looking at Umbridge altogether. Sprout stared down at the table as though counting imaginary knots in the wood.
Even Dumbledore had developed a small tic.
A tightening at the corner of his eye. A slight tap of his fingers against the armrest.
Honestly, Harriet thought, unimpressed.
You really should have thought twice before setting all of this in motion, you old goat.
As Umbridge droned on, Harriet's gaze drifted back to the first-years, seated stiffly at their tables, eyes wide, absorbing everything without the filters that older students had developed.
They didn't understand yet.
They didn't know how deeply tonight would mark them.
How a single word shouted across the Hall could shape expectations, friendships, rivalries—how it could follow them for years, long after they outgrew the traits it supposedly represented.
The feast finally began.
Platters appeared all at once, steaming dishes filling the long tables with warmth and noise. The hall relaxed visibly, tension melting into appetite. Laughter rose, cutlery clinked, conversations overlapped in a familiar chaos that Hogwarts excelled at producing.
Harriet, however, spoke little.
Hermione, seated beside her, did most of the talking—recounting her summer in meticulous detail, moving effortlessly from house-elves to educational reform to obscure clauses in wizarding labor law. It was classic Hermione. Passionate, sincere, relentless.
Harriet listened with half an ear, nodding occasionally.
In the original timeline, Ron would have hovered around Harry like a jealous satellite, guarding his proximity to fame as if it were personal property. But in this life, it seemed Ronald Weasley had decided that following girls around—especially famous ones—was more effort than it was worth.
Instead, Ginny had quietly taken his place in what could generously be called a semi-trio.
She was sharper than Ron had ever been, less needy, less parasitic. She didn't cling. She spoke when she had something to say and listened when she didn't. That alone made her easier to tolerate.
Harriet and Hermione also had loose, intermittent contact with Parvati and her dormmate—Lavender Brown, if Harriet recalled correctly. They shared meals, sometimes classes, occasional conversations.
But friends?
Not really.
It was difficult to make genuine friends when you were a symbol before you were a person. Harriet hadn't gone out of her way to seek companionship either. Now that she had seen a glimpse of the wider world—real dangers, real power, real consequences—school friendships felt… secondary.
Not useless.
Just not essential.
What was unpleasant, however, was the attention.
The glances.
The pauses in conversation when she entered the Hall. The subtle shifts in posture. The way people's eyes flicked toward her and away again, as if looking too long might be dangerous.
Ah, Harriet thought dryly.
They've read the papers.
Some of them believed her. Others didn't. But everyone knew something had happened.
More unsettling than that, though, was Malfoy.
He stared at her openly, hatred sharp and unfiltered. That much was expected—after all, his father's disgrace had her fingerprints all over it.
What wasn't expected was his restraint.
He hadn't bothered her on the train. Hadn't made a single comment. No insults. No smug remarks. No public provocation.
That silence was far worse.
Yes, Harriet concluded calmly.
He's planning something.
Revenge, most likely. A desperate attempt to reclaim lost pride. To avenge his "poor old father."
She felt no sympathy.
According to Mr. For The Greater Good, Draco Malfoy was still just a child—someone who hadn't learned to distinguish right from wrong.
Harriet disagreed.
Children learned far more from example than from philosophy, and Draco had been steeped in his father's ideology since birth. Even if he hadn't been, intent mattered more than excuses.
If he tried to hurt her, she would respond.
And she would not hesitate.
She had never had pity for her enemies.
In the end, the conclusion was simple: she was ostracized again.
But this time, it wasn't absolute.
Some believed her. Some knew the truth. Others pretended not to care.
It wasn't as bad as last year.
The feast eventually came to an end.
Students rose from the tables, conversations trailing off as prefects began herding first-years toward their dormitories. Harriet exchanged a few quiet words with her roommates—Hermione, Parvati, and Lavender—before heading up to Gryffindor Tower.
That night, as she lay in bed and stared at the dark canopy above her, a single thought settled in her mind.
This year is going to be long.
But it would also be a year of reconstruction.
She had already retrieved the Slytherin locket.
It remained unopened, sealed under layers of protection. She had plans for it—plans that didn't require heroic speeches or front-line battles.
Plans that would let her win this war without bleeding for it.
And that, she decided as sleep finally claimed her, was perfect.
Harriet woke up at six in the morning.
The dormitory was quiet, the kind of silence that only existed in the brief window before the castle truly stirred. Classes didn't start until eight, which left her with time—time she usually spent productively. Training, studying, thinking.
This morning, she chose something simpler.
A jog.
She dressed in light sportswear—nothing magical, nothing fancy—and tied her hair back before slipping out of the dormitory. She had run around the lake before, a handful of times. It was quiet, open, and for a short while, Hogwarts almost felt like a normal place.
When she reached the common room, she paused.
Someone was already there.
Small. Straight-backed. Alert.
Sakaki Mutsuko.
The eleven-year-old was standing near the fireplace, already fully dressed, eyes shining with barely contained excitement. The moment she spotted Harriet, her entire face lit up.
"SAVIOR!" she shouted, rushing toward her.
Harriet froze.
Fantastic, she thought flatly.
"Do you have a cheat?" Mutsuko continued rapidly, words spilling out like she'd been holding them in all night. "How did you defeat the Dark Lord as a baby? Was it instinct? A sixth sense? Did time slow down for you? Were you reincarnated with a legendary artifact? Did a goddess choose you after you died in your previous life and let you keep your memories—"
"Time out," Harriet interrupted, holding up a hand. "What are you even talking about?"
For a split second, her excitement wavered, and Mutsuko's small hands trembled as she clutched the hem of her robes. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the hesitation vanished, replaced by a grin so wide it seemed to swallow her face. Harriet noticed—something so earnest it almost hurt
"I knew it," she said in a reverent tone. "I knew the extraordinary hid behind the mundane. Just like in the mangas and light novels I read. Nobody believed me before I got my letter. They even told me not to talk about it."
She leaned in, eyes sparkling.
"After discovering this world, I researched you. There are books. So many books. Is it all true? Did you save a prince in distress imprisoned by a dragon? Or was it a princess? Do you have a hidden system interface that will activate when the resurrected Dark Lord returns?"
Harriet's lips twitched. She almost smiled, almost said something kind—but she settled for a quiet, exasperated sigh instead.
Harriet stared at her.
Then it clicked.
Chuunibiyou.
Of course.
She remembered the term from her previous life—teenagers convinced they were chosen, special, living in a hidden narrative just beneath reality. Except this time, reality actually was magical.
That probably didn't help.
"Sorry to disappoint, kid," Harriet said calmly. "But I'm just a normal witch. Everything else is marketing. I survived because my mother protected me. All the credit goes to her."
Mutsuko didn't look disappointed in the slightest.
"That's fine!" she declared cheerfully. "I heard what happened in the years after, and I'm sure you're extraordinary anyway. Just like me."
She puffed out her chest proudly.
"I've decided I'm going to be your friend and follow you. I even fit the protagonist template. I'm an orphan."
Harriet's expression softened for just a fraction of a second.
Then she noticed that Mutsuko herself didn't linger on it, didn't slow down or look for sympathy.
So Harriet said nothing.
"Protagonists have to stick together," Mutsuko continued smugly. "Oh—you're going running? Wait, I'm coming too!"
Before Harriet could object, Mutsuko sprinted back toward the dormitories. Exactly one minute later, she reappeared in sports clothes, perfectly prepared.
Harriet opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then sighed.
"…Fine," she muttered. "Let's go."
They left the castle together, the early morning air cool and crisp. The grounds were peaceful, mist hovering faintly above the grass. Mutsuko talked nonstop, striking dramatic poses mid-sentence, rambling about other worlds, hidden realms, secret bloodlines.
Harriet let it wash over her.
When they started running, she expected the girl to fall behind almost immediately.
She didn't.
Harriet increased her pace.
Mutsuko stayed with her.
She pushed harder, lengthening her stride, breathing steadily.
Still there.
For an eleven-year-old, it was absurd.
"How are you keeping up?" Harriet finally asked.
Mutsuko grinned.
"It's simple," she said. "Efficient running."
She explained it proudly, like a lecture she'd been waiting to give.
"Shorter strides, higher cadence. Keep your steps light—don't slam your feet. Land midfoot, not on your heels. Breathe rhythmically: two steps in, two steps out. Keep your shoulders relaxed. Most people waste energy by tensing up."
She straightened her posture slightly as she ran.
"It's used in military conditioning. You don't run to look cool, you run to survive. If you get summoned to another world, stamina is essential."
Harriet stared at her for a second.
Then she stopped running entirely.
And laughed.
A real laugh. Unrestrained. From deep in her chest.
"Hey! That's not funny!" Mutsuko protested, skidding to a halt beside her.
"I'm not laughing at you," Harriet said between breaths. "It's just—never mind. We're not done yet. Come on."
They kept running.
This time, Harriet actually talked back.
She corrected Mutsuko occasionally. Asked questions. Teased her gently. Mutsuko, in turn, grew even more animated, delighted at being taken seriously.
As the lake came into view, sunlight began creeping over the horizon.
Harriet realized something then.
Yes, Mutsuko was absolutely chuunibiyou.
But unlike most, she prepared. She trained. She believed—and acted accordingly.
In this absurd wizarding world, that was oddly refreshing.
And for the first time that morning, Harriet thought:
…This year might not be so bad after all.