The train stopped. The corridor filled with the noise of students scrambling for the doors. Edmund followed Arthur and Astrid onto the platform, into the cold September night, and looked up.
Hogsmeade station was small, gaslit, the platform crowded with students of all ages. A voice was calling—*"First years! First years over here!"*—and Edmund saw him: a man in dark robes, lantern raised, his face half-hidden in shadow. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a weathered face that spoke of years spent outdoors. This was Ogg, the Hogwarts gamekeeper who had held the position before Hagrid, a figure mentioned in passing in the books. He was not a character Edmund had expected to meet, but here he was, real and solid, his voice carrying across the platform.
"Firs' years! Follow me! Mind the step!"
He led them away from the platform, down a steep, narrow path that descended toward the lake. Edmund could see the castle in the distance, lit from within, its towers and turrets reflected in the dark water. It was exactly as he had imagined it. Exactly as he had dreamed it.
But seeing it for real, standing on the shore of the lake with the cold wind in his face and the castle rising above him—it was nothing like he had imagined. It was more. More real, more solid, more *there* than any picture or film could ever capture.
"No more than four to a boat!" Ogg called, pointing to a fleet of small wooden boats bobbing at the water's edge.
Edmund climbed into a boat with Arthur, Astrid, and a pale-faced boy who hadn't given his name. The boat moved without oars, gliding across the black water, and Edmund watched the castle grow closer, larger, until it filled his vision.
He thought about Harry Potter, about the first time he had seen Hogwarts, about the wonder and the fear and the hope. He felt all of those things now, and something else besides. A sense of purpose. A sense of beginning.
---
The boats passed through a curtain of ivy, into a dark tunnel, and emerged in a small harbor beneath the castle. Edmund climbed out, his legs unsteady, and followed the crowd up a flight of stone steps, through a door, into a warm, torchlit entrance hall.
A man was waiting for them.
He was older, perhaps in his fifties or sixties, with silver hair and a face that might have been handsome once but was now merely distinguished. His robes were black, his expression stern, and when he spoke, his voice carried the authority of someone who had been in charge for a very long time.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," he said. "I am Phineas Nigellus Black, Headmaster of this school. You will follow me to the Great Hall, where you will be Sorted into your houses. I trust you have all read the school rules and will conduct yourselves accordingly."
His eyes swept over the first years with an expression of mild distaste, as if they were a particularly noisy collection of insects he had been forced to tolerate. Edmund remembered the portrait from the books—the most disliked Headmaster in Hogwarts history, Sirius Black's great-great-grandfather. In the portrait, he had been dismissive and snide. In person, he was worse.
But Edmund said nothing. He stood with the other first years and waited.
---
Professor Black turned and walked toward the great doors at the end of the entrance hall. The doors opened, revealing the Great Hall beyond—the floating candles, the enchanted ceiling, the long tables crowded with students. The room was bathed in gold light, and the noise of conversation washed over them like a wave.
Edmund followed the others inside, his heart beating faster. He was here. After everything—the transmigration, the months of study, the letters and the practice and the waiting—he was finally here.
The system pinged softly.
**Objective Complete: Reach Hogwarts Castle**
*Reward: +50 XP*
**Profile**
**Name:** Edmund Alistair Prince
**Age:** 11
**Level:** 2
**XP:** 178 / 250
**Title:** Hogwarts Student
He dismissed the notification and looked up at the enchanted ceiling, at the thousands of candles floating in the air, at the Sorting Hat sitting on a stool before them, waiting.
The song would come soon. The Sorting would begin. And Edmund Prince, last heir of a fading line, would take his first real step into the wizarding world.
He was ready.
---
The Sorting Hat's song was different from the version Edmund remembered—less about the houses' qualities and more about the Founders themselves, a rhyming history lesson that stretched back a thousand years. He listened, absorbing every word, filing away the details that might be useful later.
When the song ended, Headmaster Black rose from his chair. His voice, when he spoke, carried the effortless authority of a man who had never been ignored in his life.
"When I call your name, you will come forward, sit on the stool, and place the Sorting Hat upon your head. It will assign you to your house. You will then join your housemates at the appropriate table."
He unrolled a long parchment scroll. The hall fell silent.
"Abbott, Harold."
A boy with sandy hair and a nervous expression walked to the stool. The hat dropped over his eyes, paused for a moment, and shouted: "HUFFLEPUFF!"
The Hufflepuff table erupted in applause. Harold Abbott, grinning now, hurried to join them.
Edmund watched, cataloging names. Each one was a thread in the tapestry of the wizarding world. Some he recognized from the books—names that would persist through the wars, families that would endure. Others were unfamiliar, branches of old trees that might wither before the next century turned.
"Avery, Silvanus." A thin, dark-haired boy. "SLYTHERIN."
"Black, Sirius."
Edmund's attention sharpened. The boy who walked to the stool was not the Sirius Black he knew from the books—that Sirius would not be born for another fifty-nine years. This was Sirius Black I, son of Phineas Nigellus, a boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen who had been held back or was being sorted late for reasons Edmund could not guess. He was tall for his age, with the sharp features of his family and the same dark hair that would become a Black trademark. But where the Sirius of Harry's era had rebelled against his family, this Sirius moved with the easy confidence of someone who had never doubted his place in the world.
The hat barely touched his head before shouting "SLYTHERIN."
The Slytherin table applauded. Sirius Black I walked to join them, taking a seat among a cluster of older students who greeted him like a returning prince.
---
The sorting continued. Edmund watched each name with growing interest, learning the shape of his year.
"Carrow, Walburga." A girl with dark hair and a face like carved ice. "SLYTHERIN."
"Crabbe, Elias." The quiet boy who would share Edmund's dormitory. "SLYTHERIN."
"Fawley, Theodore." A quiet boy with spectacles. "HUFFLEPUFF."
"Flint, Barnaby." A broad-shouldered boy with a heavy jaw. "SLYTHERIN."
"Greengrass, Astrid." Astrid walked to the stool with the same calm she had shown on the train. The hat deliberated for a long moment—longer than it had for most—before shouting "SLYTHERIN." She joined their table without expression, taking a seat beside a girl with honey-colored hair.
"Lestrange, Corvus." A boy with sharp features and a smile that did not reach his eyes. "SLYTHERIN."
"Longbottom, Augusta." A girl with a determined set to her jaw. "GRYFFINDOR."
"Malfoy, Abraxas." The pale boy who had passed their compartment on the train walked to the stool with the confidence of someone who had been told his entire life that he was special. The hat barely touched his head before shouting "SLYTHERIN."
"Merrythought, Arthur." Arthur walked to the stool with a spring in his step. The hat fell over his eyes, paused, and shouted "GRYFFINDOR!" Arthur's face split into a grin, and he bounded toward the red-trimmed table, waving once at Edmund.
Edmund smiled. Gryffindor suited Arthur.
---
"Prince, Edmund."
His name. He walked forward, his legs steady despite the pounding of his heart. The stool was cold beneath him. He sat, and the hat was lowered over his eyes.
Darkness. And then a voice, old and dry, whispering in his ear.
*A Prince. The last of your line. I see your mind, Edmund Prince. I see the work you have done, the secrets you carry, the ambition that burns beneath your calm surface. You have the cunning to achieve great things, and the patience to wait for them. You could do well in Ravenclaw—there is a hunger for knowledge in you. Or in Hufflepuff—you value loyalty, fairness. But where to put you...*
Edmund thought, fiercely, *Slytherin.*
The hat chuckled. *Yes. I see it. Ambition enough to build something new, cunning enough to survive the building. And a desire to protect. You would do well in Slytherin, Edmund Prince. Very well indeed.*
And then, to the hall: "SLYTHERIN!"
The Slytherin table erupted in applause. Edmund lifted the hat from his head, his legs suddenly weak with relief, and made his way toward the green-trimmed table. Faces turned to look at him—some welcoming, some assessing, some indifferent. He found a seat near the end, where a cluster of first years were already gathered.
He was a Slytherin. The system had not objected. The hat had seen his ambition and his cunning—but also his desire to protect.
He was exactly where he needed to be.
---