The unpleasantness of the train station confrontation—the shouting, the bitterness, the sneering face of Sampur Travers—was swiftly pushed from the minds of the first years, replaced by a potent cocktail of apprehension and awe.
Hagrid, towering and protective, ushered the group down the final winding path. The air grew damp and cold, carrying the scent of moss and wet earth, until they emerged onto a narrow, gravelly shore.
"Everyone on the boats! No more than four to a boat!" Hagrid's voice echoed across the inky, black surface of the lake.
Anduin, Charles, and Vivian quickly found a small, sturdy boat, joining a quiet, pale-faced girl with neat blonde hair.
"Hello, I'm Orianna," the girl said with a shy smile.
"Orianna, lovely to meet you! I'm Vivian, and these two taciturn gentlemen are Anduin and Charles. Ladies, find your comfortable seats, and the gentlemen will manage the rowing," Vivian declared instantly, taking charge with the authority of someone accustomed to directing her new acquaintances.
Anduin and Charles exchanged an almost theatrical look of resignation before picking up the oars. Anduin, however, quickly realized the futility of their labor. The boat was charmed; their rowing was merely a symbolic gesture. The vessel moved with a smooth, purposeful glide, following an invisible course across the still water.
Vivian, ever the repository of school legends, whispered, "They say this is mandatory. It's to ensure every first year follows the exact path of the four founders when they first discovered the location. Each boat, four people: four founders. It's a beautiful tradition, isn't it?"
Anduin looked across the lake. The view was breathtaking, unlike anything he had imagined. The castle was an impossible silhouette, impossibly grand. Every turret and battlement was outlined against the dark sky by the warm, amber glow spilling from the windows.
It was not merely a building; it was an entire mountain of carved stone and ancient, solidified magic, rising directly from the steep banks. He tried to imagine the awe the four original founders must have felt approaching this place—the culmination of their shared ambition.
The silence, broken only by the gentle lap-lap of the boat against the water, amplified the castle's majestic presence.
Soon, the boats slid into a vast, cavernous boathouse built into the base of the cliff.
"Out you get! Follow me!" Hagrid commanded, holding his sputtering lantern high.
They disembarked and began the arduous climb up a long, winding stone staircase carved directly into the cliff face. The physical strain of the ascent after hours on the train brought a welcome clarity to Anduin's mind. They emerged, breathless, onto smooth, flat ground where the massive oak front doors of the castle loomed before them.
Hagrid led them through the doors into the Entrance Hall—a chamber so vast, Anduin had to crane his neck to take it all in. The torchlight reflected off the flagstone floor, and grand marble staircases spiraled upward into the gloom.
Waiting for them at the foot of the stairs was a severe-looking witch in emerald-green robes: Professor Minerva McGonagall. Her hawk-like gaze swept over the crowd of young wizards, pausing momentarily when it landed on Anduin.
In that brief flicker, Anduin read a complex mix of professional relief—thank goodness he didn't perish in Knockturn Alley—and stern, academic disapproval—he is entirely too much trouble for a boy who hasn't even been sorted yet.
"Professor McGonagall, the first years, all accounted for," Hagrid announced.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I appreciate your assistance," she replied, her voice crisp and precise. As Hagrid lumbered off, she turned her full attention to the nervous assembly. "Welcome to Hogwarts. The start-of-term feast is moments away, but before you take your seats, you must first be sorted into your Houses."
She launched into a thorough explanation. The Houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—would serve as their families within the school, forging unbreakable bonds and providing instruction. She emphasized two things with particular intensity: the need for good conduct and the importance of the House Cup.
"Your triumphs will earn points; any infraction of the rules will lose points," she articulated, her gaze unblinking. "At the end of the year, the House with the most points will be awarded the House Cup, a great honour."
Anduin listened, a cynical smile forming in his mind. Ah, the classic psychological manipulation. Frame every minor decision as a matter of collective, public honour, and these excitable children will police each other relentlessly. He already knew what this meant: the Houses wouldn't be families; they would be fiercely competitive, insular tribes. He predicted that the intense pressure for point accumulation would lead to reckless point-losing behavior from the very students who desired to win the most.
Professor McGonagall concluded her instructions and gave the students a brief smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She pointed toward a side door and informed them she would return shortly.
The tension in the air was thick. The students shifted nervously, glancing at the marble walls. Anduin noticed the magnificent four hourglasses flanking the entrance to the Great Hall. They were monumental, each several feet high and topped with the symbolic animal of a House—the lion, the eagle, the badger, and the serpent.
The mechanism was subtle: instead of sand, each hourglass was currently empty, waiting to be filled with countless glittering jewels—ruby, sapphire, yellow topaz, and emerald—representing the points to be won and lost. The emptiness symbolized a great, looming zero-sum competition about to begin.
Vivian, unable to contain her nerves, grabbed Anduin's arm. "Anduin, are you nervous? What if they give us an exam? I swear I spent the whole summer talking, and now I can't remember the uses of a Leaping Toadstool!"
Anduin offered her a gentle, reassuring tap on the shoulder. "The Sorting Ceremony is not an academic test, Vivian. It assesses disposition and character, which you have plenty of." And which you've spent the whole summer publicly displaying, he added internally.
A few minutes later, Professor McGonagall returned. She led the hushed crowd to a pair of massive double doors, throwing them wide open.
The Great Hall was a staggering revelation. Anduin had imagined grand; this was transcendent. The sheer scale was breathtaking. Hundreds of floating candles illuminated the space, suspended impossibly in mid-air. He immediately looked up, searching for the ceiling, but found none.
Instead, a vast, star-studded Enchanted Ceiling arched above them, flawlessly mirroring the deep, crisp, night sky outside. The effect was immediate and dizzying, making the hall feel like an open-air pavilion beneath the heavens.
Four long tables—one for each House—stretched away, already filled with hundreds of students who turned as one to scrutinize the new arrivals. At the head of the Hall, perpendicular to the others, was the High Table, where the professors were seated.
In the space between the front of the tables and the High Table stood a simple three-legged stool. Upon it rested a centuries-old, patched, and frayed wizard's hat: the Sorting Hat.
As the first years shuffled to a stop, the Hat began its annual introductory performance. It launched into a song that was, to Anduin's musically sensitive ears, an instrument of absolute torture. The voice was a gravelly, out-of-tune howl, like a rusted ship's mast scraping against granite. It wasn't merely flat; it was aggressively dissonant, a dreadful, wailing recitation of ancient history.
The Hat's attempts at soaring high notes were punctuated by what sounded like a dying bassoon choked with dust. Anduin endured the screeching monologue on House virtues and unity, thinking grimly that this dreadful racket alone would be enough to guarantee a high turnover rate for the House Cup—simply to avoid hearing it again.
The final, awful note concluded, and polite applause rippled through the Hall. Professor McGonagall, holding a long roll of parchment, stepped forward.
"The Sorting Ceremony now begins. When your name is called, you will step forward and be sorted."
"Orianna Sinclair!"
The girl who had shared their boat walked forward, her paleness contrasting sharply with the deep brown of the stool. The Hat descended onto her head.
A few tense seconds passed. Then, with a confident shout: "RAVENCLAW!"
Orianna, her face alight with relief, scurried toward the cheering table. The ritual proceeded with the solemn precision of a magical rite.
Soon, Professor McGonagall called: "Vivian Bulstrode!"
Vivian walked up, her nervousness replaced by an almost defiant air of pure-blood destiny. The hat settled. The wait was shorter than Orianna's.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Vivian beamed, marching to the green and silver table where a cluster of older students, including a familiar dark-haired figure, cheered with restrained formality.
"Charles McKinnon!"
Charles marched to the stool with a resolute jaw and the look of a man about to face a deadly duel. He clearly knew where he belonged, and he was ready for the commitment.
"GRYFFINDOR!" the Hat boomed. Charles's face broke into a relieved, fierce grin as he joined the thunderously cheering red-and-gold table.
Then came the name that tightened the knot of unease in Anduin's stomach.
"Sampur Travers!"
The arrogant boy swaggered up to the stool, glancing deliberately at the Gryffindor table. The Hat barely touched his dark hair.
"SLYTHERIN!"
Anduin sighed internally. Vivian will have her hands full. It was clear that the political rivalries of the platform would now be playing out in the common room.
The names continued to be called, the Great Hall growing steadily fuller. Anduin realized how quickly this whole process was moving. His heart gave a nervous hitch—not of fear, but of anticipation.
"Anduin Wilson!" Professor McGonagall announced, her voice cutting through the hall.
So, this is it. Anduin stepped out of the group, walking toward the stool that would decide his fate.