The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall swung open, revealing a breathtaking expanse of floating candles and a ceiling that mirrored the star-strewn night sky. Harry stepped forward, perfectly schooling his features into a mask of wide-eyed, innocent wonder.
Behind the awe, his emerald eyes coldly analyzed the room, mapping the exits and assessing the professors at the High Table.
Flanking him was a carefully curated circle of allies: Neville Longbottom, standing tall and confident thanks to his parents' recovery; Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott, chatting quietly; and Hermione Granger, muttering excitedly about Hogwarts: A History.
At the center of the High Table, Albus Dumbledore leaned forward, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. The moment he had waited a decade for had finally arrived. Wanting to gauge the boy's state of mind, Dumbledore cast a subtle, wandless sweep of Legilimency toward Harry, expecting to find the timid, pliable thoughts of an abused orphan.
Instead, his mental probe struck a wall of solid, unyielding magic.
Dumbledore blinked, momentarily startled. Down on the floor, Harry shifted his gaze, putting on a brilliant act of wariness as he looked around, rubbing his hands together nervously. The movement caught the candlelight, illuminating a heavy silver ring on the boy's right index finger.
The Headmaster's breath hitched slightly. It was a Mikaelson-crafted Heir Ring.
The Mikaelson family's magical artifacts were world-renowned, famous for their flawless enchantments and impenetrable defensive wards. How had Harry Potter acquired such a thing? Dumbledore's mind raced before settling on a logical, if irritating, conclusion.
Ragnok. The goblin director of Gringotts had been aggressively advertising the Mikaelson warding rings to high-profile clients. Of course the goblins would push one onto their wealthiest orphan the moment he entered the bank.
Dumbledore smoothed his beard, his grandfatherly smile returning. It was an annoyance, certainly, to be locked out of the boy's mind, but it wouldn't hamper his grand designs. Beside him, Severus Snape sneered, his dark eyes locked on Harry with palpable, bitter annoyance. Dumbledore merely patted his colleague's arm, unbothered.
"Abbott, Hannah!" Professor McGonagall called out, unrolling the parchment.
One by one, the students were sorted.
Hannah and Susan went to Hufflepuff, while Neville and Hermione took their places at the Gryffindor table. Finally, the Great Hall fell into a sudden, breathless hush.
"Potter, Harry!"
Whispers erupted like a swarm of hissing bees as Harry stepped up to the stool. He kept his posture unassuming, sliding onto the wood as McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat onto his head. It slipped down over his eyes, plunging him into darkness.
Well, well, well, a dry voice echoed in his mind. What an absolutely fascinating puzzle you are, Mr. Potter. Defenses crafted by the immortals, and a mind sharpened by vampires. You wear the mask of a lamb, but underneath... oh, the ambition. The cunning. The sheer, ruthless drive to survive and conquer.
Thank my family, Harry thought smoothly.
Indeed. You would devour them all in Slytherin. You have the makings of a snake king. It is where you truly belong.
No, Harry fired back, his mental voice ironclad.Put me in Gryffindor.
Gryffindor ? The Hat sounded genuinely amused. With your mind? You are playing a dangerous game, hiding your true nature from those who would use you.
Exactly,Harry replied, recalling Klaus's viciously practical lessons and Elijah's quiet wisdom. A true Slytherin doesn't paint a target on his back by wearing green and silver and announcing his cunning to his enemies. The greatest predators hide in the tall grass. Put me in the Lion's Den. Let them think I am exactly what they expect.
The Hat chuckled, a low, raspy sound that echoed in Harry's skull. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. You will give the Headmaster quite the headache, I foresee. Very well, if you are certain...
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The Hat shouted the word to the entire hall. The Gryffindor table erupted into deafening cheers, the Weasley twins chanting, "We got Potter!"
Harry slipped the hat off, shooting a bright, utterly convincing smile toward Dumbledore as he walked to his new table, a wolf expertly disguised among the sheep.
At the High Table, Albus Dumbledore settled back into his golden chair, a soft, satisfied sigh escaping his lips. Everything was falling perfectly into place. The momentary hiccup with the Heir Ring was entirely forgotten in the face of Harry's sorting. The boy was in Gryffindor, right where he belonged, right where Dumbledore could mold him into the beacon of light the wizarding world needed.
Next to him, Severus Snape gripped his goblet so tightly his knuckles turned white. His dark eyes drilled into the back of Harry's head as the boy laughed at a joke from one of the Weasley twins.
"Just like his father," Snape muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with venom. "An arrogant, attention-seeking bastard."
Dumbledore merely smiled, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. "Now, Severus, we must give the boy a chance to forge his own path."
Neither the great Legilimens nor the brilliant Headmaster realized how utterly they had been played. They saw exactly what they expected to see: James Potter's son, a brave, foolish Gryffindor. They didn't see the predator hiding in plain sight.
Across the Atlantic, deep within the mountainous forests of Mount Greylock, the atmosphere at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was decidedly less tense. In fact, for Hope Mikaelson, it was dreadfully boring.
She lay on a lush patch of grass near the edge of the school's wards, her head resting comfortably on Alexander's chest. The Dark Fey had his massive, dark wings folded neatly behind him, radiating a comfortable, grounding warmth. It was their third year, and while the magical education was adequate, it severely lacked the life-or-death stakes they were both so accustomed to.
Hope sighed dramatically, tracing idle patterns on Alexander's shirt. "I really want to transfer to Hogwarts already," she complained, her voice laced with a heavy dose of teenage restlessness. "Harry gets to fight trolls and dark wizards, and every year sounds so exciting. But here at Ilvermorny? Everything is just so dull."
Alexander chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against her cheek. He shifted slightly, gently moving a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear. His sharp, otherworldly features softened as he looked down at her.
"We can always find our own entertainment," Alexander replied smoothly. "We could hunt down Greyback. Your father wants a go at him, anyway. Katana and Noble have been tracking his pack for weeks."
At the mention of hunting the infamous, savage werewolf, Hope's posture changed instantly. The boredom melted from her features. For a fraction of a second, her irises flared a brilliant, glowing gold—the undeniable mark of her crescent wolf heritage rising to the surface, thrilled by the prospect of a true hunt.
"That," Hope said, a wicked, Mikaelson smirk pulling at her lips, "is a brilliant idea."
Sitting up, she held out her hand, channeling a surge of raw, ancient magic. A flickering ball of magical fire materialized in her palm. She whispered her message into the flames, detailing their plans for a weekend 'field trip,' and with a flick of her wrist, sent the fire message hurtling through the air, disappearing as it crossed the Atlantic toward her father.
They didn't have to wait long. Within minutes, a burst of embers materialized in front of them, reforming into a crisp, heavily embossed piece of parchment that fluttered down into Hope's hands.
She read it and laughed, passing the note to Alexander.
In elegant, sweeping cursive, Klaus had written:
My Littlest Wolf,
Nothing would bring me greater joy than some quality father-daughter bonding over the agonizing demise of that filthy, overgrown mutt. I shall meet you at the coordinates. However, I am severely annoyed that your feathered shadow is tagging along. Tell the bird-boy to stay out of my way when the blood starts flowing.
Always and Forever,
Dad