Chapter Text
The Hogwarts Express puffed out a gentle hiss of steam as it trundled out of King’s Cross Station, the city falling away behind like a fading memory. Inside one of the crimson-carpeted compartments, two eleven-year-old boys sat across from each other. One wore a knitted maroon sweater that screamed “homemade,” the other was leafing through a book with the sort of casual boredom only a genius could pull off.
“So I’m Ron, Ron Weasley. All my brothers went to Hogwarts. Mum’s already said I better not get expelled like Fred and George almost did last year,” said the redhead between chews of a corned beef sandwich that was more bread than beef.
Harry Potter blinked slowly at him, tucked his book— Intermediate Charms for Clever Young Witches and Wizards —under his elbow, and offered a polite, if distracted, smile.
“Fascinating. You said there are seven Weasley children?” Harry asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just wondering how long your parents went without sleep.”
Ron blinked, unsure if he should be impressed or insulted. “So, d’you reckon you’ll be in Gryffindor? That’s where all my family was. Well, except maybe Percy. He’s more like an accountant with a wand.”
Harry leaned his head back against the window and let out a breath. “Gryffindor’s bold. Brave. Lots of jumping off things without calculating terminal velocity. I prefer Slytherin’s subtlety, but their alumni list reads like a villain’s LinkedIn. Ravenclaw is too smug. Hufflepuff is underappreciated. If I go there, I’ll lead a rebranding campaign.”
Ron stared.
“Mate, did you eat a dictionary?”
“Just the Oxford Concise,” Harry said with a smirk.
Before Ron could ask what ‘concise’ meant, the door to their compartment slid open with an aggressive shhkkk . A girl with wild, frizzy hair and a walk like she had very strong opinions marched in.
“Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville’s lost one. Poor thing’s crying like someone hexed his eyebrows off,” she said in a rush, brushing hair out of her face as she scrutinized them.
Ron looked at Harry. Harry looked at the girl.
“No toad,” Harry said. “But if I were one, I’d be hiding under the luggage rack. Toads like damp. Also dark. Under that old trunk maybe? Unless someone transfigured it into a shoe.”
Hermione Granger blinked, then slowly nodded. “That’s actually… not a bad idea.”
“I know,” Harry said flatly.
Hermione seemed momentarily thrown, but rebounded like a quiz bowl champion on espresso. “Well, I’m Hermione Granger. And you are—oh, you’re Harry Potter! I read all about you in—”
“ Hogwarts: A History , Modern Magical History , The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts , and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century ,” Harry recited, ticking each one off on his fingers. “Yeah, I skimmed them. Light reading.”
Ron choked on his sandwich. “ Skimmed ? That lot’s heavier than Mum’s cast iron cauldron!”
Hermione’s nose twitched. “Well, they’re essential if you want to be properly prepared. Magic is very complex and—”
“I know.”
“You know ?”
“I’ve also read Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 . I’m halfway through Grade 2 because frankly, Grade 1 assumes the reader has the attention span of a concussed flobberworm.”
Hermione opened her mouth, closed it, and looked like someone had tried to rearrange the alphabet in front of her.
Ron was now watching them like a tennis match.
“Well,” Hermione said, clearly recalibrating. “Have you tried the Oculus Reparo spell yet? It’s very handy. I could fix your glasses—”
Harry pulled out his wand lazily. “Already did it. Day before yesterday. Didn’t want to use magic around Muggles. Technically illegal, you know.”
He gave a casual flick of his wand, and a small sparkle passed over his already-fixed glasses.
Hermione made a tiny noise, like a kettle almost—but not quite—boiling over.
“Well! Good luck then,” she said, stiffly. “Come on, Neville!”
Neville appeared, clutching a suspiciously damp toad and looking like someone who had just witnessed intellectual warfare and wanted a nap.
As the door slid shut, Ron turned to Harry and declared, “She’s mental. A nightmare.”
Harry adjusted his glasses and gave a little grin. “She’s not a nightmare. She’s just… in her head. Give her time. She’ll be a good friend.”
“You want to be friends with that?”
“She’s going to be the kind of person who’ll help you find your nose after you misplace it. Useful in a crisis.”
Ron leaned back, looking both baffled and oddly impressed.
The train rattled on. Harry cracked open the charm book again, frowning at a diagram.
“Levitation charm diagram’s wrong,” he muttered. “Wand movement’s supposed to resemble a swan in flight, not a… depressed chicken doing jazz hands.”
Ron blinked. “You’re definitely weird.”
Harry grinned. “Thanks. I try.”
They rode on toward Hogwarts, one boy muttering about spell trajectory, and the other wondering what kind of house would take someone who corrected textbooks for fun. The sky outside darkened, but inside the compartment, one thing was clear:
This year, Hogwarts wasn’t ready for Harry Potter.
⸻
The boats glided across the Black Lake like eerie black beetles on polished obsidian. A thousand lanterns glittered on the towering castle above, its spires like crooked fingers scratching the clouds. The students in the little boats chattered nervously, squealing every time the water sloshed too close, like it might contain ghost-sharks or damp monsters with commitment issues.
But not Harry Potter.
Harry sat in his boat like he was being chauffeured through Venice on a Tuesday. Calm, sharp-eyed, and observant. He wasn’t dazzled like the others. Not because it wasn’t dazzling—no, Hogwarts was grand and ancient and looked like it hosted at least three murders a year—but because Harry had grown up in a cupboard under the stairs. He didn’t get impressed. He got strategic.
Too many kids , Harry noted as they stepped out of the boats. A sea of pointy hats and trembling voices. Some purely wizard-raised. You can tell—they look at Muggle-borns like they just crawled out of the dishwasher.
They shuffled into the great front hall, and immediately Harry began cataloging:
• One nervous Hufflepuff-type accidentally tripping on her own robes.
• Three excited Ravenclaw-ish hopefuls loudly debating the physics of flying. (One of them insisted broomsticks worked via “centrifugal thought energy.”)
• A Gryffindor-ish boy trying to impress a group by pretending to duel a coat rack.
Harry? He walked like he was strolling into a staff meeting he had already prepared a PowerPoint for.
Flashback time.
When he was seven, Mrs. Harper, his lovely primary school teacher with tragic coffee breath, had snuck him into the UK Mensa exams .
“Just try it, Harry,” she said with hopeful eyes and a cardigan that could double as a quilt.
Harry did. He aced it. Scored so high the test proctor stared at the paper like it had personally insulted his intelligence.
Mrs. Harper was elated. She wanted to call the Dursleys.
Harry had politely, but firmly, asked her not to.
“I’d prefer it stays a secret,” he said, legs swinging over the chair. “It’s easier if they think I’m stupid. They feed me more when they feel superior.”
She looked horrified. He smiled. Tactically.
From then on, whenever Harry wanted new books—math, physics, chemistry, “How to Disarm Authority Figures With Words”—he just whispered an idea into Dudley’s chubby ear , and boom: “Mum, I want that book!” Petunia would buy it proudly for her “little genius,” who promptly used it as a coaster for crisps. Then, it migrated to Harry’s cupboard.
Survive. Outsmart. Repeat.
And now? Magic. Actual magic. His life was about to become exponentially more chaotic and therefore, more interesting .
⸻
When they finally entered the Great Hall , the first-years gasped like they’d walked into heaven’s dining room. The floating candles were charming, yes. The enchanted ceiling was lovely, yes. But Harry immediately noticed two things:
1. The acoustics in the hall were excellent.
2. There were definitely more than four ghosts here.
Then came a voice.
Silky. Arrogant. Overconfident. Slightly nasal.
“Potter, wasn’t it?”
Harry turned. And oh. There he was.
Platinum blond. Storm-grey eyes. A mouth that looked permanently 1.5 seconds away from insulting your father’s net worth.
It was him . The boy from Madam Malkin’s. The one who made Quidditch sound like war and thought Muggle-borns were as suspicious as off-brand pumpkin juice.
Now, that boy had a name.
“Draco Malfoy,” the boy announced, extending a hand with the kind of smugness you could spread on toast.
Harry blinked once. Twice. Ah, so that’s his name. Cool. I’ve been low-key obsessed with your whole aesthetic for two weeks, but cool cool cool.
Then Draco added, with a smile that screamed my father will hear about this.
“You’ll find, Potter, that choosing the right sort of friends is important. Not everyone is… worthy.”
Ron, beside Harry, went red as a Weasley Christmas jumper. “Oi—”
Before Ron could fire off whatever ginger-flavored insult he had loaded, Harry moved.
Fast.
He grabbed Draco by the elbow—gently but decisively—and pulled him away from the crowd like a determined boy snatching the last scone at tea.
“Excuse us,” Harry said coolly to Ron. “One moment.”
Draco blinked. “What—what are you doing?”
Harry leaned in and said in a low voice, “Draco. Buddy. Can I call you Draco? Cool. Look. You’re really pretty—like, offensively pretty. If you could shut up more often, you’d be a teen drama heartthrob.”
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it. “…What?”
Harry continued, unbothered. “You’re charming in a ‘My-dad-owns-a-dragon-grooming-business’ kind of way. But maybe don’t insult people? Especially my friend Ron. It’s a bad look.”
“He’s a Weasley!” Draco spat. “They’re—”
“Poor, yeah, yeah. I get it,” Harry said, waving it off. “But this isn’t about Ron. This is about you, and me, and your potential.”
“My what ?”
“Draco, you could be amazing,” Harry whispered, like he was narrating a perfume commercial. “I want to be your friend. Genuinely. But friends compromise . You let me hang out with Ron and whoever else I like, and I promise I’ll hang out with you. A lot.”
Draco looked like someone had just offered him emotional growth on toast. “That’s… compromising. That’s a Slytherin word.”
“Exactly,” Harry said. “Also, I heard about the House Cup. Reckless behavior loses points. You and I? We don’t lose points . We strategize. And if we’re friends, we win.”
Harry gently took Draco’s hand.
Holy Circe. It was soft . Like a freshly laundered baby duck.
Draco’s ears turned pink. His brain seemed to do a factory reset.
“…Fine,” he mumbled. “But you better be in Slytherin.”
Harry shrugged. “House is up to the Hat. Friendship? That’s up to me. And I choose you.”
He winked. Yes, he winked. Harry had never winked before, but it felt right.
Draco stood frozen. Somewhere in the background, Crabbe sneezed like a confused rhino.
Harry strolled back to Ron, looking like nothing had happened.
Ron’s jaw had fully dislocated. “What. Just. Happened.”
“Diplomacy,” Harry said. “And possibly courtship. Still evaluating.”
Ron shook his head. “I’ve seen my dad convince my mum to buy a second toaster, and that was impressive. But this ? That wasn’t just smooth. That was illegal.”
Harry opened his book of charms again.
“Keep up, Ron. We’re just getting started.”
⸻
The Sorting Ceremony had begun.
One by one, nervous little children were marched up to the front like sacrificial goats to a fashion-forward scarecrow. The Sorting Hat sat atop a stool, its face moving like a piece of leather had just achieved sentience. The Great Hall was buzzing with excitement and prepubescent fear sweat.
Harry stood near the back of the crowd, eyes half-lidded in a calculated expression of mild curiosity , as if he were there to audit the event, not participate. Around him, first-years were panicking.
“Oh Merlin, I hope I’m in Gryffindor!”
“I just don’t want Slytherin. My mum says they have bats in the dormitories!”
“What if the Hat says I’m unworthy and just eats me?”
Harry casually glanced at the ceiling.
“Too emotional. Too loud. Poor threat assessments. This generation is doomed.”
A few places ahead, Draco Malfoy was fidgeting like a nervous cat pretending it wasn’t nervous. He caught Harry’s eye and gave a tight, aristocratic smile, the kind you’d give a rich neighbor you didn’t really like but might need to borrow a pony from one day.
Then his name was called.
“ Malfoy, Draco! ”
Draco strutted up like he owned at least 20% of the school in stock options. He placed the Hat on his head, and barely a second passed before the Hat bellowed: “ SLYTHERIN! ”
Shocker. Harry smirked.
Draco looked smug until he saw Harry wasn’t immediately following him. His smug expression turned into something between confusion and “my caviar has gone off.”
Harry crossed his arms. “I’ll deal with that later,” he thought.
Then—
“Potter, Harry!”
The Hall exploded . Students craned their necks like meerkats with trust issues. Whispers flew faster than enchanted paper planes.
“That’s him!”
“The Harry Potter?”
“He doesn’t even look special.”
“He looks like he’s about to sue the Ministry.”
Harry walked up slowly, like he was approaching a meeting he had mentally already dominated. He sat on the stool, the Hat placed gently on his head, and—
“…WELL, WELL, WELL.”
Harry nearly flinched. The Hat was LOUD. And had the energy of a tired therapist with a gossip addiction.
“ Mr. Potter. You are… terrifying.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“I’ll take it anyway.”
The Hat gave a theatrical sigh.
“You’re brilliant. Absurdly clever. Mensa-level intellect, tactician-level manipulation… you’d fit right in with Ravenclaw . In fact, I’d have to put you there, based on academic compatibility and insatiable curiosity alone.”
Harry winced. “Yeah, about that. No thanks.”
The Hat paused. “Excuse me?”
“Ironic, isn’t it? Me in Ravenclaw? It’s too on-the-nose . Feels like I’m walking into a pun.”
The Hat chuckled. “You are cunning. Slytherin would love you. The way you handled that Draco boy? Masterful. You played him like a harp with a trust fund.”
Harry nodded modestly. “He’s pretty. Pretty people are easy to distract. I’ve had practice.”
“You manipulated your cousin into buying you academic literature using reverse Dudley psychology , and then hid your genius for years.”
“It was either that or get hit with a frying pan.”
The Hat sighed again. “And you’re brave, too. Took guts to survive all that, and you’ve got spine. You’re clever and courageous. But Gryffindor is… too tame for you. You’re like a tiger in a cat cafe.”
Harry leaned in mentally. “Look, I want to honor my parents. They were in Gryffindor. I think it matters. Also, Slytherin would be too easy. Draco would get bored in ten minutes.”
“He is pretty fickle…”
“He’d lose interest faster than a rich kid in a no-Wi-Fi zone.”
“Are you trying to manipulate me , Mr. Potter?”
“Is it working?”
The Hat made the mental equivalent of slamming a drink on the bar.
“…I don’t have feelings. But I do have taste. Fine. You make a solid case. You belong in a lot of places, but… well, you’re right. Gryffindor will challenge you. And you do like a challenge…”
Harry smirked.
“ GRYFFINDOR! ” the Hat screamed.
The table exploded in applause. Students cheered. Percy Weasley looked smug. The twins were already plotting how to make Harry their mascot.
But Harry didn’t go sit down. He ran to the Slytherin table.
Gasps. Whispers. A Hufflepuff dropped his soup spoon in disbelief.
“Draco!” Harry shouted.
Draco looked up from sulking and instantly brightened. Then immediately dimmed again when he saw the red and gold.
“You’re in Gryffindor.”
Harry knelt beside him, looking dramatically earnest, like a soap opera heartthrob breaking up at prom.
“I told you, Draco. House or not, I’ll still be your friend.”
Draco sniffed. “It’s just… I thought we’d be in the same house. We’d have classes. Study. Throw shade at lesser students together.”
Harry leaned closer. “We can still do that. Just from opposite sides of the room. It’ll be more fun this way.”
Draco narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Because, if I were in Slytherin, you’d get used to me too fast. You’d see me all the time. Familiarity breeds boredom. But now? I’m the forbidden friendship . The limited edition. The mystery across the common room.”
Draco blinked. “That… makes sense?”
Harry leaned in, took a single finger, and gently tucked Draco’s impossibly soft platinum hair behind his ear.
“You just have to be nice, Draco. I promise… it’ll be so worth your time.”
Draco blushed so hard he looked like a tomato dipped in silver.
Crabbe and Goyle stared in confusion, unsure whether they had just witnessed a conversation or a magical seduction spell.
Harry stood up, turned, and strutted back to the Gryffindor table like a catwalk model at the Triwizard Fashion Show.
Ron’s jaw had dislocated again. “Mate. Did you just… flirt with Malfoy?”
“Hmm?” Harry said innocently, spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Oh no. That was diplomacy. And emotional groundwork. Possibly also low-key courtship.”
“Courtship?!”
“Just planting seeds.”
Ron looked at him like he’d never seen a human before. “I feel like I’m watching chess … but in French .”
Harry smirked.
“Checkmate, mon frère.”
⸻