Chapter Five: Shadows Beneath the Feast

The sky above Hogwarts blazed with the final blush of twilight, hues of violet and burning orange dissolving into deep indigo as the Hogwarts Express exhaled a final hiss of steam at Hogsmeade Station. Students poured onto the platform in a tide of chattering voices and dragging trunks, the scent of soot and magic thick in the cooling air. Lanterns flickered to life along the train's side and on the path leading to the castle, casting pools of golden light upon the gravel and cobblestones. The Great Lake shimmered with ghostly reflections, rippling in tandem with the arrival of the first-years, who peered into its depths with a mixture of awe and unease.

Hogwarts itself rose against the darkening sky like an ancient sentinel, its turrets and battlements silhouetted in flickering torchlight. To most of the arriving students, it was a dream finally realized—a place of wonder and mystery. But to Harry and Hermione, it was a crucible of destiny. They beheld it as survivors of a war not yet fought, a sanctuary and a battlefield wrapped in one grand edifice of stone and spellcraft. Here, they would attempt the impossible: to bend the river of time without shattering the dam that held it in place.

"Firs'-years! This way now! Don' be shy!" boomed Hagrid's unmistakable voice, filled with warmth and enthusiasm.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look of muted reverence as they approached the half-giant, his figure barely changed since they had last seen him in another life. Tangled beard, beetle-black eyes twinkling beneath a wild mane of hair, Hagrid was a fixed point in a universe they had watched unravel. He waved them forward, oblivious to the lives they carried behind their youthful masks.

They boarded the small boats that glided silently across the mirror-like surface of the lake, the lanterns on their bows casting rippling light that danced across the hulls. The castle loomed larger with each stroke of current, its windows glinting like starlight, its towers like the fingers of giants grasping at the heavens.

"Feels like we're sailing into a memory," Harry whispered, keeping his eyes forward.

Hermione's reply was a murmur in the cool night air. "A memory we're here to revise. Carefully. Deliberately."

The boats gently touched shore, and the students filed through a hidden side entrance that led to a torchlit passageway. Professor McGonagall stood at the threshold, regal and commanding in deep emerald robes. Her gaze swept the first-years, resting fractionally longer on Harry than propriety might allow.

She delivered her welcome with practiced efficiency, her words familiar and unchanged from their first experience. But now they held different weight for Harry and Hermione, like echoes bouncing through time, layered with new meaning.

The moment they stepped into the Great Hall, its grandeur enveloped them anew. Thousands of candles floated in midair, their flames steady against the enchantment that filled the air. The enchanted ceiling reflected the twilight sky outside, streaked with the last embers of day. House banners fluttered gently as if stirred by invisible currents, and the long tables shimmered with polished silver and glass.

At the head of the room, the staff table offered a tableau of figures etched into memory. Dumbledore sat in the central seat, his gaze seemingly fixed on a point beyond the present moment. The subtle sparkle in his eyes gave Harry pause—was there recognition? Suspicion? Or merely the timeless curiosity of a man who knew too much and admitted too little?

Snape sat rigid, his lip curled in preemptive disdain. Flitwick beamed with eager anticipation, and Professor Sprout offered gentle smiles to the nervous newcomers. Hagrid, seated awkwardly in an oversized chair, clapped loudly whenever a student's name was called.

The Sorting Hat rested atop its stool, its brim curled in thought. When it began to sing, the hall fell silent. Its song this year was unusually long—an intricate ballad of Hogwarts' founding, its trials, and the responsibilities of legacy. It spoke not just of bravery, loyalty, cunning, and intellect, but of choice. Of how the greatest danger lay not in failing to act, but in ignoring one's power to change.

Hermione's brow furrowed slightly. Harry noted it with a flicker of unease. The Hat was always aware—but had it perceived their return?

Name after name was called, each met with varying cheers as students were sorted into their houses. Then came the inevitable pause.

"Potter, Harry."

The name rolled like thunder through the room. Gasps and whispers surged like waves behind him as Harry stepped forward. He caught glimpses of curious faces—awed, skeptical, envious—as he ascended the few steps and took his seat.

The Hat fell over his head and immediately tightened as though settling more firmly than it had on any other.

"Back again, Mr. Potter?" the Hat whispered in his mind, its voice dry and ancient. "But not quite the same. Twice-marked, thrice-burdened. What tangled magic clings to you now."

Harry remained silent. He knew the Hat could sense more than just intent.

"A dual soul walks with you," it continued. "Threads of loyalty, courage, ambition... and strategy. Oh yes, you've grown sharper, more deliberate. And her influence weighs heavily."

"Place me where I can do the most good," Harry thought, firm and unwavering.

"So be it. The same as before... yet not the same at all. Better prepared, perhaps. More dangerous."

A beat of silence.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat shouted the word with a ringing finality, and Harry removed it with practiced ease. The hall erupted into applause, though he barely heard it. He walked to the Gryffindor table and took his seat among the roaring crowd, aware of the many eyes following him.

Hermione's sorting followed moments later. She sat beneath the Hat only briefly before it declared her a Gryffindor as well, and soon she was beside him, her presence a stabilizing weight.

As platters of food materialized and the feast began in earnest, Harry found himself poking half-heartedly at roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. Dumbledore rose eventually to deliver his usual announcements: forbidden corridors, Filch's rules, and the enchanted ceiling's weather schedule. Yet Harry heard none of it. His thoughts churned beneath the surface, calculating, predicting.

Hermione leaned in slightly. "Did the Hat say anything unusual to you?"

"Everything about it was unusual," Harry murmured back. "It knows. Maybe not everything, but enough."

She nodded slowly, her expression calm but her eyes troubled.

As laughter erupted across the hall and students began forging friendships and house rivalries anew, Harry and Hermione sat in solemn observation. They were surrounded by children dreaming of a magical future.

But Harry and Hermione were already living its echo.

This feast, this beginning—wasn't just the start of a school year. It was a return to the battlefield, cloaked in the illusion of peace.

And this time, they would not let the war take them by surprise.