I sat quietly at the back of the boat, my eyes fixed on the looming silhouette of Hogwarts Castle. The fleet of boats glided across the lake’s dark, mirror-like surface, seemingly pulled along by some unseen force. As we neared the cliff beneath the castle, I sensed a sophisticated enchantment guiding us, one far beyond any typical magical design. I couldn’t fully decipher it, but the spellwork intrigued me, reminding me of the ways certain ancient charms function independently of conventional structures.

  “Heads down!” Hagrid’s bellow jolted me from my thoughts.

  I ducked just in time to avoid a face full of trailing ivy, the boats slipping under the dense foliage into a narrow cave beneath the castle. It was a clever design—more lasting than a spell, as it relied on natural formations rather than magic. As we drifted through the tunnel, I wondered if Godric Gryffindor had come up with this. He’d always appreciated simple, enduring solutions.

  The boats finally reached a small dock, and Hagrid led us single-file along the dark passage to a tall, oak door. Shadows flickered as students tripped in the near-darkness, Hagrid’s lamp the only source of light. I could hear murmurs about someone named Neville finding his toad, but I was preoccupied with something else: the darkness obscured my way, making each step uncertain.

  Thinking I could bypass the issue, I activated a power that allowed me to see everything in a room at once. Immediately, I realized my mistake. The overload of sensory input was overwhelming, forcing every color and detail, every dimension and movement, into my mind at once. I staggered, disoriented, and practically blinded. I’d underestimated my human limits—seeing through death’s sight in a body as fragile as this was reckless.

  Before I could steady myself, a cool hand slipped into mine, guiding me forward. “Come on, Ben,” Hermione whispered, nudging me along. Her presence steadied me, her grip both grounding and surprisingly gentle. I forced myself to focus on her voice, letting the lingering haze of my vision fade.

  Hagrid’s deep knock sounded against the oak door. “Firs’ years here, Professor McGonagall.”

  The door swung open to reveal a tall, stern-faced woman. “Thank you, Hagrid. I’ll take it from here,” she replied, a slight wrinkle in her brow as she caught a whiff of the alcohol on him. Though clearly displeased, she let it pass unremarked.

  Professor McGonagall led us into the Great Hall, a grand room filled with floating candles and enchanted to look like the night sky. My gaze drifted upward, noting the charm’s intricacies, though I couldn’t help but mentally critique it. If you’re going to use magic, why not make the ceiling truly transparent, or create a barrier of force that opens to the night above? The possibilities seemed endless, and yet they’d settled for a mere enchanted mural.

  The hall bustled with older students, the quiet hum of their voices filling the room. Professor McGonagall welcomed us with a short speech, explaining the sorting process and the importance of the four houses. The other students listened in near silence, a mix of excitement and anxiety written across their faces. I could feel the tension, as though each of them feared being placed in the house they least wanted.

  A ripple of gasps swept through the first-years as nearly two dozen ghosts drifted into the hall, passing through walls and hovering above us. Wonderful, I thought, doing my best to keep my gaze firmly on the floor. To a ghost, meeting my eyes would be like staring into the void. While most feared death as an end, it was more accurately a crossing, a beginning of another kind. But that understanding wouldn’t comfort the dead still clinging to this world. Please, don’t notice me, I prayed silently.

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  But the Bloody Baron, the infamous Slytherin ghost, locked his ghastly gaze with mine. He shrieked, his wails echoing through the hall, and bolted through the walls in a fit of terror, pointing vaguely in my direction. I kept my eyes down, silently urging the sorting to proceed quickly. So, this is what humans mean by “out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

  At last, the Sorting Hat was brought forward. It was more than just a hat—it was a legendary artifact of nearly unmatched craftsmanship, one I admired. Godric Gryffindor had given it a form of false life, an entity of pure magic bound to an object. It was a feat I had yet to understand, even with my centuries of experience. The sword Gryffindor had enchanted was equally impressive, forged from rusted scrap that consumed stronger materials, allowing it to become more powerful over time. These items spoke to his character: a pure-blooded wizard who had known poverty and had valued potential over birthright.

  “Gryffindor!” the hat shouted as it touched Ron’s head, and a small smile crossed my lips. History sometimes repeats itself. The boy bore a faint resemblance to Gryffindor himself, a distant trace of the red-haired founder’s spirit in his demeanor. I could only hope Ron would one day find the courage that had propelled his ancestor to greatness.

  The hat called out “Ravenclaw!” for Hermione, and I blinked in surprise. Hadn’t my sister predicted that the three heroes would all come from Gryffindor? My gaze shifted toward her as she joined the Ravenclaw table, and for a moment, I thought I caught a small wave from her direction. Just my imagination, I told myself, pushing down the unsettling idea that my presence here might be altering destiny’s course.

  “Benjamin Diggory!” Professor McGonagall called out, and I felt Fidell’s talons dig into my shoulder as he landed, Nyx rubbing against my leg as we made our way to the front of the hall. As I passed, a voice from the crowd—a blonde boy named Draco Malfoy—sneered, “Look at him. He’s Slytherin for sure.”

  I clenched my jaw, suppressing the urge to retort. His foolishness isn’t worth my time.

  I reached the stool and allowed the Sorting Hat to settle over my head, its brim falling over my eyes. At least now, the ghosts couldn’t catch my gaze. Under other circumstances, I’d have taken this chance to study the hat’s enchantments, but for now, I simply waited.

  “Oh my!” the hat gasped as it delved into my memories.

  “Not what you expected, is it?” I murmured with a faint smile.

  “No… it is an honor to sort the Reaper himself,” the hat whispered, its voice filled with awe.

  “So, where do you think I belong?” I asked, curious to hear its assessment.

  “Well, you have no fear, but that’s not the same as courage. You don’t fit in Gryffindor,” it said, which I’d anticipated.

  “And?”

  “You’re patient, fair-minded, and enjoy the company of certain creatures. You’d do well in Hufflepuff,” it suggested thoughtfully.

  “My brother’s in Hufflepuff,” I replied. “What are my other options?”

  The hat hummed. “There’s also Slytherin. You have a desire for power… but not the ambition to pursue it at all costs.”

  “I see. And what about Ravenclaw?”

  “Ah, yes. You’re clever, wise, and inventive. It’s a close tie between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,” the hat admitted.

  "Then I'll take Ravenclaw," I decided, grateful for the distance it would give me from Cedric. And, I had to admit, choosing anything other than Hufflepuff would spare me endless teasing from Life, my sister in the Primordial realm if she ever found out.

  “Ravenclaw!” the hat proclaimed, and as I removed it, Fidell took a celebratory lap around the hall’s ceiling, Nyx muttering her discontent that there was no house named after a feline.

  I joined the Ravenclaw table, and met with polite greetings from my new housemates, though their welcome was slightly more reserved than what Hermione had received. I focused on my food as the banquet began, glancing only occasionally at the other tables. Hopefully, these restless ghosts wouldn’t frequent the Great Hall too often. If I could avoid their gaze, I might yet keep my secret intact.

  Shit!... Don't let them look me in the eyes, I hoped. Eyes are windows to the soul and what would a dead soul latching onto the living world see in the eyes of death? A final end that's what. Contrary to what they expect death isn't just an end but another beginning of sorts... like how the end of one story is the beginning of another.

  Fuck!

  Let us just get this sorting ceremony over with, I begged internally. So this is what mortals mean by out of the frying pan and into the fire!

  Ah, history does repeat itself sometimes. You can see it when you last throughout the centuries. I didn't need a blood ancestry to recognize Ron's faint resemblance to Griffindor. A faint and distant relation and yet even his demeanor reminds me of him. Everyone only remembers the look of the royal-dressed and confident Godric Griffindor but I met him once when he was young. It was a near-death experience that changed and motivated him to reach new heights. He had overcome his self-doubt and fear. Something I truly hoped Ron would succeed in too.

  Wait... Didn't sister say that the three heroes were all from house Griffindor? What's Hermione doing in Ravenclaw? There was a thought I refused to accept and pushed to the back of my mind that this somehow might have to do with me.