The train slowed with a long screech, brakes grinding against the rails until steam hissed past the windows. Children shifted restlessly, pulling cloaks tighter, craning for a glimpse outside. Oliver pressed his forehead to the glass. Darkness pressed in, broken only by faint lantern light that dotted the station. The air beyond looked damp and cold, and his chest tightened at the thought of stepping off into it.
A voice bellowed over the noise, carrying as if it had no need of echo. "Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!"
The door slammed open before Oliver could gather his suitcase. The other students surged into the corridor, chattering, tugging owls and cats and trunks. Oliver held back until Harry tapped his shoulder. "Come on," Harry said, a faint smile flickering.
Oliver nodded and followed him into the crush. He kept one hand on the guitar case slung over his shoulder, making sure no jostle could knock it free. The narrow steps out of the train spat them onto the platform, where cold air immediately cut into his skin.
At once Oliver saw the source of the booming call. A giant of a man stood head and shoulders above the crowd, holding a lantern that looked the size of a bucket. His wild beard caught the glow, his beetle-black eyes sweeping the sea of children with surprising gentleness. Oliver couldn't help staring.
"Firs'-years! This way!" the man called again. His voice seemed to warm the air around him.
Oliver trailed Harry and Ron through the throng, their suitcases bumping against their legs. A cluster of wide-eyed children gathered near the man, who gave them a toothy grin. "Alright there? Name's Hagrid. I'll be takin' yeh to the castle. Boats are waitin'."
Boats. Oliver glanced at Harry, who looked just as curious. The group followed Hagrid down a steep, damp path. Mud sucked at Oliver's shoes, and his guitar strap dug into his shoulder as he balanced the weight of suitcase and case. The path curved, and suddenly the world opened up.
The black mirror of a lake stretched out before them, still and vast. On the far shore, high above the water, the castle rose. Its turrets and towers were ablaze with golden light, reflected in shivering streaks across the lake's surface. Oliver's breath caught. The sight felt like the first note of a song, ringing true and full, carrying promise. He didn't realize he had slowed to a stop until Ron nudged him forward.
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid instructed. He gestured to a fleet of small craft rocking gently at the water's edge.
Harry climbed into one, Ron close behind. Without thinking, Oliver followed, steadying his guitar as he sat on the worn wood bench. A bushy-haired girl squeezed in last, muttering nervously about balance. The boat rocked but did not tip.
"Forward!" Hagrid called, and as one the boats pushed off, no oars needed. The water parted silently.
Oliver gripped the sides, heart thudding. The castle's reflection rippled closer with every glide, until the towers themselves loomed overhead. Wind tugged at his hair, cool and damp, but for the first time in weeks he forgot the ache of leaving Mrs. Reed, the sting of Malfoy's words. There was only the hush of the lake and the steady approach of the life waiting for him.
When the boats slid into a small cove beneath the cliff, lanterns bobbing on hooks, Oliver's stomach flipped. They filed out onto pebbles that crunched underfoot, and Hagrid led them through a narrow tunnel that twisted upward. The sound of so many footsteps echoed, and Oliver clutched his guitar case closer. He felt as though the stone walls themselves were swallowing him whole.
At last they emerged into a courtyard at the castle's base, where an austere woman in emerald robes waited. She stood straight-backed, lips pursed, surveying the group as though measuring each child in turn. Oliver recognized her at once — Professor McGonagall, who had once stepped into Mrs. Reed's sitting room and turned a teacup into a sparrow before his eyes.
"The first-years, Professor McGonagall," Hagrid said, dipping his shaggy head politely.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."
The giant gave the children one last reassuring smile before striding off. McGonagall turned back to the group, her expression softening only a fraction. "Welcome to Hogwarts," she said crisply. "In a moment, you will be sorted into your Houses. The ceremony is of great importance — your House will be your family here. I expect you to do it proud."
Her gaze swept over them, pausing briefly on Oliver. He tried not to shrink under it.
She guided them inside. The doors swung open to reveal a hall that seemed impossibly vast. The ceiling soared so high it vanished into shadows, but when Oliver blinked, he realized it wasn't shadow at all — it was sky. Stars glittered above, scattered across black velvet, and clouds drifted lazily as though they floated under open air. Candlelight shimmered below, hundreds of flames suspended in midair above four long tables.
Gasps rippled through the crowd of first-years. Oliver's own mouth had gone dry. He had never seen anything so magnificent, yet instead of intimidating him, it filled him with a tremor of hope.
At the far end of the hall, another long table stretched beneath a raised platform, where teachers sat in their robes, watching with varied expressions. Some looked stern, others kind, a few distracted. Oliver's eyes skimmed over them until they snagged on a pale, hook-nosed man with greasy hair who stared at him with something like disdain. Oliver quickly looked away.
"Form a line, please," McGonagall instructed. She set a three-legged stool before them, and on it, a battered old hat.
The hat. It looked so ordinary that Oliver frowned, unsure if this was another trick. But when the hat twitched and split at the brim, opening into a jagged mouth, the entire hall fell silent.
"Sorting will begin," McGonagall said.
Names were called, one by one. Children trembled onto the stool, the hat was lowered, and moments later it shouted a House name to cheers from one of the tables. Oliver barely heard them. His stomach knotted tighter with each call. He glanced sideways. Harry and Ron stood close together, both pale. Hermione Granger had already been called and sorted into Gryffindor.
Oliver clutched the guitar strap across his chest. His name would be soon. His chest ached with the hope that somehow, somehow, he would end up with Harry. He had never wanted something so badly.
"Night, Oliver."
His legs nearly buckled. Forcing them to move, he stepped forward, the hall suddenly too quiet. He sat, the stool creaking under his weight, and McGonagall lowered the hat over his ears.
Darkness swallowed him. Then a voice purred in his head.
"Well, well. What have we here?"
The voice was sly, old as dust but sharp as a knife. It slid through Oliver's thoughts with unsettling familiarity, as though it had been waiting for him all along.
"You've got grit," the Sorting Hat mused. "Defiance. I see the moment you lashed out on the train. Protective of what is yours, oh yes. Very Slytherin."
Oliver's throat tightened. No. Not Slytherin.
"Not Slytherin?" the Hat echoed with amusement. "You crave belonging, child. You want to be seen, recognized, valued. You've grown up overlooked, cast aside. That hunger—Slytherin could feed it well."
Oliver shook his head fiercely, though the motion meant nothing under the heavy fabric. I want to be with Harry. With Ron. I don't care about ambition or power. I just… I just want friends.
"Ah, friendship," the Hat hummed. "Bravery, loyalty, the courage to stand your ground—those are the makings of Gryffindor. You certainly have them. But let me ask: will you be content to always follow, never lead? To burn bright for others while your own song goes unheard?"
Oliver's breath hitched. He thought of the nights he played until his fingers ached, unnoticed, unremarked, except by himself. He thought of how fiercely he had struck when Crabbe's hands closed around his guitar. He thought of the hollow in his chest when Harry smiled at him on the train.
I don't care if I'm unnoticed, Oliver argued desperately. I just… I just don't want to be alone anymore.
"Alone?" The Hat's voice softened, almost kind. "My dear boy, Slytherin is not all vipers and cruelty. There you would find others who understand survival, who would respect your sharp edges. You could carve a place for yourself. Gryffindor might give you a taste of friendship, yes—but you would always be the odd one out, the boy with the guitar, the Muggle-born who doesn't quite fit. They would cheer your courage, but they would not understand you."
Oliver's chest burned. But Harry would. He understands. Please. Gryffindor.
The Hat chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. "You underestimate him. He will shine wherever he is. You, however… you need something else. You need to prove yourself. To survive the sneers, the whispers, the doubt. Slytherin will forge you, boy. Slytherin will make sure no one ever lays a hand on your music again."
Oliver's fists clenched on the stool. The word Slytherin filled him with dread. The memory of Malfoy's smirk seared in his mind.
No… please, not Slytherin…
The Hat's voice shifted, sly but firm. "You cannot hide what you are. You may resist, but in your bones you know I am right. You are clever, resourceful, ambitious in ways you have not yet named. You are mine, Oliver Reed. And you will do great things."
Oliver's heart screamed for Harry, but the Hat bellowed aloud:
"SLYTHERIN!"
The word echoed through the hall like a bell tolling doom.
Oliver ripped the hat off and stumbled from the stool, his face burning. The Slytherin table erupted in a mix of cheers and mutters. Some clapped politely, others sneered openly. He forced his legs to move, each step dragging heavier than the last.
As he passed the Gryffindor table, he caught Harry's eyes. Harry looked stunned, his mouth slightly open. Ron's expression was less forgiving—disgust and disbelief twisted his face. Oliver felt something twist painfully in his gut. The fragile thread he'd carried from the train seemed to fray before his eyes.
He reached the Slytherin table and sat stiffly at the edge, away from Malfoy and his hulking friends. Malfoy, of course, looked smug beyond measure. "Knew it," he crowed loudly enough for half the hall to hear. "Our little minstrel belongs with us after all."
Laughter rippled around him. Oliver fixed his eyes on the empty plate before him, refusing to rise to the bait. His fingers itched for the guitar strap across his chest, but he held still. He would not give them more reason to sneer.
The Sorting continued. Names blurred in Oliver's ears. Each cheer for Gryffindor stabbed a little deeper. When at last the final name was called and the hat whisked away, Dumbledore rose at the head table.
The headmaster's long silver beard gleamed in the candlelight, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. "Welcome," he said warmly, his voice carrying with ease. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. Let us feast."
Food appeared in a dazzling spread across the tables, dishes steaming, platters groaning with meats, breads, pies. Excited chatter filled the hall as children dug in.
Oliver's stomach turned. He forced himself to take a small roll, breaking it into pieces he barely tasted. Malfoy and his cronies laughed nearby, already boasting. Across the hall, Gryffindor buzzed with cheer. Harry sat between Ron and Hermione, but Oliver thought he caught him glance across once or twice, uncertain, maybe even regretful. Each glance was like salt in a wound.
"Don't mind Potter," Malfoy said suddenly, leaning toward him. His voice was all smug superiority. "He'll come around. We Slytherins stick together. You'll learn."
Oliver stared at his plate. "I don't want to learn from you."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Malfoy's smirk faltered, replaced by a narrow glare. "Careful, Night," he said softly. "Slytherin remembers."
The rest of the feast passed in a blur. Oliver's head pounded with the noise, the smells, the heat of candles. When at last the prefects rose to lead them away, he followed the green-trimmed robes of his new House. They descended deeper and deeper into the castle until Oliver thought they might sink through the earth itself.
The Slytherin common room glowed with greenish light from lamps beneath the lake. The ceiling arched low, stone walls damp but smooth. It was elegant in its way, but cold, and the laughter of the other boys rang cruelly in Oliver's ears.
He dropped his suitcase by a bed in the corner and sat, clutching the strap of his guitar. For the first time that day, the enormity of it all crashed over him. He had wanted so badly to belong. For a moment on the train, he thought he'd found it. And now—now he sat in a House that already seemed to circle against him, with Harry and Ron slipping farther away with every heartbeat.
Oliver lay back on the stiff pillow, staring at the shadows rippling across the stone ceiling. His chest ached with an emptiness no chord could fill. The Sorting Hat's words whispered in his mind: You will do great things.
But in the hollow quiet of the Slytherin dormitory, Oliver wondered if "great" was just another word for "alone."