King's Cross was louder than Albus expected. The hum of trolleys, the screech of whistles, the clatter of feet on tile—it all blended into a chaos that buzzed in his ears as he walked beside his parents, the wheels of his trunk rattling over every crack in the floor. The bright signs and echoing announcements overhead made him feel small, like a speck of dust lost in the flow of people.
His father moved with quiet purpose, gaze focused ahead toward the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. Albus had watched him for years in the papers—calm, sure, impossible to rattle—but now, Harry Potter's shoulders were tight. His face creased every few seconds, stealing glances at Albus like he was about to disappear.
Ginny was less subtle. She kept fussing with the collar of his jumper and brushing soot off his cheeks as though he were five again. James, of course, was already half a platform ahead of them, pointing and laughing with a group of older students.
"Do I really have to do this in front of the entire station?" Albus muttered as Ginny ran her fingers through his fringe.
"You'll live," she said with a smirk. "Besides, you have a piece of chocolate on your face."
Albus wiped furiously, face reddening.
They reached the barrier, and Harry stopped. His hand came to rest gently on Albus's shoulder.
"You ready?"
Albus swallowed. The knot in his chest had been growing since the day his letter arrived. He remembered running his fingers over the parchment a hundred times, rereading the inked words as though they might change: Dear Mr. Potter… you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…
"I think so," he said.
Harry gave a small, crooked smile. "That's good enough."
James sprinted at the barrier and vanished in a flash of red and gold.
"Show-off," Albus muttered.
Then it was his turn. He squared his shoulders, gripped the trolley tight, and ran straight toward the wall.
Platform 9¾
The noise struck him first—then the smoke.
The Hogwarts Express loomed ahead, impossibly large and impossibly red. Steam hissed from under its wheels. Students bustled around him in clusters: hugging their parents, waving to friends, already hanging out of windows. Owls screeched overhead. A toad escaped someone's cage and hopped straight into a third-year's robes. Everything felt alive, enchanted, overwhelming.
Albus stood frozen.
He'd imagined this moment a hundred times—ever since James first came home with stories about the castle, the moving staircases, the floating candles, the ghosts. But in his imagination, he hadn't felt quite so alone.
"You're up, little bro," James said, reappearing beside him with a mischievous grin. "Unless you've decided to turn back and go to Muggle school instead."
Albus glared.
"I'm serious," James continued, lowering his voice. "If you get sorted into Slytherin, I'm telling everyone Mum cried for a week."
"That's not funny."
"It is extremely funny," James said. Then, without warning, he clapped Albus on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Good luck, Al. Try not to disgrace the family name."
And with that, he vanished into the train.
Goodbyes
Ginny pulled Albus into a firm hug.
"Don't listen to him," she whispered. "You'll do just fine, no matter where you're sorted."
"But what if I—"
She stepped back, placing both hands on his shoulders. "It's not about where you end up. It's about what you do once you're there."
Albus nodded, though the words sat heavy in his chest.
Harry stepped forward. There was a silence between them, one that felt a little too big for the moment. Then Harry crouched slightly, leveling with him.
"When I got sorted," he said quietly, "I asked the Hat not to put me in Slytherin. I was terrified. All I knew was what people had told me. But... I also learned something important later."
Albus tilted his head. "What?"
"That bravery isn't always about facing dragons or Dark wizards. Sometimes, it's about being honest about who you are—even when the whole world tells you to be someone else."
They stared at each other for a second too long.
Then Albus smiled. "Thanks, Dad."
On the Train
He found an empty compartment near the back and slid the door shut behind him. The inside was warm, golden light slanting through the glass as the sun cut across the windows. He sat down and placed his duffle beside him, the weight of his wand pressing lightly against his side inside his jacket.
The seat across from him was empty for about ten seconds before someone knocked.
"Hey—mind if I sit?"
It was a boy about his age, with platinum blond hair and a sharp face, but a nervous edge in his eyes.
"Sure," Albus said. "I'm Albus."
"Scorpius," the boy said, sliding the door closed behind him. "Scorpius Malfoy."
Albus blinked.
He didn't know the Malfoy name exactly, but he knew enough. Dad had mentioned it in passing—how Draco Malfoy had been one of his rivals at school. How things had been… complicated.
But Scorpius didn't seem like what he expected. He looked jittery. Polite. Maybe even scared.
"You're Harry Potter's son, right?" Scorpius asked.
"Yeah."
"Cool." There was a pause. "You're probably going to be in Gryffindor, then."
"Maybe," Albus said. "I don't know."
Scorpius tilted his head. "You don't want to be?"
"I'm just… not like James."
Scorpius cracked a grin. "Well, I hope I'm not like my dad either."
Albus chuckled. It felt good, in a strange way—to talk to someone who wasn't expecting anything of him.
The Boats
The sun dipped low as they disembarked, the air cooling rapidly. First years were herded into a line by a towering man with a wild beard—Hagrid, Albus realized immediately, recognizing the giant from family stories.
"Firs' years! This way!" Hagrid boomed.
Albus clambered into a boat with Scorpius and two girls—one small and mousy, the other tall and serious-looking.
And then the castle appeared.
It was like something out of a dream—spires piercing the sky, torches flickering in the windows, the lake glimmering beneath the moonlight. Albus felt his breath catch. The boat rocked gently beneath him, but he didn't care.
"Wow," Scorpius whispered. "They weren't kidding."
Albus only nodded. The knot in his chest loosened slightly. For the first time since he'd arrived, something felt right.
The Sorting
Inside the Great Hall, it was all real—exactly as James had described it. The floating candles. The four long tables. The enchanted ceiling above them, stormy with mist and starlight.
Professor Longbottom—their Herbology teacher, apparently—stood by the Sorting Hat and the old wooden stool.
"Potter, Albus."
His name rang through the hall like a curse.
He walked slowly to the front, every eye on him. Whispers buzzed in the background.
"That's Harry Potter's son—"
"He doesn't look like much—"
"Think he'll be a Gryffindor like his dad?"
Albus sat down and pulled the hat over his head.
The world went quiet.
"Ahh… interesting," the Hat whispered in his ear. "Another Potter. But not like the others, are you?"
Albus swallowed. "Please not Slytherin."
"Why not? I see ambition here. A mind hungry for knowledge. Loyalty, too. And fear—but not the kind that makes you weak. The kind that keeps you awake at night. You think, child. You question."
"I… I just don't want to disappoint them."
"You'll do that no matter where you go, if you're not honest with yourself."
Albus bit his lip. His heart was racing.
"You could be great in Slytherin. Yes… yes, I think that's the best place for you."
And then, out loud, the Hat roared:
"SLYTHERIN!"
Shock and Silence
For a long moment, no one clapped.
The Gryffindor table looked stunned. The Slytherin table watched him with wary curiosity. Then, from the far end, Scorpius stood and began clapping—slowly, awkwardly.
That broke the spell. A few others joined in. A few cheers. But it wasn't warm.
Albus stood slowly, cheeks burning, and walked to the green-draped table. He felt the stare of his brother. Of the teachers. Of the ghosts.
A Potter in Slytherin.
The whispers would last for years.
The Dungeons
That night, the Slytherin common room felt colder than it should have.
Albus lay in bed, staring at the stone ceiling. The green glow of enchanted lanterns cast strange shadows on the walls. Water dripped somewhere beyond the archway. Sleep didn't come.
Across the room, Scorpius whispered into the dark.
"You awake?"
"Yeah."
"You're not what I expected."
Albus rolled over. "What did you expect?"
"A hero. But... maybe weird's better."
There was a long silence.
"Yeah," Albus whispered. "Maybe it is."