The castle rose out of the darkness like something alive, ancient and watchful. Even in her first life, Hogwarts had always felt distant—a place of fantasy, adventure, tragedy. But now, as Amaechi stepped from the boat onto the mist-drenched dock, it was all solid stone and crackling magic. She could feel the ley lines humming beneath the ground, the pulse of protective enchantments woven into the very walls.
"Firs' years! This way!"
The half-giant, Hagrid, called out, ushering them forward. Amaechi walked near the front of the group, unbothered by the whispers trailing behind her. She'd drawn attention since stepping onto Platform 9¾. Her purple-red eyes alone were enough to spark gossip, but her presence—regal, distant, too composed for an eleven-year-old—was what truly unsettled them.
She preferred it that way.
Inside the castle, the grandeur of Hogwarts unfurled around them—tall archways, floating candles, a sky charmed to mirror the night. But Amaechi was focused on the students. She scanned the four House tables, noting expressions, posture, and alliances.
When Professor McGonagall unrolled the parchment and began calling names, Amaechi paid close attention.
"Granger, Hermione!"
The bushy-haired girl stepped forward nervously. The Sorting Hat didn't take long.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
"Malfoy, Draco!"
Draco walked with cool confidence to the stool. The hat barely touched his head before shouting:
"SLYTHERIN!"
"Potter, Harry!"
A ripple of whispers surged through the hall as the boy with the lightning scar stepped forward. Amaechi tilted her head, watching him with measured interest.
The Hat seemed to hesitate, but then:
"GRYFFINDOR!"
"Weasley, Ronald!"
Ron stumbled to the stool, ears red. The Hat called out, predictably:
"GRYFFINDOR!"
More names passed. Then—
"Orakwue, Amaechi."
The Great Hall went silent.
She walked to the front without hesitation, her steps measured, each one echoing.
The Sorting Hat barely touched her head before it inhaled sharply.
"Well, well, what have we here? Ancient blood, sharpened mind, and… my, my… you don't belong to this timeline, do you?"
No, she thought firmly. But I'm here. That's what matters.
"Indeed. Ravenclaw thirsts for your mind, but your ambition—your will—yes… Slytherin will sharpen you. Or fear you. Perhaps both."
Then say it.
"SLYTHERIN!"
The word rang out. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the Slytherin table erupted into applause. Draco was still watching her,not clapping, just watching, thoughtful.
From the Gryffindor table, Hermione's curious gaze lingered a little longer than the others, puzzling over the unreadable aura that Amaechi exuded. Ron whispered something to Harry, who nodded slowly but kept his eyes fixed on her, his expression unreadable. There was no fear in their looks, but there was caution—instinctual and wary.
She walked to the table and sat beside a sixth-year girl who subtly shifted to give her room. As the sorting continued, she felt the weight of the room subtly shift. The professors were whispering. Dumbledore had that glimmer in his eye—the one that masked calculation with whimsy.
She returned his look with cool curiosity.
Let him watch.
Later That Night: The Dormitory
Slytherin's common room was a palace carved from shadow and stone. The windows looked out into the depths of the lake, where ghostly fish and strange shadows swam by. The lighting was low, enchanted with a cool green glow.
After the introductions and brief tour, Amaechi finally reached her dorm and climbed into bed. The velvet canopy above her was embroidered with serpents and stars. Her wand rested beside her pillow. Her armband pulsed once, then stilled.
She lay on her back, staring into the darkness.
And then the noise of the world faded, and her thoughts came.
Inner Monologue
She had done it.
The first step.
She was inside the walls of Hogwarts. No longer a spectator. No longer a ghost behind a screen, pressing keys and dreaming of magic. Her old world—the lonely studio apartment, the blank-eyed game avatars, the sterile hum of machinery—was gone.
This world was loud. Beautiful. Alive.
And dangerous.
Already, she had seen the signs. The way Dumbledore looked at Harry. The way the professors flinched at her name. The way Draco tried to understand her before deciding whether she was an ally or a threat.
Her goals had to be clear. No room for hesitation.
Goal One: Expand her spell arsenal. Go beyond the curriculum. Learn what others feared to touch.
Goal Two: Understand the players. Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, the Headmaster, the shadows behind the portraits—every piece on the board.
Goal Three: Build power without exposure. Be useful, but not too helpful. Seen, but never easy to read.
Goal Four: Honor the family. Her role as heir wasn't decorative. It was destiny.
Her fingers brushed the armband. It thrummed like a heartbeat.
A gift from her mother, to sense danger and lies. Her father's spell ring waited in her trunk, sealed in its blackwood box. Her great-aunt's wand holster was invisible beneath her robes. Every piece of her family walked with her.
They believed in her.
She would not fail.
She closed her eyes at last, not to sleep, but to plan. To dream of spells that shimmered and blades made of water. Of enemies yet to rise.
Her story had begun.
And this time, she would write it herself.