The day had come.
Eliot Clarke stood on Platform 9¾, watching the scarlet engine of the Hogwarts Express billow clouds of steam into the crisp September air. He wore freshly pressed robes, his wand tucked securely inside his jacket, and his custom coin—engraved with the Clarke family crest and a single "D"—resting in his pocket.
His mother hugged him tight, whispering prayers and promises in Telugu as she fixed his collar one last time. His father ruffled his hair and smiled. "You've already made us proud," he said, eyes soft. And his grandfather, as always, gave a small, subtle nod—the kind that didn't beg for attention but carried the weight of generations.
Eliot stepped onto the train, heart pounding in his chest like a piston, steam trailing behind him as he disappeared into the corridor of moving magic.
---
The interior of the train was alive with chatter and energy. Owls hooted from cages, cats purred under seats, and the clatter of trunks being loaded onto racks mixed with the laughter and shouts of returning students. Some first-years looked awestruck, others terrified, and a few tried to act like they belonged.
Eliot found an empty compartment near the middle of the train. He slid the door shut behind him and took a window seat. The fields began to blur as the train pulled out of the station. He let out a long breath and rested his head against the glass, watching London recede into green countryside.
This was it.
The new chapter.
A knock on the door broke his thoughts.
"Mind if I sit here?" asked a boy with sandy hair and a nervous smile.
Eliot nodded. "Sure."
"Dean Thomas," the boy said, offering a hand.
"Eliot Clarke."
Dean slumped into the opposite seat. "You from a wizarding family?"
"Mixed," Eliot said. "You?"
"Muggle-born. Found out two months ago. Still feels like a dream."
They talked. Easy, natural. Football, comic books, magical theory. Dean was fascinated by Eliot's take on combining tech and spellcraft. They laughed about the absurdity of adapting Iron Man armor to a wand-based society.
Eventually, they were joined by a dreamy-eyed girl named Penelope Clearwater, who had fascinating theories about magical creatures, and a quiet, sharp boy named Terry Boot who seemed to know every spell ever written. The conversation bounced between Transfiguration theory and Quidditch rivalries. It was chaotic, but stimulating.
For the first time, Eliot felt a spark of normalcy—something rare in both his lives.
He belonged here.
---
Later, the trolley witch arrived, and Eliot bought an assortment of wizarding sweets. Chocolate Frogs leapt, Bertie Bott's beans betrayed, and pumpkin pasties warmed his chest. He made a note to replicate the cooling enchantment on the pumpkin pastry box—it was brilliant.
The train rolled on into dusk, the sun setting behind distant hills, casting golden streaks across the compartment.
Eventually, a Prefect announced they were close.
"First-years! Robes on!"
Eliot slipped into his Hogwarts robes, heart pounding again—not with fear this time, but anticipation. He wasn't scared of what was coming. He was ready for it.
---
When the train arrived, the first-years were ushered off the platform and toward a group of boats bobbing on the black surface of a lake. A tall witch with a lantern—clearly Hagrid's substitute—called out names and organized them by the dozens.
The castle loomed ahead like a gothic crown carved into the night. Torches flickered in the windows. Magic clung to the air.
They drifted across the water in silence. The ripples reflected the stars.
Then the massive gates opened.
Candles floated mid-air in the Great Hall. The enchanted ceiling mirrored a cloudy night sky, soft lightning flashes threading across velvet black. Four long tables stretched across the room, filled with students. At the front, a fifth table held the professors—some stern, others curious.
Eliot's breath caught. It was more beautiful than he imagined. More *real*.
The Sorting Hat sat on a stool at the front, limp and still—until it yawned and began to sing:
> "I sort the brave, I sort the wise,> I see through all pretentious lies.> I measure minds and hearts so bold,> In stories new and legends old…"
The rest of the song blurred for Eliot. He could only hear the beat of his heart in his ears.
One by one, names were called. Children walked to the front, sat down, and were sorted with cheers and applause. Some were sorted in seconds. Others sat in tense silence for what felt like minutes.
Then:
> "Clarke, Eliot!"
He stepped forward. Confident. Focused. Calm.
The Sorting Hat dropped over his eyes.
> "Well, well," it said in his mind. "A curious one. I see invention. A hunger for truth. Intelligence, logic, structure—but with passion. Yes, this will be interesting."
Eliot said nothing. Just waited.
> "You'd do well in Slytherin," the Hat mused. "You have ambition. Drive. The will to challenge the system."
> "But not at the cost of others," Eliot replied in thought. "And I'm not trying to rule. I want to build."
> "Hmm," said the Hat. "Then Ravenclaw might be your place. There's room for innovation there. Thought. Questioning. They won't fear your mind."
> "Then put me there," Eliot said clearly.
> "Very well then—RAVENCLAW!"
Cheers erupted from the blue-and-bronze table. Terry Boot stood and clapped loudly. Penelope gave an encouraging smile.
Eliot removed the hat and stepped off the stool.
He was a Ravenclaw now.
---
The feast afterward was a blur of sensory overload. Roast chicken, mountains of potatoes, gravy, golden goblets of pumpkin juice, treacle tart, and melting ice cream.
The Ravenclaw table buzzed with introductions. The Prefect, a composed girl named Penelope Clearwater, explained the layout of the tower, the common room riddles, and the strict rule against eating in the library.
When the meal ended, Dumbledore gave a brief speech—whimsical, cryptic, and full of half-jokes Eliot didn't quite catch. The man radiated power beneath that twinkle. Eliot made a mental note: watch him closely.
As they climbed the spiral stairs to Ravenclaw Tower, Eliot took it all in.
He was no longer just Nikhil from Hyderabad. No longer just DSK or DHD. No longer just the author or inventor.
He was Eliot Clarke. A student of Hogwarts. A Ravenclaw.
And this?
This was only the beginning.
> "Let's see what kind of magic I can make in here," he whispered to himself, as the eagle door knocker asked its riddle and opened wide.