A greeting of Crucio?
Or burned alive with Fiendfyre?
Ivan shuddered at the possibilities and tried harder to dig out the original body’s memories.
Whatever the transmigration had done, those memories were shattered and buried deep.
No amount of force brought them to the surface.
“Damn it.
If I could just remember a little more…” He rubbed his temples.
Before the end of term he would have to learn Legilimency, then find a way to borrow the Pensieve in the Headmaster’s office and sort through whatever was left.
Otherwise he was going to slip up sooner or later.
He didn’t even know where his own house was.
As far as transmigrators went, he was already off to a spectacularly unimpressive start.
“Harry Potter!” McGonagall’s voice pulled him out of his planning.
Every head in the hall turned toward the stool the same way they had when Ivan’s name was called—except this time the attention was electric.
A thin, awkward boy with messy black hair and glasses climbed the steps.
The applause that followed was thunderous.
The second-years at Ivan’s table clapped until their palms went red, eyes locked on the fringe of hair that might hide a lightning-bolt scar.
“Harry Potter?
The Harry Potter?” “My mum said he finished You-Know-Who when he was just a baby!” “Please let him be Gryffindor!” Ivan clapped along.
Standing out by refusing would have been worse.
He also figured the boy had earned the noise.
Harry’s miserable childhood only existed because his parents were dead.
If Lily Potter hadn’t sacrificed herself and left that protection charm strong enough to strip Voldemort of his power, a lot more people in the wizarding world would already be in the ground.
When the Sorting Hat finally shouted “Gryffindor,” the table went wild.
The Weasley twins actually grabbed each other and yelled “We’ve got Potter!” across the hall.
The Slytherin side’s applause was noticeably thinner.
The prefect sitting near the front looked especially sour after the hat announced that Harry had refused Slytherin.
Ivan watched it all with a small, private smile.
The Boy-Who-Lived glow was still bright.
Give it a few weeks and most of them would notice that, name aside, Harry Potter was just another first-year.
Then the fascination would cool.
His eyes flicked to Dumbledore, who was smiling down at the boy with open fondness.
Suddenly the Slytherin prefect’s worry made more sense.
With the Headmaster quietly stacking the deck for his chosen one, the House Cup was already decided for the next few years.
The moment Harry stepped off the platform, Percy Weasley was there, pumping his hand like they were old friends.
Half the table tried to clear space so they could talk to the savior.
Even Fred and George abandoned their seats to join the crowd.
Ivan’s side of the bench emptied in seconds.
He stayed put.
None of it concerned him.
The feast in front of him was far more interesting.
British food had a well-earned reputation for culinary crimes, but Hogwarts was an exception—probably because the cooking was done by house-elves rather than British wizards.
He felt eyes on him and looked up.
Dumbledore’s bright blue gaze was fixed directly on him across the hall.
Ivan didn’t flinch.
He offered the Headmaster a carefully shy, polite smile, then shoved a large piece of cake into his mouth and swallowed it in two bites.
Whether it was the pure glutton energy or simple momentary curiosity, Dumbledore smiled back and moved his attention elsewhere.
The feast lasted long enough for Ivan to eat until he physically could not fit another bite.
Only then did Dumbledore wave his wand and clear the tables.
Plates, leftovers, and empty dishes vanished as cleanly as they had appeared.
Older students barely reacted.
To Ivan, who was seeing real magic for the first time, it was still impressive.
Dumbledore rose.
The hall quieted at once.
“I have a few start-of-term notices to give you,” he said, eyes sweeping the first-years before lingering, just for a second, on the Weasley twins.
“First-years should note that the Forbidden Forest on the grounds is out of bounds to all students.
And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.” “Mr.
Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to remind you that magic is not to be used in the corridors between classes.” “Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of term.” He paused, then raised his voice slightly.
“And finally—I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” Ivan almost snorted.
Classic Dumbledore bait.
Announce something is lethally dangerous, give zero details, and watch every curious idiot immediately start planning a visit.
A few first-years actually laughed.
The older students looked more serious—except the Weasley twins, who were already whispering with the unmistakable expressions of people deciding when to go look.
Ivan figured Dumbledore would have a private word with them soon, or simply tell Filch to keep an extra-close eye on the pair.
Better to head off whatever chaos they were about to cause.