The Marauders: A Hogwarts Tale

As Professor Duchannes concluded her speech, she directed the students toward the Great Hall. The crowd began to shuffle forward, but before Godric could follow, the elven woman's sharp voice caught his attention.

"Mister Gryffindor, a word if you please," she called, her piercing gaze meeting his.

Godric hesitated, then stepped toward her. She lowered her voice slightly, addressing him with a tone both formal and direct. "I've been briefed by Headmaster Windsor regarding your... unique circumstance. As such, despite your placement as a Third Year, you will need to join the First Years for the Sorting Ceremony."

Godric blinked, surprised by the revelation, but quickly nodded. "Of course, Professor," he said, his tone respectful.

Turning back to his friends, he managed a sheepish grin. "I suppose I'll see you lot later, then?"

Rowena offered him an encouraging smile. "Good luck, Godric. Remember, no matter which house you're sorted into, we'll be cheering for you."

"Exactly!" Helga chimed in; her face bright with optimism. "It's just a bit of pomp and ceremony. You could be sorted into a jar of dirt, and we'd still be your friends!"

Godric chuckled, their words easing his nerves. "Thanks, truly," he said, giving them a wave before heading toward the cluster of nervous First Years assembling at the edge of the hall.

As he joined the group, the apprehension in the air was palpable. The younger students exchanged hushed whispers, their wide eyes darting around the grand space. Godric couldn't help but feel his own heart pounding in his chest, their nerves contagious.

Before he could fully settle into the moment, Salazar's teasing voice rang out from behind him. "Try not to get sorted into Aecor, Gryffindor!" he called with a sly smirk. "I'd hate for that fancy sword of yours to rust in all the water!"

Godric glanced back, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress a grin. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Slytherin!" he shot back, the banter lifting his spirits as he stepped forward with the First Years, ready to face whatever awaited him.

As the doors to the Great Hall creaked open, the First Years shuffled in, their collective intake of breath echoing softly through the vast chamber. Godric couldn't help but join in their awe. The term Great Hall seemed almost an understatement—it was colossal, grand enough to comfortably seat nearly a thousand students. Long tables of polished dark wood stretched from the entrance to the raised dais at the far end, where the Academy's staff sat in stately rows.

Godric's gaze traveled upward, catching sight of an enchanted ceiling shimmering with the illusion of a star-strewn night sky, the constellations twinkling as if in real-time. He blinked, momentarily wondering if it was an actual view of the heavens before quickly concluding it was some kind of powerful magic. His attention drifted to the teacher's table, a grand structure of ornate craftsmanship, where nearly two dozen figures sat in resplendent robes, each exuding an air of authority. These, Godric guessed, were the professors of Excalibur.

The group of First Years halted just before the two small steps leading up to the dais. Professor Duchannes stood poised at the edge of the staircase, her commanding presence bringing instant quiet to the crowd.

"Before we proceed," she began, her voice carrying effortlessly across the hall, "Headmaster Windsor would like to offer a few words."

All eyes turned toward the center of the teacher's table, where an elderly man rose from his intricately carved chair, its frame gleaming with golden inlays. Godric recognized him immediately—Headmaster Blaise Windsor, the same man who had come to his town and extended the invitation to Excalibur. Time seemed to fold as their eyes met briefly, the headmaster offering him a small, knowing nod. His long, flowing beard and hair, silvery white, framed a face marked by both wisdom and warmth. His hazel eyes twinkled under the glow of the chandeliers as he began to speak.

"I bid you welcome, First Years, to our humble yet hallowed institution," Headmaster Windsor said, his voice resonant despite its rasp. "Here, within the great halls of Excalibur, you will spend the next eight years honing your skills, exploring the arcane arts, and, I trust, discovering the depths of your potential."

The hall grew silent as the students hung on every word.

"Before you may take your seats, however, tradition calls for the Sorting Ceremony, where you will be assigned to your Houses," he continued. His voice gained a ceremonious weight as he spoke. "There is Ignis, blazing with the fires of courage. Ventus, soaring upon the winds of knowledge. Ferrum, forged of iron and driven by ambition. Terra, as steady and strong as the earth beneath our feet. And lastly, Aecor, ever-flowing, adaptable, like the tides."

The shimmering ceiling above seemed to shift subtly; the elements he described reflected in the starlit illusion.

"These Houses are not mere divisions," Headmaster Windsor said, his tone growing more solemn. "They are the embodiment of the values upheld by the Five Heroes of Avalon, our founders. During your time here, your House will become your family. Your triumphs will earn its glory. Your transgressions will bring it shame. Together, you will compete, grow, and uphold the legacy of Excalibur."

The hall buzzed softly with anticipation as the headmaster's gaze swept across the room, lingering momentarily on each of the nervous faces before him. Godric felt a twinge of nervousness himself, his fingers tapping against the belt of his scabbard on his back for reassurance.

"And now," the headmaster concluded, a faint smile gracing his lips, "let the Sorting Ceremony begin."

The hall fell into a hushed anticipation as the floor before the teachers' table began to shift. The grinding of ancient mechanisms filled the air, and a circular section of stone slowly descended. Moments later, a pedestal rose from the opening, a sleek obsidian orb perched atop it. The surface of the orb shimmered faintly, exuding an aura of power.

Professor Duchannes stepped forward. "As I call your names," she announced, her voice crisp and clear, "you will step forward, place your hands upon the orb, and allow it to reveal your house. The color it emits will determine where you belong."

Godric glanced over his shoulder, scanning the tables. He quickly found his friends among the older students. Rowena sat at the Ventus table; the house crest emblazoned proudly on her robes. Helga, beaming as always, waved enthusiastically from the Terra table. Meanwhile, Salazar reclined with his usual composed demeanor at the Ferrum table, a sly smirk tugging at his lips.

One by one, the First Years approached the orb as their names were called. Each time, the orb flared to life with vibrant hues, and the corresponding house erupted into applause, welcoming its newest member.

Then, the moment came.

"Godric Gryffindor," Professor Duchannes called.

Godric's stomach flipped as every eye in the hall turned toward him. Swallowing hard, he stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor. The orb's dark surface seemed to glint in anticipation, daring him to touch it.

He hesitated for a moment, steadying his breath, then placed his hand firmly on the orb. As his fingers made contact, the world around him seemed to dissolve. The Great Hall faded away, replaced by a vibrant, familiar landscape.

He was back in his town.

Godric blinked, disoriented. The sun shone brightly, and the scent of freshly baked bread wafted from a nearby window. The chirping of birds and the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze brought a strange comfort. The damp earth beneath his boots felt so real it was unnerving. 

"Back so soon, lad?" a deep, familiar voice called out.

Godric turned sharply. His uncle, Gareth, stood before him, clad in his weathered armor, a sword at his side. His striking red hair, slicked back, gleamed in the sunlight, and his crimson eyes bore into Godric's with a mixture of pride and warmth.

"Uncle Gareth?" Godric's voice faltered. "How is this—?"

His uncle approached with a faint smile. "Those robes suit you," Gareth said, studying him. "You remind me of your father—more than you know."

"Then, why didn't you tell me about this?" Godric demanded, gesturing to himself. "About magic, about… all of this?"

Gareth sighed heavily, placing a hand on Godric's shoulder. "I didn't know, lad. Growing up, you showed no affinity for magic. I thought you were like me—a mundane. And... I wanted to keep you safe."

Godric searched his uncle's face, the words both comforting and bittersweet. "But now?" he asked.

"Now I see how wrong I was," Gareth admitted. "This is who you are. Who you were meant to be. But the question is, do you see it?"

Godric hesitated. "I... I don't know, Uncle. I'm not like you. I'm afraid. What if I'm not good enough?"

Gareth knelt slightly, meeting his nephew's gaze. "Courage isn't the absence of fear, lad. It's the resolve to face that fear, even when your hand shakes." His expression softened. "You have the heart of a Gryffindor, Godric. Let the fire within you burn bright."

Godric's chest tightened, a surge of determination washing over him. "I won't let you down, Uncle Gareth. I promise."

Gareth smiled. "I know you won't, my boy."

The vision faded as quickly as it had come, and Godric found himself back in the Great Hall, hand still resting on the orb. It was glowing—a fierce, fiery red that filled the room with a warm, vibrant light.

Professor Duchannes nodded approvingly. "Godric Gryffindor," she declared, her voice resonating through the hall, "your courage burns bright. Welcome to House Ignis."

The Ignis table erupted in cheers and applause, their fiery enthusiasm matching the house's name. Godric turned to face them, a bright smile lighting up his face. From the teacher's table, Headmaster Windsor watched with a knowing smile, clapping gently.

"Well, well," Salazar's voice drawled from the Ferrum table, his smirk widening. "It seems our dear swordsman has found his flame. This year is bound to be... interesting."

"And dinner hasn't even started yet!" Helga quipped from the Terra table, winking at Godric.