Slytherin Pride, Chapter 1: The Sorting Hat, by Rhysenn


Slytherin Pride

Chapter 1: The Sorting Hat


"Potter, Harry!" came Professor McGonagall's crisp voice.

Harry Potter? A twitter of excitement coursed through the Great Hall as students craned their necks forward in eager anticipation. Harry Potter, did she say? All of a sudden every eye was riveted on the black-haired boy as he slowly approached the stool on which the Sorting Hat sat.

Harry glanced around nervously, although he quickly averted his eyes to the floor when he saw everyone staring at him. He walked toward the stool, picked up the frayed, patched hat, and placed it over his own head. It flopped over his eyes, engulfing him in darkness.

'Hmm,' said a small voice in his ear. 'Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see, and not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes — and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting... So where shall I put you?'

Harry gripped the edges of the stool. Not Slytherin, he thought, not Slytherin.

'Not Slytherin, eh?' said the small voice. 'Why not? You could be great, very great — it's all here in your head, you know.'

What? Harry opened his eyes and blinked, although he couldn't really tell the difference since it was pitch dark inside the hat. Me, great?

'Yep,' the voice said, sounding very convinced. 'And for sure, Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness. Your mind's a lot more complex than the others, much harder to decide — but yes, I think that where you belong is SLYTHERIN!'

Harry heard the Hat shout out the last word to the whole Hall, and there was a strange silence ringing in his ears as he slowly removed the Hat. The light from the thousands of candles floating in the Hall stung his eyes, and Harry blinked a couple of times to clear his vision. A sea of stunned faces swam into view, and for a moment, the entire Hall was silent.

Then, cheers and whistles erupted from the Slytherin table, loud whoops as the Slytherins got to their feet and clapped. The other tables maintained a subdued silence, and even the teachers sitting along the High Table seemed too shocked to react. Dumbledore was looking thoughtfully down at Harry, a pensive expression replacing his usual benign smile.

Harry looked around self-consciously — everyone was still watching his every move. He looked behind him, and saw Ron Weasley, who was waiting for his turn to be Sorted. Ron was staring at him, looking flabbergasted, an expression of disbelief on his face. Harry offered him a strained smile, but Ron didn't smile back.

Harry wanted to put the Hat back on and ask it to change its mind, or at least reconsider the matter, but he knew it wouldn't be any use. There was nothing he could do now. Harry lowered his eyes to the floor dejectedly and started toward the Slytherin table.

On his way to the Slytherin table, Harry glanced at the students seated at the other tables — they were all watching him, looking dumbfounded. Hushed whispers followed him as he paced over and sat down at the Slytherin table, feeling miserable. The looks people were giving him reminded him of his old school, where everyone avoided him because of Dudley's gang.

Professor McGonagall seemed quite astounded by the Sorting Hat's decision as well. She looked incredulously after Harry as he went to sit with the Slytherins, and fumbled slightly with the long roll of parchment in her hands as she tried to find the place where she'd left off. "Um — yes, Turpin, Lisa."

Lisa Turpin became a Ravenclaw, and Ron Weasley's turn was next. Harry waited as the Sorting Hat deliberated for a moment before declaring Ron a Gryffindor. Harry's heart sank, and he morosely watched as Ron hurried over to the Gryffindor table, looking extremely relieved. Ron's red-haired twin brothers enthusiastically pounded him on the back, congratulating him.

"Well, well, I'd never have guessed, Potter," came a drawling voice next to Harry.

Harry turned around to find Draco Malfoy sitting next to him, a smug grin on his face. The other boy carelessly ran a hand through his blond hair, giving Harry a sideways, appraising sort of look. "I'd never have thought you had it in you, Potter, to become a Slytherin."

"And I'm not exactly proud of it, all right?" Harry shot back irritably. He didn't like the gloating expression on Malfoy's face. He cast a glance around, and saw students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, the two closest tables, still staring at him. "From the looks of it, everyone else doesn't think so either — maybe there's been a mistake." Harry sounded hopeful.

Draco shook his head. "The Sorting Hat's never been wrong. They've used it for ages, and it never changes its decision." Draco tossed his head arrogantly. "But Slytherin's the best House, anyway, everyone knows that."

"'Those cunning folk use any means to achieve their ends' doesn't exactly sound very complimentary," Harry remarked dryly. He remembered what Hagrid had told him as well: There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.

What would Hagrid say? Harry wondered sadly. What would he say when he finds out I'm in Slytherin?

Harry's glance strayed over to the Gryffindor table almost wistfully. He saw Ron sitting next to the girl with curly brown hair, Hermione Granger. She was deep in conversation with Percy the Prefect, and seemed oblivious to everything else. Ron happened to look up suddenly, and his eyes met Harry's and held for a moment.

Ron looked away.

Draco had been watching Harry all this time. "Not still pining after that Weasley, are you?" he asked shrewdly, his grey eyes narrowing.

Harry didn't answer as he turned his eyes away from the Gryffindor Table. The truth was, he was rather sad that he hadn't gotten into Gryffindor, since the noblest and bravest went there. General consensus was that Gryffindor was the most popular House, although Slytherin had taken top honours for the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup in recent years.

Perhaps the Hat is right, Harry mused. Slytherin has the aptitude for greatness — but that's not everything, is it?

Draco noticed the ponderous expression on Harry's face, and shot him another look. "Remember what I told you, Potter," he said slowly, "some wizarding families are much better than others. You don't want to go mixing with peasants like Weasley — if not for anything, it's bad for your image."

"Ron's a nice person," Harry said defensively, glaring at Draco. "So what if his family hasn't got a lot of money?"

"Hasn't got any money is more like it," Draco corrected disdainfully. "Look at his robes — they're all hand-me-downs from his older brothers. His father works at the Ministry, but they're so poor that a few times he even had to ask for a salary advance so his family won't go hungry."

"How do you know that?" Harry asked suspiciously.

"My father holds a senior position in the Ministry," Draco answered proudly. "He's on the Executive Committee — got good connections all round — he's close friends with the Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, you know."

Harry had to admit that it did sound rather impressive, although he simply offered Draco a curt nod. He still had his reservations about Slytherins, and they weren't going to change over a few words with Malfoy. Didn't Ron say that Malfoy's dad used to be Voldemort's supporter, although he came back from the Dark side after the Dark Lord fell? Harry lapsed back into his conflicting thoughts, mostly still thinking about the Sorting Hat's decision.

Draco gave Harry a sharp look, feeling exasperated. He's every inch a Gryffindor, Draco thought, disgusted. Maybe Potter's right — the Hat's lost a few too many threads over the years, it needs mending.

Draco remembered the first time he'd seen Harry — at Madam Malkin's. One look at him and Draco knew this boy was a Gryffindor, and that's why he'd asked Harry if he knew which house he was going to be in. The way Harry talked, the way he moved — everything added up to a true blue Gryffindor, in Draco's opinion, and Draco liked to think he was always right. But then again, Draco had pegged that bumbling fool with the fat toad (what was his name again? Nate Longbottom?) as a Hufflepuff, but he turned out to be in Gryffindor. Maybe he wasn't that good a guesser, after all.

Harry was still moodily pushing his food around his plate, looking sullen and dejected, and Draco gave up trying to engage him in conversation. Crabbe and Goyle weren't exactly very meaningful conversationalists either, so Draco decided to talk to the boy opposite him instead, a wiry kid who strongly resembled a prairie dog.

Harry looked down at his plate. Slytherin. I'm in Slytherin. To tell the truth, the fact hadn't quite sunk in with Harry yet. He'd never really given it a thought, which house he would be in — he'd been worrying too much about how his non-wizarding upbringing would affect his schoolwork. Harry wondered which house his parents had been in — probably not Slytherin, Harry thought gloomily. Probably Gryffindor, 'where dwell the brave at heart'. He recalled another verse from the Sorting Hat's song:

Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends...

Harry cast a sidelong glance at Draco Malfoy, who was brandishing a roast chicken drumstick at another boy across the table whom he was arguing with.

No way.

Harry sighed, picked up his fork and knife and started cutting up his piece of roast beef. Things weren't going at all as he had hoped. Maybe he could go and talk to Professor Dumbledore about this, after the feast. Maybe ask for a transfer.

Harry glanced up at the High Table, where the teachers were all seated and busily eating. He suddenly noticed one of the teachers looking straight at him. He had greasy black hair and an angular, sallow face, with a hooked nose and a hard, menacing expression in his black eyes. The hostility in his stare was crystal clear.

Harry wilted slightly under the weight of his glare, and looked away. Great, I've just started school and teachers are already disliking me.

He nudged Malfoy, who was sitting next to him, still debating furiously with the other boy across him. "Who's that teacher over there, with the black hair and green robes?"

Malfoy paused long enough to glance over at the High Table, where Harry was pointing. "Oh, that's Snape. He teaches Potions, I think, and he's our Head of House too." Draco went back to his heated discussion with the other boy, and from snatches of conversation Harry gathered that they were arguing about Quidditch flying styles and which strategies were the best.

Harry groaned inwardly. First he had been Sorted into Slytherin, the least popular of the Houses. Now, that teacher who obviously hated him for a reason that Harry had no inkling of was Slytherin's Head of House. Everything seemed to be going wrong.

But still, Harry comforted himself, this is tons better than being back with the Dursleys. He glanced at the table full of Slytherins — they didn't look like the most friendly lot, but certainly they weren't downright horrible and nasty like Dudley. Besides, if not for anything, they were — his kind, like Hagrid had said. A little way down the table, a girl caught his eye and gave him a smile. Harry returned a half-hearted grin, and tried to cheer himself up a little.

Slytherin couldn't be all that bad.

"You bastard!" Draco suddenly yelled, standing up abruptly and seizing the boy across the table by his collar. The other boy, who was more diminutive in size, sputtered and choked. Draco was shouting, "How dare you! How about your father, Wilkins? He's in the Department of Disposal Of Magical Toxins — in other words, the garbage collectors!"

Harry quickly slid out of his seat as Malfoy wrestled Wilkins to the ground in a flurry of limbs. Plates crashed to the floor and gravy sloshed everywhere, and a flying fork narrowly missed Harry as he darted out of its path just in time. He retreated a few steps from the Slytherin table, unnoticed as everyone's attention was fixed on the brawl. Harry took one last glance at them — Malfoy seemed to have the upper hand, unsurprisingly — before quietly slipping out of the Great Hall.

Even from outside, he could hear the angry voices from within — sharper tones indicated that the teachers had arrived on the scene to break up the fight. Harry grinned in spite of himself as he recalled how absurd Malfoy and Wilkins looked, their faces and robes smeared with cream cakes and pudding. It was ridiculously amusing.

Yes, Harry mused thoughtfully, maybe Slytherin wasn't that bad, after all.


* * * * * * *


Lucius Malfoy's eyes glittered maliciously as he scanned the letter in his hand once again. It was from Draco, and actually ran for two pages of parchment, although only one sentence in the middle of the first page demanded Lucius' attention. The name had caught his eye as he casually skimmed the contents of the letter, and his heart had actually skipped a beat. He blinked twice, then re-read the sentence again, almost in disbelief:

...something rather interesting, Father — Harry Potter is in Slytherin, too.

Lucius quickly browsed through the remainder of the letter, his eyes searching for Harry Potter's name, but it didn't occur again. Not bothering to read the rest of Draco's letter, he tore off the first page, folded it carefully and placed it in his pocket, and strode out of his study.

Very interesting indeed, Lucius thought, and a vicious smile twisted his thin lips. He walked resolutely down the pearl-white marble stairs, his black boots sounding sharply against the smooth, polished floor.

On his way down he passed Narcissa, who had been tending to her personal garden outside. That garden was Narcissa's pride and joy — she weeded and watered it by herself, forbidding the house-elves to come anywhere near her beloved patch. In her little garden she grew the simplest yet most beautiful flowers — roses, carnations, sunflowers, daffodils... a refreshing variety, in contrast with the carnivorous, flesh-eating plants that lined the hedges surrounding Malfoy Manor. Although Lucius was disapproving of her hobby, Narcissa refused to give it up, and the flora and fauna blossomed verdantly under her tender, painstaking care.

Narcissa noticed the letter grasped in Lucius' hands, and her blue eyes brightened. "A letter from Draco?" she asked in a hopeful tone. "What did he say?"

"Nothing much," Lucius replied curtly, not even bothering to slow his pace. If he had actually read the remainder of Draco's letter, he'd have seen that three-quarters of the second page was addressed to Narcissa. "He's very busy, no time to write long letters."

Narcissa looked disappointed, but still persisted. "Did he say how he likes it at Hogwarts? Is he happy there?"

"Yes, yes, of course he is," Lucius waved his hand dismissively. "Now, I have some important business to attend to, Narcissa, I'd like to be left alone for the rest of the day. I'll be in the drawing room — see to it that I am not disturbed." Without even waiting for a reply from his wife, Lucius turned on his heel and strode off.

A few more staircases and corridors led Lucius straight to the drawing room, and he closed the heavy oak doors behind him. "Arceostium," he muttered, touching his wand to the doorknob, and the bolts smoothly slid into place.

Lucius stopped short, his eyes darting around the drawing room. Finally he walked over to the centre of the room and pulled back the thick Persian carpet draped across the floor, revealing a trapdoor. It was carefully camouflaged, being the same colour as the surrounding floorboards. Opening it and reaching deep inside, Lucius groped around for a few moments before retrieving a small dusty vial filled with a silvery black powder.

Straightening, he walked over to the fireplace, the vial still clasped in his left hand. He pointed his wand at the fireplace, and it immediately ignited in a blazing vermilion flame. Lucius sank to his knees in front of the crackling fire, feeling the heat radiating in waves against his face.

This was magic at its most powerful, one of the Darkest Arts ever performed. This was a bond between a master and his servant, forged in a covenant of blood, and no matter how far apart they were, as long as they both lived, this channel of communication still existed.

And Lucius knew, somewhere out there, his Master was still alive.

Did he still remember how to do this? Lucius closed his eyes, and carefully unscrewed the vial. Of course he did. Some things he could never forget.

He took a pinch of the silvery black powder between his trembling fingers, and threw it into the flames. It showered down into the fire like glittering dust, and the flame immediately glowed rich purple, burning brighter and more fiercely than before.

Lucius took out a small knife, then extended his left arm, pulling back his sleeves. The Dark Mark was still visible, very slightly faded, but still clear and stark against his pale skin. Very carefully, Lucius pressed the edge of the knife against the Mark, then ran the blade over the length of the livid skull symbol. Blood glistened forth, red and fresh, and Lucius held his arm above the purple flames, allowing his blood to drip into the fire. The tongues of fire danced higher, fuelled by the blood, and licked briefly at his exposed flesh. Lucius winced and bit his lip, but forced himself not to pull back.

Lucius closed his eyes, feeling a certain familiar chill creeping into his mind, overriding the pain. It was an intangible presence, which felt distant yet intimate at the same time.

Master, Lucius spoke in his mind. Without opening his eyes, he reached into his pocket, drew out Draco's letter and then tossed it into the flames, which consumed the parchment eagerly. I have something for you.

Lucius waited. The fire seemed to be more subdued now, and it was burning with a steady, controlled energy. There was no response for a very long time, and he started to wonder if he had done it correctly. Silence tunnelled through his mind, nothing but the eerie, inarticulate howl of a desert wind through a barren landscape.

But he still waited.

And finally, he heard a voice, hoarse and rasping, but nonetheless the voice of his Master.

Harry Potter — in Slytherin. The voice sounded almost thoughtful.

Yes, Master, Lucius replied, relieved.

Another silence ensued. Lucius found himself holding his breath in anticipation. Finally —

We will wait, said the voice, cold and hollow like the sound of nightmares. The time will come. And when it does, you, Lucius, you will be able to assist me in my return, and you will be rewarded beyond your dreams.

Yes, my Lord, Lucius answered fervently, feeling a tingling shiver course down his spine. I am your servant.

Wait, the voice commanded again, achieving an authoritative tone even in its formless state. Just a few years more, and Harry Potter will be ours for the taking.

We will kill him, Master? Lucius inquired, his mind racing in expectation.

But he received no reply, and the flames of purple gradually dissolved back into orange.

Lucius shakily reached out for his wand and extinguished the fire. He remained on his knees, in front of the charred fireplace, the burnt skin on his left arm raw and pulsing, but he ignored the pain. As he got to his feet, Lucius was overcome with a wave of dizziness, but his Master's words still echoed clearly through his mind.

We will wait.

Lucius unsteadily made his way over to his armchair, and sank into it, exhausted.

The time will come.



~~~