Of Serpents and Stones
Harry Potter comes to Hogwarts, and he is rather different than anyone expected he would be.

Notes: This story will be AU, and is a Slytherin!Harry story. There will be minimal bashing, and though there are some trigger warnings [such as for abuse, neglect, and bullying] which do apply, things will not be graphic or go too deeply [at least in this story] beyond mentions. This universe is compliant with my The Lost Ones.

A Note on Relationships: Harry and his peers are, at present, much too young to be romantically paired with anyone, so any such close connections are friendship only. Some of the adults in the story may have a variety of entanglements with one another. Of them, canon pairings [such as Lucissa] do still apply. Other pairings will not be explicitly stated, however, there will be no graphic sexual content of any sort.

Mr and Mrs Dursley, of Number 4, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were completely normal, thank you very much.

Vernon was a company CEO and fairly well-to-do, enough so that he was regularly able to purchase new cars and furniture, which he showed off [particularly the cars] to everyone who happened to be out trimming their hedges with a definite air of pride. His wife, Petunia, had no need to work and as such was a housewife and an enviable source of neighbourhood gossip. She was a thin blonde woman with rather a lot of neck, which she used to her advantage, as there was nobody more able to peer over fences to gawk at Mrs Number Nine's new toyboy lover and Mrs Number Three's arrogant, gobby daughter than she was, and nobody more willing to spread such interesting tidbits around to everyone she happened to know than her, either.

The Dursleys had a young son, named Dudley, who looked like his father and acted like him too, an obese, pompous spoiled young brat who had found himself a keen position as the leader of the local bullies. The boys had a habit of stomping around the neighbourhood playpark, throwing the swings up and around the bars so that they hung there too high to reach and broke, and beating up any local child unfortunate enough to get too close. Sometimes, they even chased and attacked local cats, and ran crying home to their respective parents when they got scratched and bitten by the offended, frightened animal. They were truly atrocious children, no one could deny that in private [as much as they might have sung Dudley's praises to his parents faces], but as the story in Little Whinging went, they were little angels compared to Harry Potter.

Harry Potter was the nephew of Mr and Mrs Dursley, who had been living with them since he was approximately one year old after both of his parents, apparently a pair of drunken layabouts, had perished in a high speed car smash on some motorway or another. The smash had left the little boy with a strange, lightning-bolt shaped scar upon his forehead that he couldn't fully hide with his messy black hair, and that the neighbours all agreed to be nasty-looking, and it had unfortunately, it seemed, also left him with a 'damaged' disposition.

According to Mrs Dursley, the boy was a regular young criminal. Verily, he was regularly getting into trouble at school; he went through his lessons with a dreamy and unfocused expression upon his face, did not seem to listen in class and thus regularly failed examinations, had the most dismal handwriting many of his teachers had ever experienced, and was forever getting into 'fights' that left him covered in bruises, and into strange scrapes that nobody, not even Harry, could fully seem to explain. One time, he even ended up 'climbing' onto the school roof after apparently getting into a fight with his 'sensitive' cousin. Nobody knew how he'd managed it, as there wasn't a drainpipe in sight and not even the ambitious Year Sixes had managed to replicate his bizarre trick when they'd later tried.

The boy was not, it seemed, normal. Things happened around him, and then there was the reaction of the general public to him. Often, when he walked around in the street, even if he was just walking to school at the time, strange people all dressed in robes would wave and smile at him.

Harry didn't understand why, nobody else ever smiled at him, after all.

He did not know it, but right now far away to the North, in a castle in the Scottish Highlands that wouldn't have appeared on any tourist map, he was being discussed by a group of those strange, robed people.

HPHPHP

"I wonder," Rolanda Hooch mused from her staffroom chair, her boots- caked in Quidditch Pitch mud, as always- placed up on the coffee table obnoxiously close to Severus, who had the misfortune to choose today to take the old leather armchair that was undoubtedly the most comfortable one there, "whether he'll be anything like his father. James was a stunner on the pitch. Could have played for England. The world lost a star when he…" She sniffled, breaking off abruptly, dabbing at her eyes before her mascara could run.

Severus sneered, his trademark expression it seemed, at least when it involved her, anyway. She was utterly obsessed with Quidditch, and some people- like himself, for instance- had much more important things to be concerned with. "I personally hope he is not anything like his dreadful father. This school does not need another arrogant, idiotic prankster. Nor does it need another bully."

Aurora Sinistra had peeked around the door, and then, seeing that Severus was in there, made to leave again before she was noticed.

No such luck.

"Ah, Sinistra," he drawled, "and there was me thinking you would never come down from your ivory tower and deign to mingle with us pitiful commoners."

The Astronomy professor narrowed her dark eyes at him. "I would spend more time in this staffroom if you wouldn't be an absolute arse to anyone who tried to speak to you." She finally stalked in, collapsing into a seat by the fireplace. It was common knowledge among the Hogwarts faculty that Aurora Sinistra and Severus Snape did not just dislike each other, they actively loathed each other with the fierce burning passion of a thousand suns. Severus thought that she was a 'useless twit with a head full of stardust', and Sinistra thought he was a 'pig-headed dungeon bat with enough angst to fuel ten teenage novels'. Everyone else had become used to watching the fireworks whenever they found themselves in the same room with a degree of amusement, and making regular bets as to who would be the first to go beyond mere insults and draw their wand.

Albus, bless his heart, had tried to make them get along. He'd arranged 'faculty teambuilding sessions' to run a few days before every new term, but the last time that had happened, the two had had to have been moved to opposite ends of the school to cool down after their tempers frayed enough during the tug-of-war game that they actually started duelling. Since then, he'd left them alone, and settled to occasionally drop a hint or two to Severus to 'be nicer to her', which had won him a withering glare of his own each time. Most of the staff agreed that the chances of Severus being nicer to anyone were distinctly less than the chances of any one of them winning the lottery jackpot. Even Lucius Malfoy, esteemed school governor and probably the one person in the world who had a true claim to being Severus' friend, had reported that he smiled once in a blue moon, and usually spent their hours together grouching about something or another. Of course, he knew things most of them didn't, and understood a little better than most of them did, but he would always be vague about it all in order to keep his friend's confidence. Most of them therefore had long since given up any attempts to be openly friendly, and tolerated his miserly behavior, but otherwise tried to avoid him where possible.

Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration Professor and Deputy Headmistress, did actually like Severus to an extent. They certainly had a closer professional relationship than most of the faculty did with him, or even with each other. She had known him when he was just a small and frightened First Year, and had always done her best to make him feel welcome, and for that reason she had his trust, of a sort, at least. And, he had least had in her someone to have a healthy rivalry with. Often, they would spend hours arguing over Quidditch scores and house points, though the latter sometimes turned into an area of heated contention between them. Minerva, after all, was strict but fair to a fault, whereas Severus had been known to deny her House, the brave and brash young Gryffindors, points for good work, and docked rather too many for even the most minor perceived infraction, which she simply couldn't bear even if she could accept all of the other unpleasant facts of his personality.

She came sweeping in only minutes behind Aurora, arms full of envelopes, papers, and files. Her hair- waist-length, black as night and streaked with silver- had started to tumble out of its tight and professional bun, and her rectangular spectacles were slightly askew on her pointed nose. "I have just been," she huffed a little breathlessly, "handling the additional acceptance letters, plus dealing with the veritable Everest of paperwork Albus has left me while he goes on his sunny little jaunt to Benidorm, and then I had to chase Peeves halfway around the castle-" She paused, accepting a well-needed cup of tea from Rolanda. "-Thank you. I shall have to speak to the Bloody Baron again. Peeves has become uncontrollable since he realized Potter is coming to Hogwarts."

"Peeves is always uncontrollable." Severus' already pronounced sneer only grew as he thought of the school's resident poltergeist, who was an absolute menace at the best of times. "However, I imagine that he remembers well the previous Potter and his revolting little entourage all too well." There had been a year- Severus' fifth- where they had combined forces to unleash prankster hell upon the school. It had taken weeks to bring them back under control, Potter and co with a series of detentions that lasted until the last day of the Summer term and Peeves with a harsh talking-to from the Baron. It was not, therefore, an experience Severus wished to repeat any time soon.

Minerva sniffed. While she could understand Severus' dislike of James [after all, she hardly approved of bullies herself, and she did have to admit the group had made the Slytherin boy's life hell before he had figured out ways to retaliate full force that made him honestly no better], she had rather liked them once they had grown up a little, and some of their less harmful pranks had been a mixture of amusing and ingenious, as much as it had driven her spare at the time. Rather like the Weasley twins, in that manner.

"Alright," Hooch jumped up. "We have a month until school starts. I have got to prepare the pitch, and make sure we have all of the equipment ordered. We can discuss the ins and outs of James Potter and his little bunch later." For now, in her mind, only one thing other than Quidditch mattered. "What house do you think Harry will be in? Shall we have a bet?" She liked solving things with bets.

Severus scowled, the woman was altogether too Gryffindor for someone who had been sorted into his house, and all of this talk of Potter was driving him up the wall. He wished to spend his final few weeks in peace. Was that too much to ask? "No. Both his parents were Gryffindors, the result is therefore, I think, obvious." He stood up, and made his way out of the staff room, slamming the door behind him.

Hooch frowned after him, her yellow hawklike eyes narrowed. "Why does he always have to be so touchy?"

"He has his reasons. Sometimes." Minerva had settled at a desk in the corner, and was writing out another letter. "I'm going to hold off on my bets for now, as well. At least until we know he's received his letter…" She hoped this one would manage to find its way there. How hard could it be, to get owl post to the most famous boy in the wizarding world, muggle house or not?

HPHPHP

The station had been packed with people, and Harry had closed in more tightly to himself, frightened of being in such a massive crowd all pushing each other in their rush to catch the trains. It didn't help that he hadn't had a clue of where to actually go to, and when he'd asked a ticket-master very politely about where Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters was, he had just gotten a dirty look for his trouble, as if the man suspected him of trying to be funny.

The red-haired woman with her motherly warmth and her kindly voice had, therefore, been a godsend.

Mrs Weasley had escorted him to the train, and then he'd gotten on and walked down to find himself a compartment. Everywhere seemed full of people he didn't know, and he started to tremble with a measure of anxiety as so many faces gazed in his direction.

He hated to be looked at so much. Didn't anyone understand? He was just Harry. How could he have ended the reign of the worst dark wizard in recent times? It just didn't seem possible to the small, modest little boy who had spent all of his life up until the moment Hagrid had taken him that shack in the middle of the North Sea being treated like he was nothing but a burden. How could he be anything special?

"Don't point, Goyle, it's rude." A familiar, and sharp-toned voice spoke out over the sudden whispers of it's Potter look that had spread through the compartments as he passed. He glanced to his right, and spotted, to his relief, someone who at least he remembered somewhat. Small and slender, with a pale, pointed face and silky blonde hair, Draco had talked to him in Madam Malkin's and though he'd seemed a bit…well, full of himself, he'd been quite nice and hadn't laughed at him when he hadn't known anything. He was better than Dudley, in that respect, at least, and now he was watching Harry with curious grey eyes. "Well then? Come and sit with us. We left a space for you."

Harry looked, and they had indeed, though he didn't know why. He slipped into the spot next to a dark skinned boy who gave him a ready smile, and he shook his hand when it was offered. "Harry Potter."

"I know. Everyone has been talking about you. I'm Blaise Zabini- you know Malfoy, that's Crabbe and Goyle. They're dumb as a pair of blocks, but they're alright sorts really." He eyed Harry's untidy clothing, which was all a curious shade of greyish and far too big for him. "You'll want to change soon. Some of the professors are quite snippy if you look like a scruff."

Harry felt himself flushing red, and he hid his face in embarrassment. "Sorry," he mumbled. "These are all I have." He didn't want to look like a scruff, but the Dursleys hadn't bought him anything new for years, and all he had were Dudley's cast-offs that looked utterly enormous on him.

He didn't spot Zabini sharing a glance with Malfoy.

"It's alright, Potter." Malfoy spoke up then from his seat across from them. "You can borrow something of mine to wear under your robes. It'll probably be a bit big on you to start with, but I don't mind, and neither would mother. Honestly, she'd have kittens if I told her you were going around wearing someone else's handouts. She noticed you, when we were in Diagon Alley, you know, and she was going on about it for days afterwards. I almost forgot I was her son rather than you." He turned his voice to an amusing, high-pitched wail. "That poor darling! It's not proper for a boy from such a high position in society to be wearing things like that. Oh, Lucius, we simply have to intervene! You will take him shopping, and I will make him a good dinner, he looks like he needs some square meals! Poor dear!" He pressed a hand to his breast and gave an overdramatic sigh as his imitation of his mother ended. "I suppose you can take her concern as a compliment, but I must warn you, if my father tries to drag you around a clothes shop, you should protest most adamantly because he'd be in there ages- Potter, are you alright?" He had narrowed his eyes, seeing that the other boy wasn't laughing as he'd hoped, and instead had ducked his head as if in shame.

Harry wanted to reassure them that he was fine, but he didn't really feel it. He was a bit overwhelmed with everything; with magic, with this train, with going away to school, and more than anything else, with the idea that someone was speaking to him as a friend, and that someone's parents were worried about him despite never even meeting him. He'd never had a friend before, or had an adult that wasn't Hagrid show him concern. He didn't know how to deal with it. "Sorry," he mumbled again, for sake of saying something.

Draco just looked confused. "Whatever for?" He shared another glance with Blaise across the table; thankfully neither Crabbe nor Goyle had noticed, both were happily munching on the cakes their mothers had lovingly provided them with.

"Well," the other boy shrugged, "making your mum worry, I suppose."

Draco shook his head. "Mums are meant to worry, I think. Mine worries about Crabbe and Goyle just the same. Though," he lowered his tone, "mostly about their ability. She worries they might not be too ready yet for school."

Harry stayed silent, still trying to get the rush of emotion to go back down, and was relieved when the doors swung open. "Has anyone seen a toad?" A girl with bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth asked. "A boy named Neville has lost one."

Blaise shook his head, and Draco just gazed up at her curiously. "Who are you?" He was trying to place whether he knew her from any of his father's high society parties. He couldn't remember her at all.

"Hermione Granger." She looked a little annoyed at hearing something that sounded already so much like a demand. "You're Draco Malfoy, aren't you? Your grandfather was nearly Minister for Magic, and your father is the school's Chair of Governors. I read about it in Hogwarts: a History." She turned to look more properly at Harry. "Oh my- you're Harry Potter! You're in several books. I've read all about you, they say you managed to destroy You-Know-Who single-handedly as a baby, and there's arguments about how, someone called Quintus…someone or another…says you probably cast a protective bubble accidentally-"

Draco and Blaise shared a glance that mostly said Ravenclaw and perhaps a little bit of mudblood, but then watched Harry with concern, seeing how he seemed to almost writhe away from her curious eyes and looked supremely uncomfortable with being talked about like he was someone out of a book. "Yeah," Draco spoke up, "and my mad aunt Bella would probably say Harry must be some sort of whacky dark wizard himself. Don't believe everything you read in a book, or everything someone says for that matter."

The girl sniffed, and stuck her nose in the air, definitely rather offended. "Well, you should probably get changed. We're nearly there, you know." She stalked out, and shut the door with a bit of a slam.

Draco groaned, and let his head fall forwards onto the tabletop. "She's insufferable. Honestly, if I end up sharing classes with her…"

HPHPHP

The Sorting had, so far, passed without much chaos. Minerva was relieved at how well it seemed to be going; each House had gotten a nice equal spattering of students, and there were only a few left to be Sorted. The Malfoy boy had gone to Slytherin as everyone had known he would, Longbottom had somehow become a Gryffindor, and the Granger girl who seemed to know everything, or think she did [and who reminded Minerva rather uncomfortably of herself at a similar age] had made it into Ravenclaw, to Filius' delight. He always appreciated genuine brightness and willingness to learn and be taught, but she imagined that he was hoping, just like she already was, that the girl would eventually learn not to interrupt. Severus and Rolanda had both doubled, perhaps shocking even each other, into laughter simultaneously when they had spotted the expression on Minerva's face as the girl had started reeling off a series of facts about the Hat that she'd read in a book prior to arrival, constantly pausing its stream of thought, until it had all but cried out in sheer desperation for her to please be quiet and let it Sort her.

Of course, they were laughing now, but they wouldn't be when they had to teach her. The thought gave Minerva a measure of catlike satisfaction.

"Potter, Harry," she called out then, as absolute silence fell across the hall, and she watched as the boy shot her an expression of absolute terror, before he stepped forward and cautiously approached. He settled on the stall, fidgeting a little as she placed the old hat upon his head. She had to motion for silence, and so did other members of staff, as people had started whispering as he had approached.

Potter? The Harry Potter? He's so small and scrawny.

How did someone so little beat the Dark Lord?

What is he wearing?

Why does he look so scared?

Minerva had been shy, herself, when she had first come to the school, so she understood to a point. It couldn't have been easy to have the added pressure of everyone looking at you, expecting Merlin-knows-what from you the moment you arrived in a brand new school at the tender age of eleven. At least with her, the only expectation had been ability, for her mother had been a deeply talented- and Slytherin- witch.

She liked to think that was a legacy, aside from the Slytherin part, that she had lived up to. However, the Hat had considered Slytherin and Ravenclaw for her just as much as it had Gryffindor, recognizing that she had always had cunning, ambition, and intelligence. Her bravery, however, had been the deciding factor. She wondered how the dial would land in this case.

The boy had visibly jolted when the Hat started to whisper in his ear. Now, where shall I put YOU? Your parents were both Gryffindors, you know. Your father embodied everything that Gryffindor ever meant. He was brash, and brave, he feared nothing and obeyed no rule. Your mother, however, could have been a Slytherin or a Ravenclaw or even a Hufflepuff, she had her cunning, and her wisdom, and her kindness. All would have suited her, so she told me she would be happy wherever, and I should go with what I thought best. Ah, yes, I remember her head, Potter…she had a truly remarkable mind.

Harry swallowed, feeling the uncomfortable emotions well up again. "I don't think my mind is too remarkable, sir, I'm afraid."

Ah, that's where you're wrong! You have a brilliant mind, you could be an excellent little Ravenclaw, if you were allowed to flourish. You are not a fool, you are both smart and creative- yes, I saw those pictures you drew with your crayons in that cupboard. I see everything. You have, however, been carefully holding yourself back academically so that your dunderhead of a cousin could flourish in your stead, and so you would not be seen to be better than him. The CALCULATIONS you made in order to do so! Stunning! Very Slytherin of you.

"I…I had no choice, sir. They already didn't like me. It would have been worse if…"

…if you'd have allowed yourself to be all you should have been, yes. Well, Potter, you don't have to be afraid of THEM here. They cannot and will not reach you while you are at Hogwarts. You are terrified of them, but you still bear their atrocious treatment with no cruelty in return. You are angry, but you do not turn your heart to hate all around you. That shows bravery, moral bravery…you could be a Gryffindor. You're loyal, too, to those who do treat you with the kindness and respect you deserve. That's Hufflepuff. So, where shall we put you?

"Please," he answered after a long moment of thought, "put me where you think I'd do best."

Ah, so like your mother. I think we can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter. Yes…and I know just the place which can help you achieve them. Better be… "SLYTHERIN!"

Silence filled the hall anew, as the word sunk in- before there came a thunderous applause from Slytherin house. Draco might even have jumped out of his seat and cheered, and Harry just looked absolutely stunned to be getting so much attention, as he walked over and settled into a chair between him and a boy named Nott. He noticed that Draco's cheering ended quite abruptly, and he turned rather pale and unhappy looking when the ghost of a young man with a pointed face and long light-coloured hair slipped into the seat next to him. Harry thought he probably wouldn't have been too pleased to be sitting next to a ghost, either- especially not one that seemed to be absolutely covered in silvery blood.

Blaise Zabini became a Slytherin, too, and then the Sorting was finished. Harry watched as Professor McGonagall swept away carrying the Sorting Hat with a swish of her tartan robes against the dusty hall floor, and the Headmaster rose in his chair. He said a few words- none of which made any sense to Harry- and then allowed them to eat the glorious heaps of food that had appeared in front of them.

"You can have anything you want," Draco said, seeing him staring in wonder and probably hearing the rumble his stomach gave. "Absolutely anything."

Harry was thrilled, and he eagerly took what he could, even if it wasn't much. He didn't think he'd be able to eat much, even if it all seemed wonderful. Laughter and happy chatter spread through the hall, and he chanced a glance around, relieved that no one seemed to be staring at him; except, that was, the trembling, shy-seeming Professor who wore the purple turban- Quirrel, wasn't it?- and the man with whom he was quietly speaking.

Harry felt a jolt of white-hot pain spread through his scar, and fear stirred in his heart as he gazed over at that cruel-looking teacher, with the dark, dark eyes that seemed like there was nothing but ice inside of him.

Oh no, he thought, as his trembling started up anew. He really hates me. "Draco, who is that teacher there?"

"Oh," Draco curiously sounded delighted. "That's Professor Snape. He's our head of house."

Well that's it then, Harry thought. I'm officially doomed.