Properly Sorted
Albus hadn't been able to stop thinking about the Sorting. Despite his father's reassurances, he had spent the whole trip aboard the Hogwarts Express visualizing himself trying on the Sorting Hat and hearing it yell "SLYTHERIN"—and then being pelted with rotten fruit and vegetables, or more likely, an onslaught of deadly hexes. Apparently his father had no problem with the house, but Uncle Ron never made an effort to conceal his own anti-Slytherin bias. And James' taunts would be unbearable.
Standing in line in the Great Hall, his apprehension had mounted with every student who had gotten Sorted into Gryffindor before him, as if each one of them were a standard with which he was expected to compete.
"Albus Potter!"
His legs trembled as he made his way forward. He kept his eyes on the ground, so that he didn't see all the fond smiles directed at him, from the students (his seventh-year cousin Victoire was beaming so brightly that several boys close to her looked quite dazed), as well as the teachers (the headmistress, Professor McGonagall, was giving him a rare smile that Professor Hagrid's wide grin nearly eclipsed).
And then the hat slid over his eyes, so that he couldn't see anything at all.
"Albus Severus Potter," said a small voice in his ear. "How well I remember Sorting your father. He tried me on twice, you know, once during his Sorting, and once during his second year."
He said you'd take my choice into account, Albus thought quickly, clutching the seat of the stool.
"And so I will," came the Hat's amused reply. "But you haven't heard what I have to say yet."
Right, sorry. In his nervousness, Albus fidgeted so violently that for one wild moment, he thought he was going to fall right off the stool.
"You're brave, of course," the Hat said in a dismissive tone that stung Albus—surely bravery, as the characteristic trait of Gryffindor House, was the best quality of all? "Hardly unexpected. No, what interests me is your drive."
Albus didn't like where this was going at all.
"You're under a lot of pressure, as Harry Potter's second son. Everyone expects you to live up to your famous father, but there aren't any Dark Lords to defeat anymore, so how do you go about proving yourself? And your brother has already been Sorted into Gryffindor… Your desire to join him there belies the ambition that would carry you far in Slytherin. You don't want to let your family down, but simply following in their footsteps and growing up in their shadow isn't the way to do it. Be honest, now: you don't really care about getting into Gryffindor, do you?"
Of course I do! It--it's the best house, the coolest one! Albus spluttered mentally. But the Hat's words made a certain amount of sense…
"Slytherin has been unfairly maligned over the years," the Hat continued thoughtfully. "It would have been so fitting—poetic, even—if your father had been in Slytherin. Then the House which had produced Lord Voldemort would have also produced his downfall. Nice bit of redemption, don't you think? I've always regretted that, and I'd hate to make the same mistake with Harry Potter's children. Don't get me wrong, Gryffindor is the only place for your older brother, but you—you're much more versatile. And I'll let you in on something else: I used to belong to Godric Gryffindor, but I saw the top of Salazar Slytherin's head nearly as often as I saw Gryffindor's. They were best friends who shared everything, you see." Everything but the same opinion of Muggle-borns, the Hat added silently, but Merlin knows Salazar wasn't evil, the Chamber of Secrets notwithstanding, just paranoid and defensive through long experience of persecution.
Albus, who had glowed briefly at the Hat's comparison of him and James, hesitated uneasily. He hadn't known for sure that the Hat had tried to put Harry into Slytherin—Harry had only told him that he had asked for Gryffindor. His sweaty palms slipped a little on the seat which they were still gripping, and he realized suddenly that he had been there for a long time, possibly longer than any of the other first years thus far. He had to make his choice, and quickly.
Well, if you're not lying to me… He wiped his moist palms on his robes, and swallowed. I'll take Slytherin, then.
He lie, indeed! Only a Slytherin would think to accuse the Hat of deceit, and as it shouted "SLYTHERIN," the Hat thought that this time he had Sorted more wisely than he knew.
--
Albus sat down to ringing applause throughout the Hall, for despite their shocked surprise, most of the inhabitants of Hogwarts regarded Harry too well to give his son anything other than the warmest of welcomes. He joined some other first year Slytherins who greeted him amiably enough, and he even received a wary smile from Scorpius Malfoy, whom he knew as the son of a man his father had antagonized at school. Several older Slytherins aimed glares or coolly appraising looks at him. Worse than that, however, he looked over at the Gryffindor table and saw disappointed looks on many faces, as if it had been taken for granted that Harry's other son would enter their ranks. Even James' expression was neither mocking nor jubilant, as Albus would have expected, but bereft and nonplussed.
Up at the teachers' table, Albus saw Professor McGonagall turn swiftly to whisper to Professor Longbottom, one of his parents' closest friends. Neville often visited the Potters, but mostly during the summer vacation, since his duties as Herbology professor and Head of Gryffindor occupied the majority of his time during the school year.
Albus gave a mental groan. It would have been extremely cool to be in Neville's House, when he knew the professor so well already, but he had chosen elsewhere. He hoped fervently that he had not made the wrong decision, and he turned to his neighbors, who mostly seemed like decent people to spend seven years with. So far, anyway.
--
"All right, go ahead and clean up," Neville called over the din of the chattering first years, who had been trimming Snargaluff saplings. "Drop all the prunings in that bin over there, and you can leave as soon as the bell rings."
The boy he had been watching covertly through the whole lesson made his way towards the indicated bin, arms full of twitching twigs and leaves.
"Albus," he said quietly, tapping the boy on the shoulder. "I'd like a word after class, if you don't mind."
Albus blinked nervously and nodded. Neville smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, you're not in trouble—not yet, anyway, if Harry's passed even a fraction of his troublemaking genes to you."
Neville got a hesitant grin in return, and he decided that it was enough for the time being. The poor boy looked so uncertain, and Neville clearly remembered his own awkwardness during school. He'd promised Harry that he'd do all he could for Albus, and he would have anyway, for the boy's own sake.
"Nev—I mean, sir? You wanted to see me?" Albus blushed at his slip; when Professor Longbottom had come over to visit, he'd insisted that the children call him Neville, but they were at school now.
"Yes, yes, take a seat," said Neville, conjuring two chairs out of thin air. "As I said, you're not in trouble or anything like that. I just wanted to know how you were getting on your first week at Hogwarts."
"Pretty well," Albus said truthfully. "Hagrid's invited me for tea this Friday." He giggled suddenly. "Dad told me he's a terrible cook."
Neville laughed. "He's also one of the nicest people you'll ever meet. Just be careful if he tries to show you any unusual animals. How are your classes so far?"
"Transfiguration sounds like it's going to be hard, but I really liked Flying." Albus lit up. "I really want to be a house player, but I guess I'll have to wait till next year. I'll practice some more with Dad over the summer before I try out."
"Quidditch tryouts are next week," Neville said, "and your brother's already signed up. Gryffindor could do with a better lineup of Chasers; losing to Slytherin is never fun." He smiled broadly at Albus, whose face immediately fell.
"What's wrong?" asked Neville quickly.
"Professor—I've been meaning to ask you—does the Sorting Hat make mistakes?"
Neville tried to word his answer as carefully as possible. "Well, it once said that it disliked having to divide the incoming students every year. And you're only eleven when it Sorts you. People change. You don't like Slytherin?"
Albus furrowed his brow. "It's not exactly that. I mean, some people are real prats, but everyone else is all right. I've made friends and all that. It's just—I can't help thinking that I should be in your House."
"I see," Neville said slowly. "First of all, it's normal to have a mixture of different kinds of people. There are idiots in Gryffindor same as everywhere else. As for thinking you don't belong in Slytherin, what have your parents said?"
"Mum and Dad both said they were pleased, and not to worry about what everyone else thought. Dad even said it was kind of cool that I was the first person in my family to not get Gryffindor, but I'm not sure if… if…"
"He means it, believe me," Neville said firmly. "And so do I when I say that Slytherin may have a dodgy reputation, but it's produced heroes just like the other Houses. Besides, it's up to people like you to clean up its image, isn't it?"
When Albus didn't return his smile this time, Neville thought it was time for more drastic measures.
"Albus, if you're really worried about it, you should talk to Professor McGonagall. She was Head of Gryffindor in my day, and she's a great witch." Neville lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Her office is on the seventh floor, and the door's guarded by a stone gargoyle. The password is 'haggis.' Oh and by the way, if Professor McGonagall isn't there when you visit, don't worry." Neville paused, remembering something Harry had once told him. "At Hogwarts, help will always come to those who ask for it."
Albus' eyes widened at this level of trust and Neville's final, mysterious comment, and he thanked Neville profusely.
Neville watched him go fondly, thinking that Slytherins—particularly the one Albus Severus Potter was named for—had given him a lot of grief in his childhood, but the tormentor whose shape Neville's boggart had once assumed had laid down his life for the Order. And when Neville had found out that killing Nagini had not only destroyed a Horcrux but also avenged his old Potions master, he had felt all the more satisfied.
--
Albus entered the Headmistress' office with a great deal of trepidation.
"Hello? Erm, Professor McGonagall?"
"Professor McGonagall is not here at the moment," a kindly male voice replied. "She is currently dealing with a, er, staffing problem in the kitchens."
The headmistress' study was a large, round room whose surfaces were draped with tartan tablecloths and scattered with tins of biscuits. Countless paintings hung on the walls, and a closer look revealed that they were the portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses. The largest, of a bearded old man wearing half-moon spectacles, occupied the position of honor directly above the headmistress' desk. This was the man who had spoken.
"Apparently, the house-elves feel they don't have enough work to do," sneered another portrait, a clever-looking wizard with black hair.
"Phineas," the older man remonstrated gently, "It may have been impractical to hire so many, but Hogwarts has never turned away those who were in need. Many of them came here seeking work when their Death Eater masters were killed or incarcerated," he explained, turning back to Albus. "In the meantime, young man, is there anything I can do for you?"
"Maybe," Albus ventured cautiously. "Professor Longbottom sent me here to find an answer to a problem that I have, and he said that even if I couldn't find Professor McGonagall, er, 'help always comes to those who ask for it.'"
"Do go on," the portrait encouraged him.
"Well, I'm a first year, and I wasn't Sorted into Gryffindor, even though my whole family was, and I was wondering whether I should have gone there instead," Albus said hurriedly, impressed by the dignity of the old man in the portrait, and hoping that his question didn't sound too petty. A snort issued from the clever-looking wizard who had mocked the house-elves, but Albus found that he was only concerned with what the white-haired wizard thought.
"I might be able to help you with that, certainly," the old man replied, his eyes twinkling. "I was once Head of Gryffindor; in fact, Professor McGonagall was my successor in that position as well."
"Wait a minute," Albus muttered, noticing for the first time the golden plaque beneath the portrait. "You—you're Professor Dumbledore!"
"I am," Dumbledore said merrily, "and I can hazard a guess at who you are. Turn a bit to your left, my dear boy, so Severus can see you properly. Severus, don't those eyes look familiar?"
Albus turned as directed and saw a black-framed portrait significantly smaller than Dumbledore's, which contained a sallow-faced man with greasy black hair. According to his plaque, this was Severus Snape. A thrill ran through Albus as the identity of this man sank in.
At the moment, Snape looked as though he had been sucking on lemons. "This is the whelp Potter named after the both of us?"
"Admit that you are flattered, Severus," Dumbledore responded jovially, leaning forward to scrutinize Albus more closely. "Mr. Potter, you have no idea how pleased I was to hear that your father had chosen me as the namesake of his second son."
"He's told me a lot about you," Albus said, smiling. Something about Dumbledore had immediately put him at ease, despite Snape's unpleasant reaction. At the moment, Snape was showing no inclination to contribute anything to the conversation beyond his initial jibe, but he looked on intently with his lips compressed into a thin line.
"Dad said you were the best teacher at Hogwarts, even though you didn't really have classes," Albus went on, giving Dumbledore a diffident, adoring look. It was clear that Harry had sung Dumbledore's praises liberally in front of his son.
Dumbledore chuckled. "He was one of the best students who ever passed through Hogwarts under my eye. But enough about me, Mr. Potter. I believe you had a question about Houses?"
"Oh, yes," Albus said immediately, furrowing his brow. "I just can't stop thinking about it, even though Dad said he didn't care if I didn't get into Gryffindor."
Snape's lip curled. "Potter's son not a Gryffindor? What House are you in, boy?"
"Slytherin."
Snape looked as though he would choke, except there wasn't anything for him to choke on. "Slytherin—? How could a Potter ever get into Slytherin?"
"Professor Snape was Head of Slytherin before he became Headmaster," Dumbledore supplied unnecessarily.
"Right," Albus said a little breathlessly, "my dad told me."
Snape raised a sardonic eyebrow. "And what else has your illustrious father said about me?"
"He said you were the bravest man he ever knew." Albus was only parroting his father's last words to him on the subject. Remarkably, Harry had never spoken much of Snape at home although he was always bursting with stories of Dumbledore; most of the time it was as if Albus didn't have a middle name.
Snape's eyes glittered strangely.
"Please, sir," Albus ventured, "why did he name me after you?"
"If your father's unstinting praise of me at home hasn't provided you with sufficient insight into his motives," Snape sneered, "you must be even stupider than he was."
"Well, I mean—that's just it," Albus retorted, clearly stung but determined to get an answer. "He never talks about you at home; I just know you used to be his teacher, and you were a war hero."
"I suggest you ask him for details if you're losing sleep over the issue," Snape said coldly.
Albus stared at Snape. Dumbledore opened his mouth to intervene as soon as it became that an awkward silence was descending upon the room, especially now that more portraits had awakened and were regarding the proceedings curiously. Before he could utter a word, however, Albus addressed Snape again.
"No offense, Professor," he said clearly, "but I get the feeling that my dad—and other people—didn't like you very much." Harry had laid off outright Snape-bashing ever since he had seen the memories in the Pensieve, but Ron had been less circumspect in his stories of their years at Hogwarts. "But you were on our side, and you helped us defeat Voldemort, and you saved my dad's life."
Snape blinked resentfully at Albus, whose eyes were beginning to shine with conviction.
"So, I figure it's all right to be Slytherin, even if it means you'll have no friends, because it's a lot harder to be good when the people you're trying to save don't even like you. You have to be pretty brave to do that."
"And to think you figured that out all by yourself," Snape said softly, after a silence. "More brains than your father, after all."
Albus had been expecting a tirade of verbal abuse; he smiled tentatively and glanced around at the other portraits. Dumbledore beamed down at him, and Phineas smirked, not unpleasantly.
"Look at me."
Albus turned back to Snape. Snape gazed intently into his eyes, and it was difficult for Albus to hold his gaze.
"I know, I've got my dad's eyes," Albus mumbled, as if the words had been a lesson to learn by heart.
"No, boy. Not your father's." Despite his sharp tone, Snape's expression was uncharacteristically soft. "Being a Slytherin doesn't mean you won't have any friends, Mr. Potter." Snape paused a little, and of the corner of his eye, Albus thought he saw Dumbledore blinking away tears. "And they needn't all be Slytherins like yourself."
"Well, if you don't mind," said Albus, "I hope we can be friends."
Snape's mouth quirked. "Dismissed, Mr. Potter."
As he left, unconsciously straightening his green-and-silver tie, Albus was sure that Snape had barely repressed a smile.