Maybe this year will be different. Harry thought as he crept onto the Hogwarts Express. The platform was completely empty, as it was not even seven o'clock yet. Bent over double and dragging his trunk, he walked the magically expanded cars until he reached the final one. Sitting in the very last compartment (half the size of the others as the car ended with the back wall), he closed and locked the door, heaving a sigh of relief. It was only then that he straightened.

His clothes hung off of him like elephant skin, ragged and grey. I guess Aunt Petunia finally managed to get me into that Stonewall uniform after all. Carefully, he stripped and changed into his school robes. His torso was far too thin; each rib was well defined and his stomach concave. Thin white lines marred the skin, some old, more new. Bruises and cuts provided a splash of color on his otherwise sallow skin: red, purple, black, and blue. Glancing down, a bemused smirk took its place. I look like a bloody garden. He laughed a single note, harsh and resigned. Both senses of the word. Bloody… garden.

Finished changing, he looked distastefully at the malodorous vestry he had just removed. I'll wait for the train to get going, then I'll give 'em a nice Incendio. Satisfied with his plan, the fifteen-year-old stretched out on the bench and closed his eyes. Maybe… just maybe someone will notice me this year. Bolstered by this seemingly futile dream, Harry Potter went to sleep with a slightly less wrinkled forehead. He had long since forgotten how to smile; he had never had any reason to know.


Hermione Granger was a smart girl. It was the thing she prided herself on the most. She was observant and used those observations to help people. In fact, the previous year, she had noticed some strange behavior from a teacher, reported it, and it turned out that their Defense Professor was actually an impostor. Not only so, but it had been he who entered Neville into the Tournament. The Tournament… that was an interesting twist. Due to Neville's incredible heroics and her research he had managed to win the tournament.

Of course, that had come with a horrible shock. It turned out that during the Task, Neville had been abducted and used in an ancient (re. Dark) ritual to resurrect Lord Voldemort. Fortunately, Neville had the presence of mind to activate his emergency locator which led to the immediate downfall of the newly resurrected Lord. He was hailed as a hero and awarded his third Order of Merlin, First Class.

Hermione's assistance and natural rule-following and enforcing tendencies had landed her a spot as the Gryffindor female Prefect. Neville was (obviously) made the male Prefect. So, on September the First, 1995, Hermione made her first patrol as a Prefect. So far, she had been quite successful. She had stopped three different attempts at rule-breaking and confiscated two banned items so far. Now, she was trying to check in on a locked compartment in the very back of the train. Knowing some of the upper years' tendency to get rather rowdy on the train, she simply had to make sure there were no rules being broken behind the door. With a quick "Alohomora", the latch undid itself and she slid open the door.

And behind door number on is… oh… just a boy. Probably a third year by his height. The boy in question cracked an eye and sat up. "What?"

Hermione was shocked at the amount of apathy that a single word could carry. "I was just inspecting the compartments. This one was locked, so…" she trailed off under his flat gaze.

"There's no rule about not having compartments locked. Otherwise they wouldn't have locks." He spoke quietly, quickly, and tonelessly, as if afraid of being caught making noise. "I'm obviously not doing anything against the rules in here, so please leave."

What! How can he talk to me like that! "There's no need to be rude!" Hermione snapped.

"No need to come barging in here interrupting my nap," Harry retorted, "But you still did it anyway."

Flushing with anger, both at having her authority questioned and the seeming rudeness of this petulant boy, she asserted her authority, "I am a Hogwarts Prefect, and as such I am authorized to inspect any compartments I deem necessary."

Glancing around, the boy questioned "Are you done? No illegal activity or possessions here. Just me, my books, my clothes, and my wand."

Oh, he's acting suspicious now is he? "I'll be the judge of that," she said, stepping into the compartment proper. "Open your trunk," Hermione ordered.

Growling a bit, he complied. "Fine." Hermione stepped up and looked into the surprisingly empty chest. "Just what I said it was. My books," he pointed at a pile of wrinkled, dog-eared books, "my clothes" he gestured at his set of spare robes, "my potions kit, and my wand." He procured said device. "May you leave now?"

He's obviously hiding something! Why would he have no personal effects at all? Fuming with rage, Hermione brandished her wand. "Specialis Revelio," she incanted perfectly. To her utter surprise, the only magic on the trunk was the Gravity Charm, a piece of Aristotelian Physics (Gravity Charm: Bottom = Down. It prevents the contents from scattering)

"Are you done inspecting my property yet? Or are you waiting for it to turn a few cartwheels?" The boy kept his voice flat, but there was an edge of annoyance to it.

Her irrational anger subsiding, she excused herself and resumed patrolling the corridors, embarrassed at her lack of professional behavior.


So much for this year being any different. Harry had been subject to a number of similar inspections. The Prefect would order him to turn out his pockets, hand over his book bag, or submit his trunk for inspection. To their universal bafflement, he had neither anything they could reasonably confiscate, nor anything to bribe them with. They always thought he was hiding his valuables elsewhere, but the truth was that he had no valuable items. He had no novelties, no money, and no family heirlooms (as if he'd want anything from the worthless drunks that had given him birth).

His books were all second-or third-hand, as he used the majority of his scholarship money to buy a set of new robes. Nothing elaborate or even middle-range, but it was good to have something that fit and was new. After ten years at the Dursley's, he was desperate to have a set of fitting clothes. Never mind the fact that he had to settle for old books, aged potions ingredients, and various other low-quality school supplies. Never mind the fact that nobody in Ravenclaw would even give him the time of day due to his lack of books. He had proper clothing, and that alone was the best thing magic had ever done for him.

Since he was a child, he had been told he was the bastard child of a drunkard and a whore who, after getting themselves killed in an accident, had left him to the care of his hard-working relatives. After turning eleven and joining the Wizarding community, the most he had learned about his parents was that he looked and acted like his father, but had his mother's eyes. Professor Snape was particularly fond of taking him down a peg or three, sabotaging his work, insulting him, and even turning a blind eye to his students' efforts to emulate their beloved teacher. If done to any other student, he would have a dozen people cursing him, but, since it was Harry, everyone turned a blind eye (and ear) to Snape's abuse.

Harry was used to it, though. He had no friends to defend him, he never had had friends. Since he was old enough to go to Primary School, either Dudley, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, or a variety of Hogwarts denizens had prevented him from forming relationships with other people. As such, he retreated to the world of literature, reading encyclopedias when he was younger and advanced magical texts at Hogwarts. The Hat had taken longer for him than it had for Famous Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived. In fact, McGonagall had been about ready to yank the Hat off his head by the time he was placed. He still remembered it vividly.

After a long, silent pause, the Hat had finally spoken in his head. "Well, well, well, it's been a long time since I've had a student as difficult as you. Truth be told, you've got no one feature that stands out. Your work ethic was beaten into you, not likely to forget that lesson any time soon. Your mind is repressed, but thirsty for knowledge and capable as any I've seen. You are cunning, but hold little ambition, so Slytherin is not the place for you. Bravery… you have bravery, yes, but it will do you little good as you're willing to sacrifice yourself for nothing. Gryffindor is also out. So, loyalty or intellect? Family or solitude? It is, after all, your choice."

"Put me wherever you see fit. It makes the most sense that way."

"No… I don't think you'd fit well in Hufflepuff. RAVENCLAW it is then." The Hat was pulled off of his head. As it left, he heard a farewell from the hat, "I am sorry if it doesn't turn out well. Anywhere else would do more harm…"

Harry snorted in contempt. It could have been worse, I suppose. Imagine being placed in Snape's gentle care. The four Houses had their own unique ways or structuring. Gryffindor was the House of a Hero and his hangers-on, united around a single core. Hufflepuff was fairer, due to their unsung value, and was like a close-knit family. Slytherin was pure politics, but there were small cliques of genuine friendship. But Ravenclaw… academia was a contest. Sure, there were cliques, but they only lasted so long as the people in them found each other useful study partners. For the majority, Ravenclaw was a cold, solitary House.

That is not to say that its constituents were all friendless, but their focus was on their studies, and not on their fellows. Harry was alone though. Nobody wanted to associate with the ragged, poor Potter. Oh well. Three more years, Harry. Three more years and you can finally be free of all this. Free of this backward, stagnant society with their backward, stagnant technology. At least in the Muggle world I'm protected by the law if I get attacked. Sighing faintly, Harry stood up and re-locked the door.

And then, he pulled out his Transfiguration textbook and read.

The witch with the snack trolley missed his compartment.

Just like she had every year.

No matter, he'd gone days without food before. And candy was poor food anyway.

Not that he'd ever have any. Look what it did to Dudley!


The Opening Feast was even more rambunctious than ever. After all, Voldemort was gone forever, and people were still giddy from the celebrations that had gone on all summer. Neville was holding court in the middle of Gryffindor table and basked on the glow of his admirers. A festive atmosphere ruled over the feast, yet Harry sat alone, on the very edge of Ravenclaw table. A few dishes sat near him, barely touched. He looked out over the chattering, laughing students and felt an inexplicable surge of jealousy. Why can't I have any of this? Just for one day, why can't I have someone who'll talk to me? Sit next to me? Hell, I repel people just by walking down the damn hall! It was true. People never got within three feet of him. The only human contact he ever had was when Uncle Vernon beat him; Dudley punched him, or those rare occasions when someone brushed up against him in a narrow hallway.

As the feast disappeared, he tuned out Dumbledore's twaddle about how 'The Boy-Who-Lived defeated Voldemort', but an irregular announcement caught his attention.

"Due to the end of the threat of Lord Voldemort, we can now dedicate more resources to you, the students. Part of this is a once-a-week, one-hour meeting with your Head of House. The meeting times will be posted on your message boards in your Common Rooms. These meetings will be used to discuss grades and report any problems within your House."

Harry snorted in amusement. I can think of one or two problems within your house Flitwick. Yours too, McGonagall.


When Harry arrived at Ravenclaw tower, he immediately looked at the message board. The meeting schedule was the only thing on it. Looking at the list of 5th Year students, he gave a strangled bark of laughter before climbing up to his dorm room.

His name was not on the list.


The first week of classes went as well as could be expected. Transfiguration was ramping up the difficulty, but he rarely had difficulty in that class. Charms was a breeze, as all it required was a thorough understanding of what the spell accomplished to perform the magic. Defense seemed to be another joke teacher, some toad-woman hybrid from the Ministry taught it. So far, it seemed like she had little understanding as to how to teach a class.

But then again, she was the only person other than Snape who called him by name, even if it was off of the attendance roster. She still said his name.

He still existed, then.

At times in the last four years, he had wondered whether or not he was a ghost. Or even if he existed at all. Nobody knew his name, nobody talked to him, except if a Prefect decided he looked suspicious. Hell, even his own Head of House didn't seem to know he had six Fifth Year boys. So, he reserved judgment on Madam Umbridge, even if she was a rather unpleasant person.

She had said his name. "Harry Potter". It sounded heavenly to hear his name said by another person.

Potions was an unmitigated disaster. Snape seemed to take extra joy in insulting every fiber of his being, from his unruly hair to his low-quality robes to his low-quality existence. "I only wish your mother could see you now, Potter. I think she'd kill herself to see her son as such a pathetic waste like you." Harry tried to ignore the acerbic man, but after so many years of invective it becomes impossible to tune out. Snape's words stung his soul, as much as he would like to pretend they didn't. The man didn't have to strip him of even the delusion that his mother might have loved him. So, he didn't give Snape what he wanted. He remained silent, completing the potion to the best of his capability.

Snape took one look at it and vanished it.

The potion was nearly perfect. He was given a T.

At dinner, he pushed around a few potatoes on his plate. He wasn't very hungry. Breakfast usually held over until the next day. Being fed twice a week for eight weeks will do that to a guy.


Hermione's week went well. All of her summer work was perfect, and classes were ramping up the difficulty for OWLs at the end of the year. Prefect duties on top of the increased workload promised to be stressful, but she was going to need to be able to work under stress in the real world. It seemed that the boy she had confronted on the train had a bit of a reputation for… whatever it was that he had been doing. On the first night, a Seventh Year Prefect had told her about the 'trouble students' as she called them.

"All of the Slytherins will give you flak, but only Malfoy and Flint will ever try to disobey you. Hufflepuff has a few miscreants, usually the younger years, and Gryffindor... well you know us. Perfect. Ravenclaw has possibly the worst one of them all." Hermione had a sneaking suspicion of who it was. "No one really knows his name, he's a Fifth Year just like you. Messy black hair, green eyes, pale skin, bad clothes, very short…"

"I think I met him on the train. Are you sure he's in Fifth Year? He looks like a Third Year."

"Yeah, he's in Fifth. I've heard stories about how Prefects will ask to inspect his stuff, but they never see anything but the bare minimum. It's like the kid has no personal belongings."

"I noticed that when I inspected his trunk."

"Wow, already got one point for trunk inspection on the guy. Nice!" It seemed as if inspecting his stuff was a game.

"Anyway… his trunk had everything on the supply list, but not one iota more. I even cast a detection spell, but it came up with just the Gravity Charm."

"Yeah, I know. He must hide his stuff somewhere else."

"Maybe… or it just might be that he doesn't actually have anything."

The Seventh Year snorted, "Yeah, but he acts so… compliant. It's like… even if I didn't have anything to hide, I'd still be embarrassed to do that."

"I'll keep an eye out for any Dark activity coming from him."

"You do that."

And with that, Hermione vowed to make the Ravenclaw boy toe the line.


As she observed him throughout the week, at meals and in shared classes, she saw a rather interesting pattern. He ate a little bit at breakfast, usually an egg and a plain slice of toast, and then didn't eat until the next day. She thought he'd be sneaking into the kitchens, but asking the elves shot down that idea. He also sat alone, well away from everyone else. Every now and then, she'd see him look around the Great Hall with a look of… something. Never did she see him speak to another person.

In their shared classes, he would perform the required magic, then revise his notes for the rest of the period. Most everyone else used the time to either practice magic from previous years or simply do magic. She never saw him use his wand outside of class. In the halls, he kept to the side, and people unconsciously moved around him. Again, never did she see or hear him interact with other people. It was not an aloofness which separated him from the rest. He, for some reason or another, simply didn't have anyone to talk to. Interesting. He does what is needed to please the teachers, but he doesn't cast anything for amusement or even want. It's like he doesn't want magic…

September passed into October and Hermione kept up her watch of the Ravenclaw boy. She had asked around, and not even his dorm mates knew who he was.

"He never talks," Terry Boot remarked to her, "Not even when Snape is at his worst." Curious. What has he done to invoke the Wrath of Snape? And at his worst? She shuddered. I don't envy him.

"So, does he seem… dangerous to you? Like he's about to explode?"

Terry laughed. "Dangerous? Not at all. The guy only shows he's upset after Potions, and even then only if Snape was more vindictive than usual."

"What's his problem with Snape?"

"I dunno. Snape's hated him since First Year. I think his dad and Snape didn't get along too well, as Snape constantly insults him. Weird thing is, he's never said a word to Snape, except in the very first lesson when he didn't know the answer to a question. Since then, I think the only words he says are spells."

Another of the Fifth Year Ravens, Anthony Goldstein, had a bit more to say.

"Oh yeah, Potter?"

"So that's his name?" Finally, something I can research!

"That's what Snape calls him. He's the only one who'll say his name."

"What about his Christian name?"

"Never heard it." Anthony shrugged, as if it was beneath him.

"Why does he wear such awful robes?"

"Probably because he's here on scholarship. Interestingly enough, everything he owns is secondhand, except his robes."

"But you can get better quality used robes for cheaper!"

"Maybe the guy likes new clothing? I dunno."

Hermione scratched her head in thought. "So that would explain his lack of… personal items."

"Eh, not entirely. You'd think he'd have something from home, right?"

"Yeah, I would expect that."

"But he's got nothing. Never seen Potter get any letters either. You know, come to think of it," Goldstein mused, "I've asked, and none of the other guys say they've seen him get any Christmas presents either."

"None at all? That's a bit…" Hermione trailed off, disturbed.

"Depressing? Yeah. We tried giving him some candy a few years back. You know what he did?"

"What? Ate it, I suppose." Obviously.

"No. He returned it."

"Seriously?"

"No kidding. We came in that evening to find the stuff we gave him sitting on our nightstands. Funny thing is, he left a note with each pile."

"Really?"

"Yeah. The note said something like… 'Thanks for the thought, but we both know I'm not worth it.' Didn't sleep well that night."

"How awful!" She was shocked. Not worth it… and this has been going on for years!

"Again, no kidding. We hardly ever see him in the dorm. He's up at 5:30 every day."

"How do you know?"

"Woke up early one day, heard his alarm go off. Asked him why the hell he was up so early and he shrugged in an 'I always do this' sort of way."

"That's really early to be up. Breakfast doesn't even start 'til 7."

"And he goes to bed after all of us do. He's burning the candle well past midnight, working on his homework."

"All that time?"

"You should see his essays. When McGonagall says 4 feet, I think he interprets it as 40 feet."

Hermione was slightly jealous. While she was an overachiever, that was far too much, even for her. "No exaggeration here?"

"Not really. I saw one of his Charms essays once, last year."

"Was it all restatements and talking around the question in huge writing?"

"No. He really belongs in Ravenclaw, Potter's brilliant!"

"Really?"

"Yeah. He answered the question in the required space, but then he spent the next twelve feet on the history of the spell, purpose of the wand movements, and potential specializations of it, all in textbook-sized writing."

"What?" Hermione had never thought of doing something like that.

"He knows his theory quite well. He also integrated Runes and Arithmancy into it. Did you know the wand movements are based off of the major lines in runes?"

"Sort of… I remember Professor Babbling mentioned it in an anecdote a while back."

"I wonder why he's not on top of our year, then."

"I just don't think anyone likes to read the whole thing. Their loss, I suppose. And I've seen Snape 'grade' his essays. He just picks it up, looks at the name, and then puts a T on the top."

"That's outrageous!"

"It's Potter's problem and he doesn't raise a stink about it. I say, let him take the initiative."

"But that's disturbing in its own right." Suddenly, all the pieces started to fit together. Hmm… no personal belongings… excessive overachievement… possible desire for praise… follows instructions to the letter… self-deprecating comments… "This merits a talk with Flitwick, I'd say."

And with that, the Great and Beneficent Hermione Granger set off towards Flitwick's office, certain of her discovery.


Author's Note: This is not a 'Wrong Boy-Who-Lived story. Neville is the BWL, and defeated Voldemort in the graveyard. The shock of resurrection and immediate defeat caused Tom's soul to fail. So, Voldemort is dead for good. Harry has spent the last 4 years at Hogwarts almost as a non-person, the Dursley's neglect and abuse making him quite reserved and antisocial. I've got the basic story map planned out already, so I just need to put flesh on the bones of the plot. This is the longest chapter I've ever written, and hopefully they will get longer. Make sure to Enjoy and Review! –Manic-Catastrophe