OooOoOooO
"Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes–and a nice thirst to prove yourself… You could be great, you know, it's all in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that–" – Sorting Hat; September 1st of 1991
– Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
Chapter Seven: The Sorting Hat
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Prologue: Not the Expected Boy-Who-Lived
November 17, 1988
"What. Did. I. Tell. You?" Vernon gritted out furiously as he dragged his nephew by the elbow.
Panicking, the boy pulled as hard as he could. He needed to get away. It wasn't his fault. Why was his uncle angry? He didn't even do anything other than be there. Dudley was there too but why wasn't he punished?
This was so unfair. Not like this–he pleaded in his mind.
"Please, Uncle Vernon! It wasn't my fault!" The boy begged as he tried to pry off the strong hold of the pudgy man.
"It's always you, you freak! Now what would others think? Did you even consider how this will affect us? My family? Have you?" Vernon bellowed almost breathlessly, too angry as he tossed the boy on the floor in the middle of the living room.
The boy held back his sobs from surfacing, his uncle would get angrier and that meant more beatings.
And if there was something he didn't want to experience again, it was pain. But Uncle Vernon knew a lot about inflicting it. He had tried once to run away but the next morning he woke up, he was back in the cupboard with no idea how he got back.
It was so unfair. They should've just let him live on the streets–it looked more welcoming and free.
The very reason he was now in this situation was because while the class was being dismissed a while ago, somehow, throughout the teacher's speech, her hair had turned a shocking shade of neon blue. And somehow, it was his fault. Somehow, he was always the one blamed.
"Now," Vernon pulled off his leather belt from his trousers. "I hope I could beat more of that freakishness out of you." He growled as he approached the small tensed form of his nephew.
"I'm sorry." The boy tried feebly but knew it wouldn't cause a difference.
Like how crying wouldn't change anything.
So he just closed his eyes and waited for the pain.
Harry Potter was not disappointed.
XooXoXooX
September 12, 1990
"Where did that bruise come from, Harry?" Mrs. Thompson, his math teacher asked in concern as she tried to touch to his bruised cheek.
He instantly moved out of the way as he stared at the woman suspiciously. She never cared before. Why was she suddenly noticing now? Harry had been in her class for two years. He almost wanted to scoff. But Aunt Petunia instilled manners in him.
Or at least, tried to.
"Just got rough with Dudley last night." He shrugged almost nonchalantly, still eyeing her intensely.
"Oh." She seemed almost disappointed.
With that, he left the classroom after his classmates. He almost wished she had pushed harder, demanded answers, something, or anything. . .but no.
Just no, and it showed how much she cared.
Like how no one ever bothered.
XooXoXooX
February 7, 1991
"Mr. Richards called me into a meeting last Monday." Aunt Petunia started dinner conversation with a scowl.
"What did he want, mum?" Dudley asked through a mouthful of food.
Harry carefully remained silent as he washed the frying pans and some plates on the sink. He already had an idea where this would lead to. Personally, he felt apprehension at what it might entail. But deep down, he felt angry yet anticipating.
"What did you tell him?" His aunt demanded accusingly, her glare directed at Harry's back.
"Nothing. I didn't even talk to him." He answered as casually as he could.
Well, it was only half the truth–he might not have spoken to his Physical Education (PE) Teacher but it was the man who had talked. So technically, he didn't lie.
Mr. Robin Richards had noticed how unusually small he was for his age, how little weight he had, and questioned him about his living arrangements to which Harry responded with something neither positive nor negative.
That way, he won't have to deal with the man's nosiness and his relatives' wrath.
Aunt Petunia eyed him for sometime before nodding hesitantly.
"Make sure it stays that way." She ordered.
XooXoXooX
June 23, 1991
Harry carefully massaged his sprained ankle, ignoring the swelling as he sat in his room–the cupboard.
It was his fault, again. Somehow, it was instilled within his relatives that whenever something bad happened, it was the "freak's" fault. He didn't even do anything to make the glass disappear. He just got the slightest bit annoyed at his cousin for jostling his bruised stomach. Even if it was the pudgy boy's birthday.
So maybe he kind of wished for Dudley to fall on his face. Not to fall through a snake house.
What was odder was how he seemingly understood the snake and vice versa.
Maybe, just maybe, his relatives were right. He was not normal compared to them.
But Harry knew he wasn't a freak either.
XooXoXooX
July 24, 1991
When the letter arrived, Harry had stared at the thick envelope with mixed feelings.
Anger was the most prominent of them–"The Cupboard under the Stairs, 4 Privet. . ."–and wondered whose idea of a joke this was. It wasn't funny. Not at all since it only brought out a great sense of shame out of Harry and that was one of the things he hated to feel. There was also curiousness but held it in check in place of caution. And slight despair, it meant that someone managed to find out his home life–something that wouldn't make his relatives happy.
Before entering the kitchen, he tossed the letter in his cupboard and decided to worry about it later.
After all, something his relatives knew wouldn't hurt them.
Though it was a different story altogether when they discover this little mishap; Harry just knew that Uncle Vernon wouldn't be so forgiving about the punishment.
XooXoXooX
July 27, 1991
Harry had decided to send a letter back, leaving it in the mailbox and addressed to some sort of school called Hogwarts.
He had stated clearly in the letter how he wasn't interested and demanded if it was their idea of a prank because it certainly wasn't entertaining. He had also subtly threatened them to report to the proper authorities if they send any more of those letters–"I know you wouldn't want this to get out to public, my uncle knew people at the right places, and he's very sensitive about his reputation so I apologized if he found it in his best interest to speak. . ."–and had been a little exaggerating about his uncle's connections but Harry just felt it was necessary.
Just as he got back in the living room, watching through the window, Harry watched in slight bewilderment when an ordinary looking brown owl glided through the mailbox–and somehow swiping his reply within–and flew away.
At nine o'clock in the morning. Owls–somehow, hope filled him.
XooXoXooX
July 31, 1991
It was all so surreal.
He had been washing the dishes under the watchful eye of Aunt Petunia after dinner. Somehow, when Dudley accidentally bumped the large stack of dishes on the counter last night, and breaking the lot of them in the process, it was still Harry's fault.
Today was like any other day. It almost didn't occur to him that it was his birthday–and he never celebrated it. As in never that he almost forgot that he even had a birthday to begin with.
It was this thought that brought what little comfort to him.
If he didn't think and care very much about it, he would never know the pain of not knowing to celebrate his own day of birth. The sadness and despair knowing that no one will bother to even remember and that he only had himself to rejoice it with. At least this way, he wouldn't feel the grief and ache he had forcefully squashed years ago.
Life had been easier that way.
So when this large man–when Harry said large, he meant incredibly, bloody huge that would take most of the space in his uncle's garage– barged into their house like he had the right, everything happened too fast and he was left with the feeling of fear, suspiciousness, and frustratingly enough, hope.
Rubeus Hagrid had claimed that magic was real. Hogwarts existed. Harry was a wizard.
And all it had taken to prove that was for the large man to wave his umbrella to conjure fire, give Dudley a pig's tail for stealing Harry's birthday cake (he was surprised, no one ever bothered and since Harry had stopped caring about it long ago, it was hard to give the gratitude the giant man deserved), and transform one of the couches into a large wooden chair fitted for his huge form.
But those weren't the things that convinced Harry the most to attend the magical school.
"Ten months away? So it's also a boarding school?" He had asked and ignored Uncle Vernon's protests about him even stepping his foot there.
"Ye' right 'bout that one." Hagrid agreed, pleased as he saw Harry's face lit up.
"I'll go." Harry simply replied with a small genuine smile on his lips, something that hadn't been seen since he was six years old.
After all, anywhere was better than here.
XooXoXooX
September 1, 1991
"Ron Weasley." The lanky redhead introduced, but his blue eyes hardly left Harry's scar. "So it's true, you really do have the scar!" Ron exclaimed with awe, his mouth agape.
Harry shifted uncomfortably at the unwanted attention.
It was different from actually hearing it from Hagrid from seeing it with your own two eyes. The people back in Leaky Cauldron were shockingly forward in their reverence while students from this magical school were looking at him as if he was a hero in their midst. Not only was it horribly uncomfortable–with no positive affections to ever be directed at him–and confusingly frustrating since they were rejoicing at his survival of the Killing Curse while his parents died. It didn't sound fair. While he had to suffer at his mother's relatives, even the common wizard children–be poor, half-blood, or pureblood (the goblins had brought his position as the Potter Heir into light and had asked him to kindly learn about basic Wizardry customs)–had a much lighter lifestyle than what he had to endure.
If he was really their precious Boy-Who-Lived then why did he have to live the life he had? He was an heir to an ancient and old family yet he was treated like a slave.
In fact, he couldn't understand why Ron seemed to be so obviously envious when people's heads would turn to his direction when they caught the slightest gist of "Potter". But what the redhead didn't realize was how Harry was extremely jealous of the boy's whole, loving, and alive family. Mrs. Weasley was a very caring mother and despite the apparent crisp of second-hand in clothing and possessions, Ron had a healthy, loving family.
Something fame would never be able to replace even in the slightest.
"Yes." Harry finally answered, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes and settled for combing his bangs to cover the scar.
"Wicked." Ron breathed out, eyes wide.
Harry just smiled tightly.
XooXoXooX
"You could be great, you know, it's all in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that." The hat stated with all the assurance of having gone through his mind and memories.
Harry thought for a moment. He had half a mind to reject the house due to Malfoy's first impression but Ron was hardly any better by acting prejudiced too to the blonde's family name. Gryffindor sounded much better–not only was it his parents' house but most of his new acquaintances belong to that house now. But if he did that, he would be lying to himself, and forcing himself to something just to be like his parents didn't sit well with him. He was brave, sometimes daring, not entirely chivalrous but he preferred to stay in the background and let people do the work and see where it would benefit his life for good. He already had too many people trying to take advantage of him and his fame–he needed to think for himself this time and not what others think.
How he could live, survive, and fulfil his dreams. Family, happiness, real friends–typical ambition of an abused orphan.
And being in Gryffindor would have people placing their expectations of him as the saviour of their world.
He had been expected to obey before, take punishment without question, and even ignore his own well-being, and he would not let anyone take advantage of him ever again. Not again. Never. Not when he had this opportunity to rebuild his life from scratch, when he could make it better.
But Slytherins were considered dark–Hagrid said so due to You-Know-Who's ascension before.
And the house described Harry's dilemma accurately and were expected to follow the previous dark lord's footsteps. By being the purebloods and snobbish individuals that they were–almost like Malfoy–( judging from Ron's reaction of extreme dislike to the house), it was as if it was only expected of the house to be that way.
With the stigma purely in place, there was no doubt that Slytherin would fight back the only way they can.
That made up Harry's mind quickly and surely.
Where you think it would be best, he replied sincerely but the hat had already seen his decision nevertheless.
"It wouldn't be easy but you'll be the key in removing that stain. Good luck on this path, Harry Potter, I will expect to hear great things from you. And I hope, for both of our sakes, it will be for the better. . . "
Harry smiled genuinely, expecting the answer.
"SLYTHERIN!"
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