A Light in Every Corner


Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.

Chinese Proverb


1938

The world was in black and white for Harry Potter. He saw colors in pale hues to the point of being colorless. Life was a series of lackluster days spent doing chores and being bullied by his bigger cousin, Dudley Dursley.

Harry knew that he was lucky. He saw homeless people – adults, old people, and children even younger than him – in the streets on his way home from school. They were bedraggled, emaciated, and pitiful. And here was Harry, living with relatives who despised him, eating three meals a day with a sturdy roof over his head and warm water in the tub (they even had a tub).

Sometimes, though, those things weren't enough. When Harry huddled under his coarse blanket on top of his small cot in his cupboard under the stairs, he often thought that being hungry would be a small price to pay for his mum's warm smile or his dad's proud eyes. He could barely remember them; they were only shadow faces in his deepest dreams. Aunt Petunia had no pictures of Lily, her younger sister and Harry's mum; not even a single photograph of them growing up. Some days, he spent long minutes staring at the looking-glass, trying to guess which of his features came from his mum or dad.

The Dursleys, and Harry, lived in a good neighborhood with identical houses and trim lawns. It was peaceful in Privet Drive (Little Whinging, Surrey), unlike the tense, frenzied atmosphere in London. Rumors of war with the Germans were spreading fast all over the country, like a disease that promised death. Harry wasn't too young – he was eleven – that he couldn't feel the strain of these whispers whenever he was brought along to any excursions to London. Petunia would grip Dudley's hand tightly, even if Dudley was no longer a little boy, while Harry followed a few paces behind.

It was on one of these trips that something peculiar happened.

Petunia waited in the queue to the butcher's shop, trying to hide her impatience, and snapped at Harry to stop fidgeting.

Harry's fingers twitched, as did his left eyebrow, and he kept hopping from one foot to the other, or seesawing on the balls of his feet. He couldn't stop the movements and felt something restless unfurling in his chest. It caused him to tap his foot in an irrational rhythm and tug at his messy hair. People were beginning to give Harry odd looks and Petunia snatched Harry's hand from his head, her grip painful that Harry had to suppress a wince.

"I told you to keep still," Petunia hissed into his ear, darting a nervous glance around her. She brought her other hand to pat Harry's shoulder and said in a louder tone, "There, there, Harry, we'll be done soon. No need to get so worked up."

She let go of Harry but left reddening imprints of her fingers on the boy's thin wrist. Harry hastily pulled the long sleeve of his shirt to hide the marks. He kept his head bowed, fists clenched in the effort not to move. He took a deep breath and began reciting the times table backwards in his head. It took up most of his attention that he didn't even notice the tiny jerks of his fingers, the little motions he did that repeated in interchanging patterns. It looked like he was having some sort of fit.

"Is he all right?" a worried-looking woman in front asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Harry blinked; he hadn't even realized he'd been squirming again.

Petunia's expression was a cross between anger and fake-concern. "He's been a bit agitated all day, my nephew. You know how children are these days, so little patience…"

The woman eyed Harry a moment longer before nodding and turning away. Once certain that no one was paying them any more attention, Petunia placed her hands on Harry's shoulders and clenched. Harry gasped.

"Do not move," she warned in an undertone, her nails inciting another flinch despite the fabric under them.

"Madam, that is no way to treat a child," a disapproving voice spoke from behind them and Petunia stiffened as a small man stepped into view. He was wearing dark green robes and his hair was nothing but a white tangled mess. "If I may, the boy is only experiencing a surge in magic. Quite normal, though he's a bit young; it usually happens when they're almost of age. Here, I've got just the thing to help with the involuntary movements. A side effect, as you know, mimicking the firing of stimulus through the nerves."

The man slipped his hand inside his robes and Petunia made a distressed sound – her face had gone deathly pale at the mention of 'magic'. Harry, for his part, stared at the stranger in fascination even as his mind rejected the very idea the other man was implying. There was no such thing as magic. His Aunt and Uncle were adamant about it; they even refused to let Dudley indulge in magic tricks that involved coins and playing cards.

But –

But.

Harry sometimes dreamt of –

"Aha, here it is," the man proclaimed as he drew out a blue vial with a flourish. He pulled out the stopper and thrust it at Harry; the sunlight caught the glass in a strange way. "Here you go, lad, a bit of Calming Draught will do the trick. Careful, though, because too much will relax your muscles to the point of being unable to use them. Just take a sip and nothing more."

Harry wasn't stupid. His teachers had impressed on him years ago to be cautious of strangers who gave away bizarre treats. The way his Aunt reacted, her fingers still digging into his shoulders and her body stiff, should have made him even more suspicious. But there was something about the man, loopy as he was; a friendly, unguarded look in his eyes that Harry had never experienced before, not for him.

His hand reached for the vial and sniffed the top with all the curiosity of an eleven-year-old.

Petunia inhaled sharply. "Don't even think about –"

Harry's elbow jerked abruptly and Harry made a decision: he drank.

It tasted bland, whatever was the liquid inside the glass, but it immediately cooled as it slid down Harry's throat. A pleasant feeling permeated through him until he felt tranquil. The agitated coil inside of him eased until he was in control of himself again.

"Wow," Harry said with feeling, eyes wide behind his glasses.

All of a sudden, Petunia slapped the vial from Harry's hands and it fell to the ground. It didn't shatter. Harry stared.

The man frowned. "I say, that was uncalled for!"

"Stay back, you freak," Petunia cried, drawing the attention of the queue to her, and dragged Harry away by his collar.

"What's your name, lad?" the man called out. "I am Pontofin Diggle!"

"Harry Potter," Harry answered as if by compulsion. He waved at Pontofin Diggle as he was manhandled all the way home.

-

Harry was kept in his cupboard for the rest of his summer as punishment. He was only let out to use the bathroom, and only when it was absolutely necessary. It was the longest time he'd ever been trapped in his prison and after a week, Harry developed a growing sense of claustrophobia. He bit his tongue, though, unwilling to beg for his freedom.

All the while, Harry thought.

He was an observant boy, due more to the fact that most everyone left him alone and that distance gave him time to study others. He was the parentless, bespectacled loner in school who was constantly terrorized by his own cousin. Harry wanted to have friends but not those who pretended that he deserved the abuse he got from Dudley. He was quiet and received passable marks and kept to himself. What they didn't know, however, was that Harry was quite the dreamer. He made up for his dreary, pathetic existence by coming up with fantastical ideas. Harry made sure that these thoughts never took on a physical shape, knowing instinctively that the Dursleys would never approve. They had a deep fear of anything that wasn't considered normal.

The man, Pontofin Diggle was his name, had talked about magic as if it was as real as the sun in the sky. He'd worn strange clothing and given Harry a drink that literally calmed his unexplainable restlessness.

And Petunia had reacted, if a little belatedly, with such intensity that it could only be seen as personal. It all pointed to one thing: it was real.

Magic was real.

For all of his secret flights of fancy, Harry couldn't comprehend what a magical world was like. Were there wands? Spells? Dragons? Elves?

It lit up something within Harry - the part that had him thinking of questing heroes and flying objects - and most of all, it made sense.

Because there were times when mysterious things happened to Harry, so rarely and far apart that they seemed like accidents. Thinking of Pontofin Diggle, and the vial, and that word – magic – made it all possible. Harry let his imagination free within his small cupboard, seeing a world where he was accepted, and liked, and powerful. He hated being so young and helpless, dependent on relatives who only fed, clothed, and schooled him because they wanted to project the image of being a caring family.

Magic, thought Harry longingly.

-

A loud ruckus woke him up from a deep sleep. Harry blinked and tried to make sense of the angry words he heard. There was a large shape – Vernon – on the other side of his cupboard and Harry shuddered in dread, wondering what he'd done to make his Uncle furious. It took him a moment to realize that Vernon wasn't shouting at him.

Harry sat up, confused, and rubbed his eyes. Vernon would never yell at his wife or son and it was then that someone else spoke in a voice Harry had never heard of before.

"…keeping Mr. Potter in a cupboard?"

The tone was mild but held an underlying current of steel in it. Harry slid off his cot and hesitated.

"You are not welcome in this house!" Vernon raged even as he sounded panicked at the same time. "Leave, leave, or I will call the authorities!"

The stranger was not threatened. "Mr. Dursley, the only person who has committed a crime here is you, treating an innocent boy like this."

"He's not – he's a bloody freak. We took him in, knowing what he is, and swore we'd cure him of it. We don't want to mix in with your kind and – "

"I'm a tolerant man, Mr. Dursley," the stranger interrupted in a heavy voice, "but I won't stand and listen as you insult my people. Please kindly release Mr. Potter."

"Vernon, just let him have the boy," was Petunia's trembling plea. "Think about what he could do to us."

There came the sound of heavy breathing before Vernon finally moved away. Harry let out his breath, eyes wide, as the door was opened by a tall man wearing purple robes. His white hair – or was it beard? – was so long it went past his waist. A friendly, wizened face appeared by the doorway. "Hello, Harry," the man said in a gentle tone and motioned for him to come out.

Harry did so, a little warily, and saw his relatives huddled by the kitchen door. Petunia's arms were wrapped protectively around a gawking Dudley, her lips pressed into a thin line. Vernon stood next to his wife, face a blotchy shade of red and he seemed ready to burst with indignation.

"My name is Albus Dumbledore," the tall man introduced with a dip of his head. "I'm a wizard, Harry."

Harry looked up at him hopefully and Dumbledore smiled.

"And so are you. You should have received your Hogwarts letter when you turned eleven; an invitation to attend one of the prestigious schools of magic."

Harry felt a grin tugging at his lips, shoulders sloping in relief. He was a wizard. Magic was real and Harry was a wizard. He didn't have to make believe, or be satisfied with dreams, because Harry could do magic. He didn't understand it, or knew anything about magic, but it didn't matter. Harry resolved to learn all that he could and become powerful. Ambition was a novel feeling and left Harry's head spinning with questions.

"We will never pay for him to receive such disgraceful education!" Vernon warned as he pointed a shaky finger at Harry. "We've spent enough raising the wretched boy and we won't give up another shilling."

Anger rushed through Harry at the unfairness of it when Dumbledore placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Your generosity is duly noted, Mr. Dursley," the wizard said with heavy irony lacing his voice, "but Harry will not have a problem in that area. We must leave now, I'm afraid, for we still have school things to buy. I will bring Harry back safely once we're finished and I'll give him the instructions he needs for the start of term. Come, Tom."

It was then that Harry noticed the other boy, who looked to be Harry's age, standing behind the wizard. He had black hair like Harry, only it was neatly combed, and a pale face with dark eyes that stared intently at Harry.

"This is Tom Riddle," Dumbledore said as he waved a hand in Tom's direction. "He'll be going to Hogwarts as a first year as well, Harry."

Harry nodded, giving the boy (who was like him) a nervous smile. After a while, Tom nodded slightly in his direction. Dumbledore was clearly pleased by this. He turned to the Dursleys and his eyes dimmed.

"We'll be off, then. Come on boys, to Diagon Alley we go."

-

Dumbledore left them at Madam Malkin's as they got measured for their school robes. Harry was fascinated by the measuring tape that moved on its own and so was Tom, though he hid it better.

"Your relatives are horrible," Tom said bluntly, the first words spoken between them.

Harry glanced at him, startled. "Oh, they are. I mean, I can't believe they didn't tell me the truth about my mum and dad. I knew that Aunt Petunia didn't like my mum but I never thought she hated her. Er." Harry flushed slightly and quickly changed the topic. "What about your parents?"

Tom gave him an assessing look.

"They're dead," the other boy finally answered, holding Harry's surprised gaze. "I live in an orphanage."

Harry bit his lip. "We're rather alike, aren't we?"

For a moment, something akin to a sneer passed Tom's face before he eventually nodded. "In that part, I reckon. I don't know you."

Harry didn't know what to say. He wasn't good with talking to people, especially those of his age, and he'd never met another orphan before. Harry wanted to befriend Tom because there was something about the other boy, a spark of something in Tom's eyes, a thirst to prove himself and become someone not to be overlooked simply because he was an outsider. It mirrored the determination in Harry perfectly.

"We could be friends," Harry suggested boldly and maybe a little hopefully. In truth, though he was thrilled to be going to Hogwarts, he was afraid of what he'll find there.

Distrust bloomed in Tom's eyes. "I don't need friends, Potter, and if you tell anyone about my past –"

"I wouldn't," Harry muttered dejectedly, lowering his eyes. He felt the familiar pang of rejection and awkwardly shuffled his feet.

They didn't talk after that.

-

September 1st

Harry found an empty compartment easily enough and took out his Defense Against the Dark Arts book, which he'd been engrossed with for the past few days. The weeks that had led to this day were spent reading through most of his books, soaking information like a sponge. Harry was not a big reader but found himself opening book after book, mesmerized by the things he was learning. Magical history was fascinating, as well as the hundreds and hundreds of spells, charms, and curses listed in the tomes. Harry could hardly keep away.

The Dursleys' weren't happy with him and pretended as if Harry hadn't existed for the last few weeks of summer. It gave Harry the freedom to examine his newly acquired things, especially his wand; holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. The white wood felt warm and comfortable in Harry's hand and he had felt a strange surge during his first contact with it. Sparks had gone off at the end in a colorful display, bouncing harmlessly on Harry's skin.

Harry was eager to get to Hogwarts and start casting spells. He'd been dismayed to learn that he wouldn't be able to do magic anytime he wanted unless he was of age (seventeen in the wizarding world). It was disappointing, even if Harry understood the reason for it.

The door slid open and a young girl poked her head in. She gave a slight smile when she saw Harry. "Hello, I'm Minerva McGonagall. Do you mind sharing your compartment?"

Harry quickly shook his head and tugged his book closer to his chest. She came inside and put her trunk away, sitting primly from across Harry. Her hair was dark, her eyes keen, and she wore her black school robes with the red-and-gold badge stitched into the fabric.

It was Gryffindor, one of the four houses in Hogwarts, named after Godric Gryffindor who helped found the school nearly five hundred years ago. Harry read that they were usually brave and loyal and almost always for the side of good.

"Are you a first year?" Minerva asked kindly.

Harry nodded. "I am." Then he remembered his manners and quickly added, "Um, I'm Harry Potter, by the way."

"I see you've already started your books," she observed with a pleased smile. "Are you aiming for Ravenclaw?"

"I don't know which House I want to be in," Harry answered truthfully, trying not to fidget. He pushed his glasses up, gaze trained nervously on the floor.

"You probably won't have a choice in the matter," Minerva explained with a little nod. "The Sorting Hat decides that and it's never wrong. It would be nice having you in Gryffindor."

Harry muttered, "Thanks."

He didn't mean to be rude but Harry didn't know what else to say. It was like with Tom all over again, except that Minerva seemed to be a genuinely nice girl. He glanced up and found her observing him with a thoughtful look and Harry ducked his head, staring intently at his book. He was never going to make any friends if he continued being impolite.

The rest of the train ride was done in silence as Harry found himself absorbed with his book once more. Minerva had fished out her own book after a while and only the rustle of turning pages, and the occasional whistling of the train, were heard. Harry's thoughts strayed to Tom now and then, wondering who the other boy was sitting with. He couldn't imagine Tom in any sort of conversation with anyone.

Finally, the train came to a stop and the excited chatter of children rose in volume. Harry and Minerva put their books away and readied their things. She bid him farewell and was soon lost in the crush of bodies leaving the train. Harry took a deep breath and jammed the pointed hat on his head as he left his compartment.

"First years, first years over here!" a loud voice called and Harry joined the shuffling boys and girls toward the side of the station. It was dark and Harry wasn't able to see much, but he could make out a looming shape in the distance. While the older students slid into horseless – horseless! – carriages that followed an unseen path, the first years were led by a jovial-looking wizard to the edge of a lake, where little boats waited for them.

"Four to a boat, now; mind your steps," the wizard called.

Harry stepped into the nearest one and was soon joined by a bespectacled girl and twin boys. They gave each other edgy smiles as the boats began gliding across the lake, propelled by magic. Minutes later, they passed under a curtain of hanging ivy and into a small underground inlet where the first years were ushered up the path that led to the front doors of a massive castle. The oak doors opened and the first years entered a cavernous room lit by torches. Many turned to stare at the four immense hourglasses each located in its own niche. Harry stared as what looked like rubies in one of the massive glass structures winked at him from under the torchlight.

Dumbledore waited for them in a small room and he smiled happily at the children.

"I am Professor Dumbledore and welcome to Hogwarts," the old man said with a sweeping gesture of his right arm. "In a while, you will be led into the Great Hall for the Sorting, and then the welcoming feast. I pray this will be an exciting year for you all."

Harry surreptitiously glanced around him and spotted Tom near the front, standing next to a little blond boy. Professor Dumbledore caught Harry's eye and gave him a discrete wink and the boy suppressed a smile. He rather liked Professor Dumbledore.

"Hello," the bespectacled girl from earlier whispered hesitantly. "I'm Myrtle."

Harry blinked. "Harry."

"Are you nervous for the Sorting?" Myrtle asked, tugging on one of her long pigtails. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty. "Mum told me that you'd have to sit in front of everybody and wait for the Sorting Hat to tell you where you belong."

"What if it can't decide where to put you?" asked Harry softly, worrying his bottom lip.

Myrtle shook her head. "They'll have to put you somewhere."

A few others had heard them talking and murmured amongst themselves, casting cautious looks at Professor Dumbledore.

It was then that the tall wizard took out a gold pocket watch and put it away. "All right, it's time. Follow me, please."

They did, forming the same single line as they were led back out into the entrance hall, crossed the length of it, and into another set of wide double doors.

Harry's eyes widened with awe, observing the many candles that floated above everything else; they were lit but no wax fell. Beyond them, the ceiling looked like nothing Harry had ever seen indoors. It was as if someone had taken the roof and opened the castle directly to the night sky. The moon was a perfect round sphere surrounded by countless stars. Harry knew from Hogwarts: A History that the ceiling was enchanted to mimic the sky outside. Wonder was blatant on his thin face at seeing this; magic was capable of anything.

His other yearmates seemed enamored with the enchanted ceiling as he was, though by now Harry had noticed the rest of the room. Four long tables stood vertically in the middle and robe-clad students sat on either side. In front was a raised platform where another table was found, this time occupied by the Professors. At the very front of the platform sat a stool and a battered-looking hat atop it. A wide gash formed at the base of the hat and it began to sing:

I am only me, the Sorting Hat,

To put you in the place to be,

From the head of Godric Gryffindor

The Founders entrusted the task to me.

Tattered and old, I do look

But I've years of knowledge in my fabric;

Placed over heads different yet same,

Sorting you lot like magic.

Four Houses there be,

All noble and true;

Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin,

Only one is meant for you.

Perhaps in Gryffindor you belong

Where chivalry still lives;

Or with honeyed Hufflepuffs

Who justice and loyalty gives.

Better yet in Ravenclaw

Where the keen of mind dwell;

If a wise scholar you wish to be

Then in Ravenclaw you will truly excel.

Lastly, but not least,

There is Slytherin to consider;

Cunning of mind and ambition

Are the traits they empower.

So you may think you know

The proper place for you,

Then place me on your head

And I'll tell you if it's true!

The school burst into applause, the first years loudest in their appreciation as they had never seen or heard a singing Hat before. Professor Dumbledore pulled out a scroll from his robes and unwound it. In a clear voice, he called out, "Applebody, Holden."

A slightly chubby boy with sandy hair tentatively moved up the platform and sat down on the empty stool. His face appeared vaguely green before Dumbledore dropped the Sorting Hat on his head. There was a brief pause, where Holden Applebody seemed frozen on his seat, and then the Sorting Hat opened its mouth and yelled, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The second table next to the far wall, all wearing yellow and black badges, erupted into welcoming applause. Applebody eagerly trotted over to his new House as Dumbledore called another name.

The Sorting passed this way and each time the black hat proclaimed another student to this house or that, Harry's nervousness grew. His vivid imagination felt like a double-edged sword, regaling him of increasingly horrifying scenes of his own Sorting, where the worst possibility of all was that Harry just sat there, and sat there, until Dumbledore snatched the hat away and said that it was all a terrible mistake.

"Newberry, Myrtle."

Myrtle took a deep breath and moved forward, where she sat down and Dumbledore placed the hat on her head. It didn't take long for the hat to say, "RAVENCLAW!"

Harry clapped along with everyone else as Myrtle headed to her table. Three more students - the twins ended up in Gryffindor - were sorted before, finally, "Potter, Harry."

Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat and climbed up the platform. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him, weighing him, judging his worth, and Harry half-expected someone to jump up and shout that he didn't belong here. Harry focused on Dumbledore's kindly smile as he got on the stool; the hat was lowered on his head and went past his eyes.

"Well, you are interesting," a high-pitched voice said from the inside of the hat. Harry felt stiff, gnawing on his bottom lip. "You've got a clever mind, boy, and a thirst to prove yourself. And power, oh my, yes. You'd do well in Gryffindor."

"Any House is fine with me," Harry thought a little desperately and earned a chuckle at that.

"Is it now?"The hat sounded amused. "You will do well in whatever House I put you but there is one place where you will truly shine. Yes, yes, it better be SLYTHERIN!"

He let out the breath he'd been holding, relieved beyond anything to have been sorted into any house that he didn't immediately think about actually being in Slytherin. He knew that they'd had their fair share of Dark Lords, and some truly incredible wizards and witches, and that most of them were Purebloods. Harry had read in Hogwarts: A History that most Purebloods either went to Gryffindor and Slytherin, while plenty of Half-bloods and Muggleborns ended in Hufflepuff.

The hat was pulled off his head and Harry briefly caught sight of the somber look on Dumbledore's face before he climbed down the platform and slid beside the blond boy, Tobias Malfoy, in the Slytherin table. A few of his new Housemates peered curiously at him and Harry kept his gaze at the front of the hall.

Right after Harry was Tom's Sorting and it didn't take a long time at all for the hat to send him to Slytherin. Tom took the seat across Harry, his eyes – very dark green – staring at Harry speculatively.

"I knew you'd be in Slytherin," the blond said with a small smirk.

"There's nowhere else of worth," Tom murmured as they waited for the rest of the Sorting to finish.

One more girl was Sorted into Ravenclaw – Medea Courtley - and Dumbledore tucked the scroll away with a beam. He walked behind the High Table and as he sat down, the small, feeble-looking wizard in the middle stood up.

He spoke in a squeaky voice that resonated within the Great Hall. "Welcome to another year at Hogwarts. I am Headmaster Armando Dippet and I say we begin another year of wonderful learning!"

As if on cue, food magically appeared on the empty platters; all sorts of food that had Harry's mouth watering. He was never starved at the Dursleys but they had never given him more than was absolutely necessary, either. He quickly schooled his features, not wanting to seem like a starving boy in front of a feast (though honestly, it was what he was). He noticed Tom giving him a look he couldn't read and decided not to dwell on it. It seemed as if Tom had already set his mind on disliking Harry and Harry knew when to keep away. Tom had that sort of manner about him, intense and vicious, and Harry didn't want a repeat of his bullied years at Muggle school here in Hogwarts. However, Harry had also decided early on not to be the scared little boy he used to be; as long as nobody bothered him, there wouldn't be a problem.

Harry took a little bit of everything that night, even if he did not have much of an appetite most of the time. He ate slowly, relishing each tasty bite without having Aunt Petunia saying, "That's enough for you, Harry; give the rest to Dudley." The others were chatting quietly, a stark contrast to the noise and movements coming from the Gryffindor table.

"Are you really a Potter?" Malfoy asked as Harry decided to pour a bit of chocolate all over his fruits for dessert.

Harry started. "Well, I've always been a Potter. My dad was a wizard and my mum a Muggleborn. They died when I was little, though."

Tom seemed a little amazed at how easy it was for Harry to say this to others. Harry inwardly shrugged; they were bound to know sooner and later and it wasn't as if he was going to lie about it.

"James Potter?" It was Avery this time, arching a brow in a way that looked both surprised and disdainful.

"Yeah," said Harry. He didn't know anything about his father except for the fact that he'd been a Pureblood and had once been in Gryffindor. He'd wanted to ask Dumbledore more about him but had been unable to. It was his secret mission to find out more about his dad and mum here at Hogwarts.

"Father thought that the entire Potter family had been killed," Malfoy explained as he gracefully drank from his goblet. Harry stared a little; he'd never seen someone with such manners before. Then again, Harry had never known anyone who was probably wealthier than the Dursleys' fifty times over. He was still astounded at the amount of money his parents had left for him in the family vault at Gringgots. Harry wasn't a big spender, since his relatives didn't trust him with money, and he vowed never to give them even a single Knut to splurge.

"I survived and was left with my Muggle relatives," Harry muttered as he dropped his gaze to his plate.

"Imagine having to live with Muggles," Malfoy said in a put-out tone. "Or having one as a mother; it's sort of disgraceful to your ancestors."

Harry tensed. He didn't like it when anyone insulted his parents, not even his Aunt and Uncle, and having heard that from Malfoy was enough to make Harry's eyes narrow. He disliked fights, or having enemies, but he wasn't willing to let anyone sully the memory of his parents.

"I may not remember my mum," Harry said quietly, meeting Malfoy's eyes head on. "But I know that she was a great and powerful witch, Pureblood or not." After all, Dumbledore had said so. "I want to get along with you guys but I won't let anyone say anything bad about my parents."

It felt strange, as if it wasn't Harry who was speaking but someone braver than him. It still felt exhilarating though, when a long minute later, Malfoy eventually nodded in understanding, even if his lips were still twisted in derision.

It was Avery who broke the silence. "Quite ballsy, aren't you? Sure you weren't meant for Gryffindor after all, Potter?"

The other boy's tone was slightly teasing and Harry relaxed, smiling a little. Maybe things would be better here at Hogwarts. "Maybe, but I'll do just as well in Slytherin."

Avery, who sat beside Tom, gave a little smirk. "Says the little Half-blood."

Tom, who'd been listening all the while with a blank look on his face, said nothing as Harry and Avery began mocking each other lightly (and the former feeling exceedingly strange and elated about it).

The feast ended a while later and everyone stood from their seats. A prefect by the name of Iphigen Duke called the first years and led them down to the dungeons. They came to a stop in front of a stretch of stone wall and Iphigen turned to them. "This is the entrance to the Slytherin common room; password is asphodel."

The wall trembled and slid open like the compartment doors of the Hogwarts express. They all stepped inside and Harry found himself in a long room with a low ceiling. The high-backed chairs had details of skulls and there was a carved mantelpiece on the fireplace and on it where moving photographs of solemn-looking wizards and witches. Above it was a massive portrait of a regal man with a glossy beard, intense eyes surveying the first years. Harry had seen him in one of his history books – it was Salazar Slytherin.

"Our Head of House is the Runes professor, Professor Armand Ruttley; he's unavailable right now but will meet you tomorrow night," Iphigen informed in a soft, melodic voice. She gave the first years a tight smile and pointed to a set of doors at the end of the room. "Girls to the left, boys to the right. Curfew is at nine and we don't tolerate the loss of house points. Slytherin has a reputation to maintain and you lot won't embarrass our name, you hear?"

Harry murmured in answer along with his yearmates and they were sent to their different dormitories. It was a square room with three windows on each corner and Harry thought they must be charmed to show the weather outside, considering the fact that they were below the castle. He was glad for them; he was feeling slightly claustrophobic for being in such an enclosed space.

Four-poster beds were aligned next to each other with their trunks already in front of each. There was an elegant desk for each boy and Harry gleefully sat on his mattress and it dipped under his weight. It felt softer than anything Harry had ever touched before, the bed bigger than the ones the Dursleys' had. He saw Tom examining his own bed with pleasure and their eyes met.

To Harry's surprise, Tom gave a slight incline of his head before turning away.

"I think I'll write to father that I'm in Slytherin," Malfoy said to nobody in particular as he took out a blank piece of parchment and his writing supplies.

Harry felt lighter than he'd ever been in his life. Hogwarts was his home now and he was determined to do his best. With his mind whirling with everything that he'd seen so far, Harry got ready for bed.

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