Author's Note: First of all, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who reviewed! Getting the notices for the reviews, story alerts, author alerts, adding to favorite stories (and favorite authors, wow!) completely blew me away—especially since I know that I was a bit *coughs*morethanabit*coughs* evil with how short the first chapter was. So, thank you very much. I'm truly grateful, and I just hope that I can continue living up to your hopes and expectations for the story! Anyway, here's chapter two, which will cover some of Harry's first year—again, in bits and pieces (with the same pattern following for year two and three). Also, on another note: Would anyone be interested in taking up the role of beta reader for me? Just to double-check over spelling, look for errors that I missed the first time around, give me detailed feedback about plot and its progress, and to prod me into making sure that I update this story weekly~ If you're interested (and know Latin, which would be a godsend), please email me and tell me a little bit about yourself and your credentials. Thank you!

CHAPTER TWO

"SLYTHERIN!"

From his time at the Dursleys', Harry Potter had already known that silence could truly be deafening. Lying in his small cot in the cupboard beneath the stairs, knowing that it was probably past midnight, and with the "window" of his door closed… there was silence. There was silence, too, the day that he had apparently used magic to get onto the roof of Privet Drive after running away from Dudley and his gang of bullies. The silence that followed afterwards had pressed in on his ears, and the expression on Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's faces had reminded Harry of wax figures. The silence, though, had been particularly deafening the day when a child services inspector had come by the house, speaking to his "family" over concerns regarding Harry; he had lied, because Harry knew that that was what was expected of him, and the silence that followed when the woman had left made Harry think—only temporarily, though—that perhaps he truly had gone deaf. The crack of Uncle Vernon's belt as it snapped through the air made him quickly realize that, no, sound still had the ability to make itself be heard.

This silence, though…

This was the type of silence that came after the government woman had left.

Slipping off of the high stool, Harry kept his shoulders relaxed in an attempt to make himself seem uncaring—it also hurt less when you made sure not to tense, when you were loose enough to go with the strike—and handed the Sorting Hat back to Professor McGonagall. She seemed rather stunned at the Hat's decision, and a quick glance at the Head Table showed that many of the other professors echoed the same expression—with the Headmaster looking disappointed and… worried?... while the man in all black looked particularly gobsmacked.

With his head held high, Harry deliberately looked over at the Gryffindor table and offered Ron Weasley a hesitant but still friendly smile (to which Ron answered him by turning a sickly shade of green), and then made his way towards his new House's table.

It didn't matter how the others reacted.

Harry knew, because the Hat had told him, that it was intention that mattered. And Harry would become the greatest wizard of this generation, would show everyone gathered here what it meant to be great, to be held in awe. And Slytherin would be the House to help him on that path. He would hold no other regrets and instead keep his gaze on the end result: great; he would be great.

As Harry settled onto the long bench next to Draco Malfoy, the blonde glanced over at his new dark-haired roommate and gave a small sneer—revenge, perhaps, for Harry's rejection of his hand. "Never expected you to end up in Slytherin, Potter. Shouldn't you have followed after the Weasel?" the boy drawled before turning his nose snootily up in the air.

The fact that this child still reminded him of Dudley hadn't changed; Malfoy was still an arse and Harry wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. Still… he would now be Harry's dormmate for the next seven years, and it would perhaps (an understatement, really) be easier for him to achieve his end result if he changed how he dealt with the pointy ferret now instead of later.

In answer to Malfoy's upturned nose, Harry just smiled and smoothed a hand over his now green and silver tie. "Maybe you should think about how you don't really know me. At all," the Potter heir murmured in answer—to which Malfoy glanced at him with wide, surprised eyes.

Surprise, though, was a step up from disdain.

And right now, Harry was willing to take anything that he could get.

"Maybe if he had given this a squeeze, the fat lard would have remembered to land on his fat arse," Malfoy snickered as he tossed the Remembrall up in the air before putting it in his pocket. Annoyed at the blonde's openness in being petty, Harry scowled and glanced over at the other.

"Give it back, Malfoy," an annoyed Harry snapped before managing to soften his tone of voice with a Herculean effort. "Everyone's watching—you'll get in trouble if you take the Remembrall because you'll obviously get caught with so many witnesses."

The Malfoy heir sneered in answer to that and finally willingly took the Remembrall from his pocket. He tossed it up in the air once more, again and then a third time, all the while a thoughtful expression slipped over his face. Finally, though, that thoughtfulness shifted to smirking complacency—and he threw it, hard, out over the Black Lake.

Watching as the Remembrall reached the peak of its arc through the air, Harry couldn't help but remember the happy look on Neville Longbottom's face as he received the gift from his grandmother. It didn't matter if the gift was rather high-handed and lacking kindness—after all, it was a type of gift that you would give to a klutz or a thoughtless person who couldn't keep things straight—but it was still a gift and a gift picked out with the best intentions: to help her grandson. The part that Harry couldn't help but focus on, however, was the fact that the Remembrall had been a gift and a gift from a relative.

Harry had once received a gift from his relatives: an entire year of housework, of gardening, of doing Dudley's homework correctly and then his own wrong so that Dudley would look so much better than himself in everyone else's eyes… he had slaved away for an entire year, and the present that he had been promised had turned out to be a hole-ridden, muddy left shoe and a piece of twine.

Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, Harry grabbed the school's Cleansweep broom that he had been using for the flying class and running quickly towards the shore of the lake. "UP!" he yelled out, voice authoritative, and rose up immediately right before he would have been splashing through the water. The broom and its rider moved through the air effortlessly, Harry's robes snapping out and making him look so much like a gyre falcon intent upon its prey as he barrel-rolled through the air and caught the small glass ball upside down.

He had managed to catch it in time. He had caught Longbottom's gift.

"POTTER!" a voice bellowed from the edge of the lake and, looking over his shoulder, Harry saw the furious expression on Madam Hooch's face. Wincing at the realization that he was now going to be kicked out of Hogwarts—and truly, over such a stupid little reason; he should have just let the Remembrall fall and break—Harry began to fly back to shore, obviously shamefaced. As he landed, though, Madam Hooch wasn't yet done with him: taking him by the ear, she began to berate him as she headed back into the castle. "What the bloody hell do you think you were doing? You could have ended up like Longbottom with a broken wrist—or worse, you could have died! Rules are not put up to be broken, Mr. Potter, and your blatant disregard of my very clearly stated order is absolutely disgusting…"

Not saying a word as Madam Hooch continued on in this train, Harry managed to silently hand the Remembrall to the bushy-haired girl that he remembered briefly meeting on the train. She was from Gryffindor; she would have ensured that Longbottom would get it back—so that, at least, his rule breaking wouldn't have been completely to waste.

Once they got down into the dungeons, however, Harry began to hope.

While it was no secret that Professor Snape, Potions Master extraordinaire and his current Head of House, hated his guts (and no one could determine the reason why, which made Harry more baffled than ever since Slytherins always had a reason "why"), it was also no secret that Professor Snape was also a voracious Quidditch fan—and hated the fact that Professor McGonagall typically got the best players in her own House. As Madam Hooch continued to rant to Professor Snape about Harry's disobedience, Harry cleared his throat and put on his most contrite mask.

"…excuse me?" he whispered, voice timid but still loud enough to cut into Madam Hooch's litany; she blinked in surprise and both she and Professor Snape turned their attention to the young Potter. "I realize that what I did was wrong, and I do apologize for breaking the rules. But I did it to keep a fellow student's property from being harmed, so… couldn't there be an alternate punishment instead? Like taking a bunch of House points and forcing me to earn them back?"

Having an inkling as to where this was going, Madam Hooch quirked an eyebrow and leaned a hip against Professor Snape's desk. "And how do you purpose to earn back those points, Mr. Potter?"

At this, Harry looked straight at his Head of House. "Make me the Seeker for Slytherin," he said simply. "And I'll win the games that I play in, earning back the points that you would have taken from me for what I did."

Professor Snape glanced at his colleague, raising an eyebrow in inquiry though otherwise remained silent. To the question posed through his body language, Madam Hooch sighed and nodded. "Yes, he's good enough—more than good enough—to make Seeker. And win, Severus."

When Harry saw Professor Snape's gaze go shrewd and dark, he knew that he had won: not only would he not get expelled, he'd also get more chances to fly! And, with any luck, if he managed to win the Quidditch Cup, Professor Snape would hopefully let up on his obvious bullying of Harry. If that happened… well, everything would be a win-win scenario.

Once his Housemates forgave him the loss of the points.

(Harry anticipated a rather uncomfortable several weeks that he would have to be dealing with—at least, until Quidditch season actually began. Until then… all he truly needed to do was survive. Which, considering the fact that he was dealing with Slytherins, the black-haired boy knew was easier said than done.)

"Oh, and Potter?" Professor Snape murmured. Glancing up, Harry couldn't help but swallow nervously at the malicious smugness that danced about in his Head's eyes. "This will be a secret between just the three of us and the Quidditch team."

The rest of the House wouldn't know that Harry would have a way to make up the lost points. Essentially, with those words, Professor Snape had doomed the boy to fend for himself in a den of snakes. Without any protection.

Harry knew he was a dead man.

Surprisingly, it was the bushy-haired girl—Hermione Granger—who first approached him after the loss of the points. Harry had decided to hide away in the library for as long as possible, doing his homework and his now-required extra credit: not because any of the teachers had assigned it to him, but for his own self-preservation. The students in Slytherin all knew a lot of Dark Arts spells, and Harry was just barely managing to keep himself, his property, and his homework from getting cursed.

So studying it was.

…but that was all right, if Harry had to admit that to no one except himself. He was learning a variety of different spells; the Light ones were oftentimes tame and rarely did any good against his Housemates' curses, jinxes, and hexes, but the Dark ones… they were rather interesting. Fun to cast, too.

Luckily, he had been allowed into the Restricted Section—and by none other than Professor Snape! When the dark-eyed man had asked as to the reason why he should allow Harry into that particular section, Harry had tilted his head to the side and instead asked, "Professor, when you attended Hogwarts, were you sorted into Slytherin?"

"Of course," the man answered, a sneer in his voice.

"So you'd then be aware of the spells that they'd know—and use—should anyone… displease… them," Harry replied with a straight face, hoping that Professor Snape would agree to his request—or Harry was bloody well going to die before he even got the chance to play in his first game and win back his House's points!

The only retort that Professor Snape could find himself giving in answer to that particular point was a noncommittal "Hn." and a mean little smirk. But he had signed Harry's permission form, and the boy was happily taking advantage of the access that he now had to the section that had piqued his curiosity the moment he had first stepped into the library.

It was during one of his journeys through the various aisles that Hermione Granger joined him, several books already held possessively in his arms. "Umm…" she began, voice uncertain—but still showing the Gryffindor courage in that she did continue to approach him. "I know that you haven't really been approached by anyone, but I wanted to tell you that what you did for Neville was very foolish. But it was also very brave and kind of you, too. So thank you."

Harry blushed slightly at that, shrugging a shoulder before glancing off to avoid looking her in the eyes so that Granger couldn't see just how truly uncomfortable her thanks made him. "It wasn't a big deal. I'm just glad that I didn't get expelled."

The girl grimaced in sympathy at that. "True, but you ended up losing your house two hundred points, right? They can't be happy about that."

In answer to that, Harry just chuckled and brought up one of his books to Granger's eyelevel so that she might see just what it was that he was reading: A Beginner's Introduction to Wards and Other Protective Spells, by Layla Longnose, as well as An Introduction to the Dark Side of Gray, by Amberrose Sommersot. Seeing the title, Granger's eyes widened comically and her mouth dropped open into an "o" of surprise.

"…I suppose that saying that they aren't happy about it would be an understatement, then," the girl added on, voice rather meek.

"That would be right, yeah," Harry answered in reply, giving a bemused smile and shake of his head. He paused for a moment, glancing at the girl and looking her over; she was in the library as often as he was, was always answering questions in class with additional information that was completely unnecessary—an ironic tilt of a head to the man that she was probably descended from and the verb that came about from his works: grangerize; adding to a book with information or illustrations not originally included—those same things oftentimes unnecessary. Just like how Granger always added in information that really was unnecessary for first year courses. Still, though, it could be useful for Harry at this particular moment…

Offering a small, reserved smile, Harry finally asked, "Would you like to help me look up spells?"

Granger's—Hermione's—eyes alit at that and she nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yes! That would be absolutely lovely, Harry!" With a happy smile at finally being given a chance to make a friend, Hermione began to gush about some of the books that she had been reading, all while she and Harry meandered up and down the aisles, picking up any and all books that looked like they would pertain to Harry's current plight.

The first time that Harry used a Dark Arts spell—minor though it was—he was filled with a sense of elation, of euphoria that made his limbs tremble in reaction to the rightness that surged through him.

And the look on his Housemates' faces was absolutely priceless.

"Malus Sententia!" Harry snapped out, his wand flicking out from where he usually kept it hidden in his sleeve. He had seen the sixth year raising his wand at him from the corner of his eyes and—thankfully—Harry had managed to be just a bit quicker.

The other boy's eyes widened before he whimpered softly, falling down to his knees and clutching at his head. "No…" he moaned out before his eyes screwed shut and his body began to shudder with malicious thoughts that were now directed at him—caught in nightmares, bad thoughts, that Harry had come up with for the past several weeks as the bullying continued on.

"…that was Dark Arts," Malfoy finally managed to comment, voice subdued as he and the others continued to watch the trembling sixth year moan out in fear as the nightmares continued on, Harry not releasing the older boy from the curse—and having no intention of doing so for several more minutes, if only to teach the others not to try to curse him when his back was turned.

"Not by much," came Harry's blasé answer. He finally let up on the curse, cancelling it with quietly, barely heard words—not wanting the others to know the counter for it—and then began to head down a corridor to his dorm room.

Staring after him, the blonde first year recalled the words that the Potter heir had spoken to him at the Welcoming Feast: Maybe you should think about how you don't really know me. At all. Perhaps, Malfoy mused as he watched the dark-haired boy duck into their bedroom, it was time to learn just who this Boy-Who-Lived truly was. After all, Potter's use of Dark Arts had been… unexpected.

What other secrets did he hide?