Harry waited with all of the other first-years in the dark chamber.
"We're getting sorted as soon as we come out!" whispered a boy.
"Fred told me that we'll have to fight a troll now!" said another.
To Harry's left, there was a girl muttering about all the spells she'd memorized in advance. Harry tried not to feel too ill. To put it bluntly, he felt wholly under-prepared now. He didn't even know what 'getting sorted' was supposed to mean! And neither did he know spells, or the first thing about battling trolls. Harry felt as though he was in a trance. He didn't even recognize anyone, unlike apparently everybody else. How had they all made friends so quickly? Had it been on the train? Buying their school supplies? Or had they met each other in advance?
At the time of purchasing his schoolbooks, Harry had felt like giving himself a mental pat on the back for a job well done. Not only had he somehow managed to find his way to Diagon Alley all on his own, but he'd also successfully navigated through Gringotts, the wizarding bank, where he'd found out about the small fortune in the form of wizarding currency that his parents had left him, thanks to which he'd managed to get a hold of everything on the Hogwarts list without a hitch. The only remarkable incident in his trip (barring all the magical objects Harry had encountered) had been the acquisition of his wand. He fingered the wooden instrument in his pocket; it felt reassuringly warm even now, contrasting with the wandmaker's words a few weeks ago, which resounded in Harry's skull ominously.
("Curious indeed how these things happen," Mr Ollivander had murmured.
"Excuse me, sir, but what's curious?" Harry had asked.
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Potter. It just so happens that the phoenix whose tail-feather resides in your wand gave another… just one other." Mr Ollivander had paused then, his adumbral eyes fixed on Harry's. "It is curious that you should be destined for this wand… when its brother gave you that scar."
Harry had placed a hesitant hand on his forehead. That couldn't be true – he'd acquired his lightning bolt-shaped scar in a car crash when he was little. Still, something compelled him to ask:
"And who owned that wand?"
Mr Olliwander's eerie, blue eyes had widened even more. "We do not speak his name! The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter. It's not always clear why. But I think it is clear that we can expect great things from you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible! Yes. But great.")
It had made Harry feel uncomfortably like some kind of character in a mystery movie. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Just who on earth was that? Mr Olliwander had downright refused to speak his actual name, and Harry felt uneasy asking a stranger about it. He frowned to himself, trying to steer clear of the topic.
Besides the wand-maker's ominous declaration, Harry hadn't encountered any other difficulties in his path. The Dursleys had reluctantly agreed to let him go to Hogwarts after he'd mentioned the 'personnel' that would be sent to fetch him if they didn't, and after Uncle Vernon's dropping him off at the King's Cross train station, Harry had had no trouble at all following the indications of a shopkeeper at Diagon Alley to find the magical Platform 9 and 3/4. Once in the Hogwarts Express, he'd esconded himself in a quiet compartment and spent the ride fantasizing about magic and Hogwarts and mysterious creatures as he peered out of the window. But now he was here, and… Harry felt terribly lost.
Before his thoughts could spiral out of control even further, the strict-looking woman dubbed as 'Professor McGonagall' had returned and beckoned for all of the first years to follow her. She led them along corridors and armor suits, closer and closer to the boisterous voices of the remaining student body, until they stopped in front of a huge door, the door to 'the great hall'. The room was just as astounding as the sight of Hogwarts in the distance had been. It was humbling, thought Harry, looking at the huge stone columns that rose infinitely. Literally. To everyone's astounded gaping, the great hall lacked a ceiling – or, as the girl from earlier whispered, whose ceiling was enchanted to look like there was none. When Harry lowered his gaze back to the earthly plane, he was assaulted by an avalanche of gazes on all the other first years. The whole school was staring at them, pointing, analyzing, whispering.
Harry felt increasingly nervous, as he and the others were all prompted to stand in line at the very front of the four student tables, right next to where the staff sat. To the first year's collective surprise, Professor McGonagall brought over a stool with a lumpy hat placed upon it. To further their astonishment, the hat suddenly opened its – was that a mouth? – and began, of all things, to sing.
"Oh you may not think I'm pretty," it crowed loudly,
"But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me."
Harry laughed along with a few others. Was this kind of thing typical in the wizarding world? Maybe the hat he'd bought at Madame Malkins' was into rhyming too? The hat continued its song unheeded:
"You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all."
'Okay, that answers my question,' thought Harry.
"There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be."
Harry frowned. So this was the sorting? But to where? The hat must truly be a mind-reader as it claimed, for Harry's question was answered yet again:
"You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folks use any means
To achieve their ends."
Harry had been listening closely to all of the descriptions, a terrible feeling spreading in his gut with each one that passed. He didn't feel like he fit into any of the categories! Sure, he wanted to learn magic, but he'd never done really well at school, and he certainly wasn't brave. He absolutely wanted to 'find his real friends', but Harry was fairly certain that he was neither cunning nor particularly driven. That only left the second house, Hufflepuff, which honestly sounded like the best to Harry anyways, but he didn't think he was terribly patient or well-mannered… and the Dursleys didn't seem to think so either, so what then? Harry could feel himself starting to panic.
"So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"
The Great Hall broke out into cheers once it had become apparent that the recital was over. It all sounded like white noise to Harry's ears. As soon as the student-body had calmed down, Professor McGonagall explained that she'd be calling the first years' names in alphabetical order, and gave instructions for the aforementioned newcomers to step forward and try on the hat come their turn.
Henceforth, the sorting began.
More and more children were getting called up, and Harry noted with dread that the hat didn't seem to take as long with some as it did with others. What if Harry's sorting went on for ages? What if McGonagall took the hat off his head and said that Harry should pack his things and return to the Dursleys, that it was all a mistake?
Before he could torture himself any further, Harry's name was finally called:
"Potter, Harry!"
And in the blink of an eye, the whole hall had gone completely silent. Harry felt suddenly terribly uncomfortable. Was there something on his face? People were whispering, pointing at him, craning their necks just to see. Feeling like he was walking into his doom, Harry stepped forward, and Professor McGonagall placed the hat on top of his head. The last thing Harry saw before it dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people attempting to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.
"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, ah, my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting… So where shall I put you?"
Harry gripped the edges of his stool and hoped that the hat would make up its mind already.
"Impatient, are you?" quipped the small voice. "Or just nervous?" The first thing the hat had remarked about Hufflepuff was that they were patient folks, something which Harry knew he was most definitely not. And the hat had seen through him in one second flat.
'There goes my ticket to Hufflepuff,' thought Harry mournfully.
"Hufflepuff, you say? No, I don't think Helga's is the right house for you… But what's this, hmm? An independent spirit… very resourceful, I see, and quite clever when you want to be. Perhaps… yes, I think I know where to put you, hm."
The voice was quiet for a beat, seemingly mulling over its options.
Harry's gut meanwhile churned. He was not deaf to the whispers around him.
'Funny how the hat seems to hear what I'm thinking but I haven't a clue on where it wants to sort me,' thought Harry grumpily.
"Quite appetent too, it seems," tutted the voice. "I can see it all in here… the potential for greatness. It is all right here in your head…"
Harry thought wildly. Did that mean that people would want to befriend him? Suddenly, there was an incredible feeling of longing in his chest. He wished with all his heart that he could make a name for himself—a name people would hear and not think of the boy who sleeps in a cupboard together with the spiders, the boy wearing rags to school and who always dwells by himself.
"Interesting… very interesting," remarked the voice. "If that is what you want, then I know just the house for you… Slytherin will help you on the path to greatness, no doubt, Harry Potter."
Harry was relieved that the hat had finally made its decision. By this point, he didn't care where he was sorted as long as it meant he could remain at Hogwarts.
"Excellent, then my mind is made up. I reckon I shall put you in SLYTHERIN!"
Harry heard the hat shout out the last word to the whole hall. He took it off and walked shakily toward the Slytherin table. There were so many thoughts and emotions zapping through his brain, he barely noticed that his sorting had elicited by far the loudest reaction yet. Though people weren't cheering exactly… no, they were all talking, talking among themselves, talking over each other — and it wasn't just the Slytherins — even the teachers were bringing their heads together in hushed conference as they eyed him. Harry felt like he'd missed something. No one had done that before with any of the other sortings, so what was going on? Why was Harry's any different? When he reached the Slytherin table, it grew uncomfortably silent. A few people greeted him with polite stiffness, but seemed wary somehow; guarded. Harry was beginning to wonder whether the hat had just been pulling his leg after all when a blond boy extended his hand for him to shake. Harry obliged him.
"Draco Malfoy," introduced the blonde with a smirk. "I see you know how to tell the bad apples apart from the victors, Potter." The victors being me, seemed to be implicit in his statement.
Harry shook his hand. He wondered uneasily whether Malfoy's definition of 'bad apple' were boys living in cupboards and wearing rags. He was suddenly very glad for the compulsory standard uniforms at Hogwarts.
"So you're the silent type, eh?" Malfoy pressed.
Now that he thought about it, Harry was actually pretty quiet. He had had no friends at school, and certainly wasn't anxious to engage the Dursleys into unnecessary conversation. Harry had never thought of himself as inherently quiet or shy, but he could see where Malfoy was coming from.
He shrugged. "Just a bit overwhelmed is all. D' you happen to know why everyone is making such a fuss about my sorting?"
"What?" Malfoy's brows shot into his hairline.
Harry scratched his cheek uncomfortably. Had he imagined all that? Hardly. At least, he didn't think he had. But maybe Malfoy thought he was blowing things out of proportion and being a prat?
"You're Harry Potter, what did you expect?" A new voice joined into the conversation. Harry recognized the speaker as the boy who'd been sorted into Slytherin before him, though he didn't remember his name.
At Harry's confused expression, he and Malfoy exchanged looks.
"Don't you know anything?" interrupted another first-year, a hard-faced girl this time, which sat in front of him.
A feeling of foreboding was rising in Harry's gut. "Depends on what you're talking about," he replied cautiously.
"How cute," the girl sniped sarcastically. "Watch this, everyone. Potter's utterly clueless!"
Another girl with bulging eyes was now staring at Harry as though he'd grown a pair of horns. "You must've been living under a troll's bridge these past few years," she exclaimed, looking aghast.
"Err…" Harry was at a total loss. Did living under the stairs count? For all it was worth, Harry found that Dudley's intelligence was probably on par with that of a troll.
Harry frowned. Moreover, what could it be that he didn't know? Wasn't anyone going to fill him in? Harry sensed that the situation was already precarious – clearly, the girl in front of him was set on making fun of Harry, and everyone else was avoiding his eye, but –
"Hey now, everyone." A very pretty, blond girl spoke up, smiling briefly at Harry as she swiftly changed the topic. "We're doing things out of order. Don't you agree we should first get the introductions out of the way? Some of us here don't know each other yet." Harry sighed, relieved. He couldn't place why, but he found that the girl looked kind of posh, though at least she didn't seem to automatically hate him. Without waiting for an answer, the girl smiled at the whole group and said: "Pleasure. I'm Daphne Greengrass."
The hard-faced girl who had called Harry clueless clung to Greengrass' arm in a gesture that very strongly reminded him of a leech. "Pansy Parkinson," she introduced grinning. "Though I do believe I'm already acquainted with anyone of significance." Parkinson then winked at Malfoy.
"Really? I'm sure you haven't met Snape yet, Pansy," Malfoy cut in self-importantly.
"And you've gone a step further, have you?" inquired a dark-skinned boy, his eyes slanted derisively.
"As a matter of fact, I have, Zabini," rebuffed Malfoy. "I'm confident I'll be able to ace his subject."
"Professor Snape is rumored to be a very unforgiving teacher, isn't he?" pondered Greengrass mulishly.
Parkinson turned toward her with a grin. "Snape's our head of house, you know. I'll bet you he'll be right unforgiving – with the Gryffindor bunch, that is!"
A few of the upperclassmen who had been listening snickered at Parkinson's charming humor. Looking supremely pleased with herself, she turned in her seat to beam at Malfoy, yet the gesture went over his head. His two seatmates – cough, lackeys – made up for it by sending Parkinson vapid grins.
"I heard he makes all the first-year Gryffindors cry," said one of the two, seated to Malfoy's right.
"Yeah," grunted the other as he shoveled pudding into his mouth. "And he hands out a lot of points to our house."
Points? What? What even was a Head of House? Harry could guess more or less, but it was just all too much information, too many alien concepts, to keep up with. Likewise disinterested in keeping up with her conversation with Malfoy's two subjugates, Parkinson turned to the blonde in question, who was chatting with the boy who'd been sorted into Slytherin before Harry.
"Personally, I couldn't care less," the boy was explaining. "I would rather Snape teach us something exclusively. Has he taught you anything yet?"
Malfoy smirked petulantly. "As a matter of fact, he has. He's on splendid terms with Father, you see – and I can tell you: if you know what's good for you, Nott, I'd make sure to study ahead in his subject."
"Duly noted," replied Nott. So far, Harry thought, this Nott person seemed like the nicest of the bunch. Not as stuck up as Malfoy or the black-skinned boy, and neither as dumb as the other two guys flanking Malfoy.
"What does Snape teach?" asked Harry.
Everyone stared at him for a moment. Then, Malfoy said smoothly: "Potions, Potter," and they continued with their conversation. For the rest of dinner (which by the way, Harry had never, ever seen in one place so much available food for him to actually eat) Harry listened to his housemates' chatter and dejectedly wondered how he was ever supposed to make 'true friends' if his everybody kept brushing him off like this. Glancing over at the other house tables, he noticed that none of them seemed to have dynamics quite like the one in Slytherin. Even the Gryffindors which his housemates had spoken so ill off, seemed do be having fun; all of the first years seemed welcome to join in the conversation.
When the feast was over, an older girl who claimed to be 'a prefect' led all of the Slytherin first-years down winding passages and stairs, until the corridors they were walking through were pitch black. Somewhere before him, Harry heard Pansy's distinctive voice.
"I'm scared, Draco!" she was wailing. Draco's unenthusiastic reply eluded Harry. Next to him, Nott appeared to be everything but frightened as he stared ahead blandly. From this perspective, he looked kind of rabbity. Meanwhile, another prefect had waved his wand around, and fire had risen in the torches which were hanging across the walls. The girl with bulging eyes and crazy black hair, who had previously accused Harry of living under a troll's bridge, suddenly began complaining and saying that they were better off "embracing the darkness". Harry thought she was kind of creepy.
"Cut it out, Runcorn!" exclaimed Daphne Greengrass vehemently. "You're scaring Pansy!" Now that he could see, Harry noted that Parkinson was clutching onto Draco like a damsel in distress, or like a particularly greedy leech, maybe.
"Stupid, aren't they?" said the black-skinned boy to no one in particular.
"No one asked you, Zabini," a girl which Harry hadn't noticed before threatened suddenly. She looked menacing, kind of like an angry bulldog. Zabini ignored her, though Daphne Greengrass chirped out a 'Thanks, Millie!' from the forefront of the group. 'Millie' was forgotten afterwards. It didn't take long after that until the prefect stopped walking their group had halted in front of a damp stretch of wall. The prefect stepped forward.
"Draco dormiens nunquantum titillandus," she told the wall, sounding almost bored. To Harry's surprise, (but apparently nobody else's) the wall actually moved aside to let them in. Was this like saying 'sesame, open'? And the password was Hogwarts' motto?
"We've set a password everyone with half a brain will be able to remember," said the prefect, watching them all from her spot next to the concealed entrance. "It will be changed in a fortnight, however, so make sure you've memorized your way back here by then—and pay attention to the noticeboard. I mean it. If you forget to check for the new password, you're on your own. And that goes in every possible sense of the word.
"In this house, we have no use for graceless slobs who lose us points for tardiness or who get caught outside of the common room past curfew." She eyed them all shrewdly. "That's my advice as a prefect. As a Slytherin? I'll tell you this much: a rule is only broken when the perpetrator is found out. If you go, then don't get caught."
"Or better yet," interrupted Malfoy, mirroring her smirk. "Trick someone else into getting caught."
"A Gryffindor, preferably." The prefect seemed to approve wholeheartedly of Malfoy's suggestion. Harry was beginning to draw parallels between the blonde and his equally blonde cousin. He really hoped there weren't more of Dudley's stand-ins in the school. Even the prefect was a candidate. Unaware of his current line of thought, she tossed her hair over her shoulders to then turn towards the whole group again. "Now. What you're gonna do is this: you go into the common room, where you'll find your trunk, and then you get yourself a bedroom and settle in quietly. I don't want you yammering to me about inane concerns such as your roommates or that your bed is too small, and I want complete silence in twenty minutes and no more. Is that perfectly clear? Good. As for tomorrow, I want you all up at half past seven. Our head of house will be giving a brief orientation, after which you are to go to breakfast. And when I say I want you up at seven thirty, that means you will be. Got it? Now go." She stepped aside to let the first-years into the common room and they all subsequently clustered around the entrance, eager to take a peak.
"How quaint," he heard Malfoy comment from within the room. Daphne actually squealed upon entering, and Zabini made a reluctant concession to the tasteful decor. When it was finally Harry's turn to go in, his jaw nearly hit the floor.
The ambiance was cool, what with the green lights flickering calmly in uncountable little silver candles. From a distance, Harry found that they looked like exotic fireflies. 'So this is the Slytherin common room,' thought Harry. It wasn't exactly cozy, but it wasn't unwelcoming either.
The room was vast, with some stairs at the middle which divided it into two sub-levels, the entrance being located in the higher one. From where Harry was standing, the ceiling was a little low if compared to that of the great hall,—but that was hardly a fair comparison.
Glancing around, he could see a plenitude of tapestries decorating the walls, quite a few of them themed with snake motifs, their coloring varied yet tastefully combined. There was a chimney with a few supremely comfortable-looking armchairs and sofas spread around it, and even a coffee-table with what looked to be finely-embroidered Victorian lace as a tablecloth. Harry thought Aunt Petunia might have had a fit right now. She'd always nagged at Uncle Vernon about the expensive furniture some of their neighbors had (she'd made that particular discovery by excessively craning her neck to peek through their windows), but Uncle Vernon clearly preferred to spend his savings in cars rather than in love seats. That wasn't even the only furniture around, as Harry could see more of it in the lower part of the common room, where he quickly headed upon seeing the school trunks on the stony floor.
There was a really elegant, bottle-green lamp right next to him, which suddenly flickered to life when the prefect flicked her wand at it, obviously pleased with the first years' awed reactions. Harry was even more fascinated when the additional illumination revealed the patterns of leafs or ivy engraved in the columns sustaining the room. He even spotted a very realistic-looking snake carved into the stone. It looked a little like the boa which Harry had set free at the zoo. The memory made him smile to himself. How was she doing? Had she made it back to Brazil yet? He was broken out of his revery, however, when Draco Malfoy spoke up:
"What a letdown… during the time my father was here, he told me that they used to charm the walls or sometimes even the furniture to look like the insides of the lake."
The prefect frowned. "It is not up to you to judge, Malfoy," she said calmly. "You will see what it looks like if charmed, I assure you. However, that privilege is granted to us only when we are in the lead with the house cup."
"What?!" shrieked Pansy. "That seems utterly pointless."
"Believe it or not," said the prefect, "since Professor Snape set that condition six years ago, we have won the house cup without fail. I suppose you could call it… a practical motivation to do well."
"Is it really as pretty as they say?" asked Daphne softly.
The prefect smirked. "It's up to you to figure it out."
"Tch." Making a derisive sound, Zabini, approached his trunk and hauled it off in direction dormitories. Harry and a few others followed him, though he could hear Malfoy asking the prefect how she knew his name and if she would do him the honor of introducing herself properly. What a suck-up.
"Flattery will get you nowhere with Gemma Farley, Malfoy," warned the prefect, smirking. "And everyone knows who you are. Almost as popular as Potter," Gemma added derisively, and, feeling suddenly sick, Harry decided not to stick around. Why didn't anyone seem to like him?
He went into the same room Zabini had gone in and planted his suitcase next to the bed with the most space around it and furthest from the door. And what a bed. It alone was easily twice as big as his whole cupboard. All around it, there were green satin curtains that would have given Aunt Petunia an aneurysm, he was sure, but Harry would have welcomed them just as much had they been towels—he was simply glad for the privacy.
"Potter." Draco Malfoy's voice yanked him out of his thoughts. "Move."
"What?" asked Harry groggily. He'd been about to fall asleep.
"I said move," repeated Malfoy impatiently. "The twenty minutes are almost up."
"Why would I move?"
"Because that is my bed."
Harry stared at Malfoy as though he were stupid, still refusing to put his glasses back on. "No, it's not," he stated simply and went back to sleep.
"Potter!" Malfoy yanked the covers away. "If you don't move, I will make you!"
Considering that Harry didn't know the first thing about magic, and Malfoy's earlier claims to have received tutoring in advance, Harry should have probably done as he was told. However, Malfoy had rubbed him the wrong way right since they had met, and Harry was actually really annoyed at him.
"I got here first, Malfoy," he bit out. "And Gemma Farley said not to make a scene, so cut it out."
"Don't you know, Potter, that this was my father's bed when he was here, and my grandfather's bed, before that?"
"So what? Are you banking on getting the same as your father's grades when he was here, and your grandfather's grades before that?" mocked Harry.
"Potter, you—"
"My bed," said Harry, "my rules." And then he closed the curtains in Malfoy's face and went to sleep. Little did he know that he'd just gained a mortal enemy.
A/N
Wow, I've had so many positive reactions thus far… I only hope I can live up to the expectations. Reviews make my day, so if you have any suggestions for improvement or see a typo, feel free to let me know.
Now, I'm not going to be doing this very often, but as this is the Slytherins' first appearance, I'll be breaking down their conversation.
First thing we should get us some context. When Harry vanquished Voldemort as a baby, there were all sorts of rumors and conspiracy theories that he himself was a Dark Lord in the making and whatnot. Thus, it is not very difficult to understand why Lucius Malfoy would advise his son to 'get on Potter's good side, just in case'. Henceforth Draco 'graciously' extends a hand of friendship to Harry. His immediate lack of response (or at least enthusiasm) already miffles him, (he doesn't realize Harry is simply mulling over his words), but when, in addition to that 'great offense', Harry admits to being 'overwhelmed' and 'clueless', precisely the two things that are a no-go for Draco, he completely writes him off. Draco is still a kid, so his judgment of Harry is way too quick, but he'd picked up on his insecurity and quiet demeanor and immediately labels him as inferior and bellow him, and most definitely not Dark Lord material.
In Pansy's case, it's not that much of a surprise that she'd immediately start picking on Harry as that's basically the one thing she does in the books, not to mention that it might please her beloved Draco.
As for the rest of the Slytherins… well, if it's not the Dark Lord in the making option, then Harry ought to be The Boy Who Lived, the symbol of the light. Many of them have parents who were death eaters (or where otherwise influenced/scared of them), so no one really dares to approach Harry after Malfoy, the obvious ring leader, writes him off. They prefer to be cautious, wait till someone else breaks the ice or until knowing Harry better… of course, Harry's choice of bed, god forbid, sealed the deal.
(For now.)
You might have noticed that characters such as Daphne Greengrass, Blaise Zabini, Theoddore Nott, etc. seemed more neutral. We'll have to see in which way the balance tips for them in the long run ;)
There are a few names you might not be familiar with, such as Tracey Davis, Gemma Farley, or Runcorn, but they all supposedly exist, though haven't got much of a personality. I'll be taking some liberties there. Anyways… hope you liked this!