Severus Snape was every bit as intimidating as he'd been made out to be and then some. The first thing Harry had noticed about him upon hurrying into the common room the following morning were his billowing black robes, which gave him an air of ominous trepidation. From up close, Harry could make out the shallowness of his skin and a rather hooked nose. The most inauspicious thing about him, however, were by far his eyes, black and cold and assessing, glaring at the first-years from behind thick and greasy, dark tresses framing his face. Harry dearly hoped that the glower sent in his direction had been a coincidence. Though he wasn't left time to ponder on it, for Snape wasted not a moment in getting down to business: no sooner had everyone gathered downstairs—exactly on time—the potions master started his speech. Initially, Harry was a bit surprised at how quiet everyone else was, though it quickly made sense once Snape opened his mouth. The man commanded attention. There was clearly an 'or else' somewhere in the way he held himself.
"As I am sure we all have little desire to endure each other's presence for longer than necessary, I'll be brief." Nice start, thought Harry. The words had rolled of his tongue balefully, tinted ever so slightly with the sarcastic tone of a man who has delivered the same speech one time too many. "There is one thing you all need to know about your house… and that is: in Slytherin, we do not abide ineffectuality." Snape spoke quietly; he needn't be loud, for the room was death silent. "This," Snape made a sweeping gesture across the room, "is to be your haven from now onwards. In case your senses are as dulled as some of the mole-like dunderheads I am tasked with instructing, I'll spell it out for you: right this instant, Slytherin's facilities are tidy, clean and organized. If you expect houselves to come sweeping in after you, then you're sorely mistaken. There are some of you," his scathing gaze rested on the boys flanking Malfoy, "that seem to have a poor notion regarding the concept of bodily odors. I expect all of you to mantain a modicum of cleanliness in your time here. That includes quidditch players" he sneered, glancing at Harry, "and those of you who will doubtlessly manage to incinerate your hair in my class. In case you hadn't noticed, there are no windows in the dungeons. If you reek, then cast a scourgify." He paused, his eyes narrowing at a boy who had opened his mouth to contradict him. "If you don't know how to cast a scourgify, you will take care not to find yourself in a position where it is required. If you still wind up filthy, then learn—if not for common decency, then at least for the rest of the house. Moreover," Snape droned when the boy was about to say something else, "I don't want to hear you bothering your seniors with it; they are not your maids, and neither am I."
Murmurs broke out. Everyone was discussing Snape's anticlimactic introduction. Harry, too, was left perplexed by his contradicting character. Snape was sharp as an arrow yet blunt to a fault, his voice quiet yet penetrating, his eyes empty yet riddled with unarmed depths. To be honest, he made Harry really uneasy. He could tell already that Snape had a presence about him which commanded respect and incondicional authority… and most teachers like that always ended up hating Harry for some reason.
Snape's hand snaped upwards, slushing the room like a general might his soldiers before an important speech.
"Your relationship with Slytherin will be a purely symbiotic one," he carried on flatly. "Besides for keeping up with the basic human necessities, you'll be expected to contribute to Slytheirn's success however you may find yourself able, as it will no doubt aid you just as much in yours, if not more." His gaze combed over the students, pulling them in like an attention-suctioning vacuum cleaner. "I'm aware my demands are terribly uncouth for your delicate selves," he continued, "but keep in mind that complaining will only aggravate the situation. Do not gainsay me. Either you earn points for your house via your scholarly pursuits, or you find other ways to collaborate. You may one day become prefects. You may one day win the quidditch cup, or tutor those in grades bellow you. You can do anything right up to dusting the common room like a maid. As long as you contribute, rest assured that you'll encounter no – difficulties."
Most of the students looked relieved by now, all of them resolute to offer their services and escape what Snape had so graciously dubbed as 'difficulties'.
"Not so quick," called Snape, seemingly reading their minds. "We've gone over what you are expected to do… there are quite a few ground rules alluding to the opposite. As you doubtlessly know from Mrs Farley already, our house has won the house cup six years in a row. Since I asume your vapid minds might find delightment in such a feat, I will warn you now: house cups don't win themselves. Don't expect the older students to pull this off. House points are most easily won in your first school year, so I suggest you apply yourself to your studies from day one. Which is today. This likewise goes for those of you who don't care for the house cup. In Slytherin, we do not condone failure. If it's not house points, at least make sure you're getting something out of your stay here." He paused, his lips curling into a sneer. "For that matter, neither do we abide useless dolts who will gallibate around the school in afterhours, apportioning themselves airs of grandeur on the basis of misplaced beliefs. That has a name, foolishness, a sentiment which is banned here. Hubris is reserved for the gryffindors, am I clear?" Harry's breath hitched. Had Snape just leered at him now? Really intently? Wait, of course not. That would just be silly, right? "I do not," the professor continued, "want to see anyone under duress in this house – if you desire to prove your self-worth, then do so in lessons, not by undermining your peers, is this clear? Neither do I tolerate frivolous favoritism – not even in regards to our resident… ah, celebrity." A few Slytherins laughed, and Harry wondered who the celebrity in question might be. "Where the rest of the school is concerned," Snape finished smugly, "Slytherins do not single one another out. There are no factions, no uninspiring rivalries among you. Not outside of the common room, at least. So don't be foolish – do not give me a reason to punish you. Rest assured that I will, if I have to. Any questions?"
And his gaze said that there had better be none. When there were indeed no questions, Snape briskly began handing out their timetables, stopping to greet Malfoy rather amicably – though where he was concerned, that just translated to a nod and a polite inquiry. This went on for a while, with Slytherin's head of house paying substantially more attention to some of the first years than he did to others, and Harry had to wonder where the whole 'no frivolous favoritism' rule had gone.
"Potter." Snape was staring him down.
"Yes?"
"The headmaster wishes to speak to you." Snape handed him the timetable as though he might be contagious. "I shall escort you to his office after finishing here."
What had Harry done now? Last time he'd been called to the principal's office was when he'd suddenly appeared on the school rooftop while fleeing from Dudley, and the time before that he'd somehow exploded a basketball. Not to mention the hair-dyeing incident with his homeroom teacher – though Harry now knew what all of those had been: magic. It went without saying that, without exception, each and every time Harry had visited the principal's office had ended quite disastrously. His only saving grace had been the lack of any hard evidence to support Harry's 'misdeeds', which meant that the principal had never really gotten around to suspend him. But that probably wouldn't be of any help in a school where magic was actually taught… Still, Harry was absolutely certain that he hadn't done anything at all this time. Had the Dursleys changed their mind about letting him attend Hogwarts?
"What about breakfast?" he asked Snape nervously. Truth be told, Harry had certainly been starving before, but right now he was just trying to stall for time.
"Your princely appetite mightn't be accustomed to the hardship of postponing it for a few minutes, Potter; but I can assure you, you'll manage to live."
Harry's jaw clenched. "I can go without food for a while just fine," he grit out, aware of the fact that retaliating now probably wasn't such a great idea.
"Excuse my baseless assumptions, Your Majesty," sneered Snape sarcastically. "I didn't mean to bruise your lordly pride." A few of the other Slytherins snickered while he finished handing out the timetables to them, his dark eyes simmering.
When he was done, Snape's wan face tilted ever so slightly. Harry realized Snape must be looking at him from te corner of his eye. Couldn't he so much as face him?
"Let's go, Potter."
Apparently not. Without waiting for a response, Snape swept past him, and in that moment Harry found his billowing robes made for a rather impressive rendition of Batman. He trudged behind his tormentor warily, feeling a strange mix between dread and concern building in his gut. That evolved into a feeling of utter doom when Snape muttered a password and let them into Headmaster Dumbledore's office. Harry didn't know much about the man except for what he'd seen the previous night at the feast and what his housemates had said about him, – namely that he was as mad as a hatter, or alternatively, (grudgingly) a very accomplished wizard. Harry's feeling of dread only increased at the memory. Getting called up to the princial's office before even managing to attend a single lesson must've been a record. He glanced around nervously.
In spite of it still being the wee hours of the morning, Dumbledore's office was alight with life. Objects of all sorts and forms were cluttered all over the place, stewing, puffing, tinkering, chiming or ringing… you name it. Harry even spotted a beautiful vermilion songbird perched gracefully in a corner of the room, but he was frankly too scared to pay it the deserved tribute.
"Ah… thank you for bringing Harry, Severus." Albus Dumbledore was sitting behind a large mahogany desk, by the looks of it thriving in the chaos that was his office. From up close, Harry could see that the headmaster was truly a very aged wizard, more so than one would've guessed from his demeanor at the welcoming feast. Looking at him directly now was jarring, for the headmaster's eyes negated his age completely. They were remarkably alive and blue, right at the moment crinkled in thanks at Snape from behind half-moon spectacles, which sat on a long and crooked nose. A nose, which Harry found, ought to at least have been broken twice.
Snape meanwhile nodded briefly and swept out of the office.
His departure left Harry in the awkward position of being alone with Hogwarts' headmaster… whose intelligent eyes had now fixed upon his face thoughtfully. Harry busied himself by staring at the creases which Dumbledore's long beard was forming on his lime-green robe, hoping with all of his being that he was still on time to change the Dursleys' mind. Had Dumbledore found out that Harry had practically blackmailed them into letting him attend Hogwarts?
"Good morning, Harry!" beamed the headmaster. "I won't be keeping you for long, don't worry – you'll still make it to breakfast with time to spare."
Apparently not.
"Err… yeah. Is there – is there a problem or something?"
"No, no, nothing of the like," assured Dumbledore. "I was merely wondering whether you had settled in well?"
Harry thought of Malfoy's snarling face and grimaced. "I… well. I suppose I can't really say just yet."
"Well spoken, Harry, well spoken indeed. You haven't even begun classes, yet here I am, drowning you with inane questions already! Forgive an old man for worrying senselessly."
"Worrying, Sir?"
"It is nothing you should concern yourself with, I'm sure. As I said, I must admit that I jumped to conclusions a little too quickly."
Now Harry was definitely intrigued. What conclusions, exactly? And what did Harry have to do with any of it?
"Is there something troubling you, Harry?" prompted Dumbledore at his distraught expression.
"Yes, well… I was wondering if your calling me here has something to do with… with everybody acting so weird. When it comes to me, I mean."
Dumbledore frowned thoughtfully, apparently lost in silent contemplation. After a moment, he ventured: "Does the name 'Lord Voldemort' say anything to you, Harry?"
"No."
"I feared that might be the case." Dumbledore looked at him fixedly for a second. "Very well." He sighed. "Then I suppose no one has told you about what happened to your parents? About your scar?"
"They died in a car crash," muttered Harry, suddenly very much reminded of Mr. Ollivander's eerie claims. "I got my scar from a breaking glass shard." Why was Dumbledore bringing that up, anyway?
As busy as he was staring at the headmaster's silvery beard, Harry missed the sorrow reflected in his eyes.
"They did not."
"Sorry?"
"Harry… your parents were some of the bravest, most admirable people I have had the pleasure of knowing – and they gave their live protecting you."
"What?" burst out Harry. "I mean, Sir. What do you mean by that?"
"I suppose it is about time someone told you… I am surprised you haven't found out yet… but I am stalling, aren't I? You see, Harry, eleven years ago, we were all submerged in war. The opposition was lead by a man who went by the name of Lord Voldemort." Dumbledore paused, looking lost in memories. "His aim was to take over wizarding Britain, and he didn't stop at anything to achieve it—not even the sight of your father and mother, giving their last breath to protect their child." A chocked gasp resounded in the sudden silence. "He murdered them both, my dear boy." Dumbledore paused gravely and Harry could feel his eyes become wet, his throat locked painfully.
"Then why am I still here?" he croaked.
"No one truly knows," said Dumbledore gently. "That night, Voldemort cast a spell on you, the one incantation which no one – wizard, creature or muggle – survives. You were but a baby, completely at his mercy, and yet… the killing curse bounced off you, leaving just a scar on your forehead and in our memories. And with that, Voldemort was vanquished."
There were so many questions blasting through Harry's mind right then, so many feelings and reactions and—
Dumbledore absorbed himself in the task of petting the scarlet-feathered bird, which was now resting upon his shoulder, and Harry took the chance to discretely press his palms over his eyelids.
"Why – why would Voldemort do that? And why would the killing curse rebound? I didn't do anything!" He fingered the scar on his forehead self-consciously. His aunt had always said that it was ugly and unsightly, and Uncle Vernon had mostly just barked at him to cover it up or else. And now Dumbledore claimed that it was the token of some heroic feat? Something out of the norm even for wizards?
"Harry. To all of the wizards and witches of our age, you are 'The-Boy-Who-Lived'. No one knows why you did, but they all admire you for it."
"But I'm just Harry! There's nothing special about me. Until this summer, I didn't even know I was a wizard…"
"Now, Harry, don't say that. I am convinced that you are special in your own right."
Harry frowned. His being special had unfailingly always ended up with him in some headmaster's office. To be honest, he was surprised that he was surprised. The only time his magic hadn't sent him to the headmaster was when he'd used it away from school… but one only had to look at the snake incident in the zoo to know that that hadn't gone over well either.
"The snake incident?" repeated Dumbledore curiously.
"Err… I guess that's why I was sorted into Slytherin? I can talk to snakes." Maybe that's why he was in Slytherin – surely his housemates could talk to them too. "Wait, are you alright, professor?"
Dumbledore had taken a sharp intake of breath, and Harry could've sworn that, for just a beat, he'd given Harry a deeply unsettled look.
"No worries, Harry. Parseltongue is a rare gift, I was merely surprised."
"Is it?"
Perhaps that was what the hat and Mr. Ollivander had meant. Dumbledore gave Harry another speculative look, though didn't pry.
"I would advise against telling your housemates about it immediately, Harry," he cautioned. "Some might make assumptions about you based upon it.
That was honestly the last thing Harry needed after Slytherin's frigid welcome, plus the bed debacle, and he felt gratefulness welling up within him.
"Thanks for the warning, sir."
"You're very welcome, Harry." Dumbledore winked at him. "And don't worry, I won't keep you any longer. As nice as your company is, I am sure we are both anxious to eat our breakfast. Off you trot."
Harry did indeed make it in time to breakfast, though his housemates were nowhere to be seen, likely to have eaten already. This was quite unfortunate, for he had no idea where the transfiguration classroom might be. In his increasing panic to find it in the span of five minutes, Harry ended up asking the first prefect he crossed paths with.
"Yes, of course I would be obliged to help you, Mr Potter. That is my duty as a prefect after all."
"Right," said Harry awkwardly, wondering whether the prefect was being so cordial because he was 'The-Boy-Who-Lived'. "You can call me Harry if you want."
If it was possible, the prefect puffed out his chest even further.
"Percy Weasley," he preened. "It's my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Harry."
"Err… likewise. But can we hurry up? I think I'll be late to transfiguration."
Harry made it just in time to class after all, noting when he got there that he had forgotten his spellbook in his room. Unfortunately, there was no time to return to the common room and fetch it.
The rest of his housemates were already present, and there was also a tabby cat sitting on the teacher's desk. The cat, the class would soon discover, was actually Professor McGonagall, who could apparently transfigure herself into it. Thankfully for Harry, McGonagall decided that, as it was the first day, they would be starting with some hands-on exercises, and told the students that they would only need their books for days with a double period of transfiguration, which, much to the Slytherins' dismay, happened to be both right after lunch. From there on, the lesson became less exciting and a lot more frustrating. The remainder of the hour was dedicated to transfiguring a matchstick into a needle, something which soon turned out to be much harder than Harry would have bargained for.
By the end of it, he was convinced that his matchstick had somehow hardened, like metal, though that didn't impede Goile from 'accidentally' breaking it when McGonagall wasn't looking. Gregory Goile was one of Malfoy's henchmen, as Harry liked to call them. It wasn't very difficult to guess whose idea it had been to ruin Harry's matchstick. But since he could prove nothing, Harry had to grit his teeth and ignore the issue.
He was eager to leave though, and as soon as the lesson was over, Harry shot up in his stool like a corkscrew. He then bolted out of the classroom so he could grab his things from his bedroom, which entailed a sprint in direction dungeons. Afterwards, he marathoned back up the stairs again (Harry swore that living in Hogwarts would be enough to make even Dudley fit) and thankfully, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was easier to find. Miracle of miracles, the lesson hadn't begun yet when Harry got there. His stark relief was quickly replaced by a headache though, which Harry supposed was either caused by his stressful morning or by the heavy scent of garlic that wafted around the classroom.
From behind him, Harry heard Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass gossip about how Professor Quirrell has encountered a vampire last summer and subsequently returned 'a changed man'. It soon became apparent that this change must've been for the worse, for it wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination to say that the man was afraid of his own shadow – not to mention his exagerated stutter. Harry was thankful about that though, because he was having a lot of difficulties in writing with a quill, the way wizards were supposed to.
After Defense Against the Dark Arts came break, during which Harry roamed the castle for lack there of a better thing to do.
The next subject was charms, taught by a certainly charming but minuscule professor – Filius Flitwick – who seemed positively delighted to have the Harry Potter in his class. (Be careful of what you wish for, they say. Well, Harry was starting to regret his wish to make a name for himself already.)
As the head of Ravenclaw, Professor Flitwick was rumored to be very thorough in his teaching. This time, Harry heard Daphne gossip to Pansy about how their charms teacher had been a dueling champion once upon a time. Harry didn't know about that, but what was for certain was that Flitwick was very passionate about his subject.
"Can anyone tell me the difference between a charm and a jinx?" he squeaked from on top of a huge pile of books.
Smirking, Draco Malfoy lifted his hand.
"Mr Malfoy?"
"It's about the intent," said Draco confidently. "Charms are used for things like chores, drying spells – those kinds of things, while a curse is cast on someone to… work against them."
"Interesting, but not quite what I was looking for," said Flitwick. Malfoy's smirk promptly disappeared from his face, replaced by an utterly stumped look.
"Does anyone know where Mr Malfoy is wrong?" Flitwick asked the class.
This time it was Zabini who volunteered, looking supremely pleased with the situation. "There are charms to make fire, water or even wind appear, and those could be used with a purpose other than house chores, I'd wager."
"Very good!" Flitwick exclaimed, to which the dark-skinned boy smirked, and Malfoy looked annoyed. "Back to the initial question: what then, is the difference between a charm and a curse?"
When no one offered an answer, Harry noticed Theodore Nott (he'd learned his name in roll-call) glance around warily before slowly bringing his own hand into the air. Flitwick gestured for him to speak.
"The difference lies in the interaction between the caster and their magic," said Nott. "A curse needs to be removed with a counter-curse and is otherwise permanent and completely independent of the caster. A charm, I think, needs to be fueled by a continuous stream of magic."
"Perfect!" praised Flitwick. "Ten points to Slytherin!" Nott ducked his head, his eyes flickering around the room quickly, and Harry could tell that he was peering at Malfoy in particular.
"Now, Mr Nott," squeaked Flitwick, "Would you mind repeating that explanation, so that your classmates may copy it down?"
Nott clearly did mind, but enunciated the answer anyway. For the remainder of Flitwick's questions, he did not raise his hand again even once, leaving the answering mainly to Gethen Everett, Adrienne Raynen or the Appleton brothers, who knew a starting amount of things already. Half an hour into the lesson, Flitwick decided that they'd covered enough theory for the day, and, with a quick sweep of his wand, cleaned out all of the tables, leaving them in a corner of the room. There was now a vast space for the Slytherins to move around in, and Flitwick invited them to try and make sparks shoot out of their wands. Harry had already accomplished that upon touching his for the first time, and was proud about it, not to mention that he'd managed to produce sparks of two different colors at once, something no one else had yet achieved. But his smile was quickly wiped from his face when Malfoy apparently decided to vent out his earlier frustration on Harry.
"Gold and red? Please! Potter, why on earth are you in Slytherin?" A few of their housemates giggled, while others inclined their heads slightly to listen in. To Harry's growing dismay, Flitwick appeared to be unaware of the commotion, as he was preoccupied helping another student. He'd have to defend himself alone, then.
"At least I have two colors, and none of them are puce," Harry rebuked.
Malfoy had managed to create sparks the exact same color of Uncle Vernon's skin when he became angry, or alternatively, when he was struggling with the weekly sudoku.
"You dare, Potter?" Malfoy hissed. "I'll have you know that this color is–"
"The skin tone of a pig?" interrupted Harry. "Yes, I can see that."
"–the color of royalty!" Malfoy finished at the same time, though no one heard him.
A few more people giggled, but when Malfoy whirled around and glared at them, they all turned abruptly silent.
"Don't listen to Potter," jeered Malfoy darkly, apparently deciding to take another approach to the conflict. "I'll say. He's a lion in snake's clothing, a Gryffindork if I ever saw one."
Again, people giggled at his pun, and Harry seethed.
"The hat put me in here just like everyone else!"
Malfoy smirked. "Potter, are you aware that your attention span is worse than that of a fly? Didn't you hear our head of house when he said that instigators are not tolerated?"
"You're the one who started this!"
Malfoy just rolled his eyes, turning away from Harry and toward their spectators. "And there he goes again. Just ignore him. Even professor Snape seems to dislike Potter already."
To Harry's growing horror, the Slytherins did just that.
And that was how, thanks to Snape and Malfoy's combined efforts, Harry was ostracized on his very first day of classes. Later, in the common room, it became apparent that prefect Gemma Farley disdained Harry as well, cementing his status as the new outcast.
A/N:
Thanks so much for all the positive feedback! I cherish every one of your reviews, favorites and follows!
In any case, things haven't exactly started on the right foot for Harry, but you'll see. It won't stay like that.
Also, I wanted to mention that this is a story with slow-going character development. Too fast and it's not very believable, is what I think. That means the Harry at the beginning will very closely resemble canon, but things will start to differ pretty soon. At first it'll be trivialities, but before you know it, he won't be quite the same Harry anymore.
And just out of curiosity… thoughts on Dumbles and Snape?