Catechism

By: Dreamfall

Summary: What if the Dursleys were smarter? Smart enough to turn Harry against magic-against himself. How long would it take anyone to realize how much damage was done, and once it was discovered how could they ever hope to fix it? A disturbing look at a Harry who has been taught from infancy to hate and fear everything he is.

Warnings: Quite disturbing. Various kinds of abuse. Harry with something of a house elf mentality. If you don't want to read it, don't.

Author's Notes: Feedback is welcome, constructive criticism particularly so. If it's spelling/grammar/etc e-mail is better than actual comments, but whatever. Specific spelling/grammar issues that are pointed out are corrected as immediately as I can arrange. Usually within 24 hours.

Review Response: I have a livejournal containing responses to reviews, update notices, and maybe other story stuff if I get around to it. The address is refusing to show up on here, but it is under homepage on my front page, or you can go to livejournal and it is username dreamfall(underscore)ff If I can figure out a way to make fanfiction just show the webpage I'll replace this with it in later. And if I can figure out how to make an underscore character show up, I'll replace the (underscore) with it:p.

Thanks: To Rory, who has been allowing me to bounce ideas off her and has been shooting them back with flawless aim and great suggestions and feedback. And to Azelma, who, likewise, has been granting me her time, patience, and understanding of children, for which I am duly grateful.


Chapter Seven
The Sorting Hat

"Excellent," the headmaster approved. "We shall meet the others in my office for the Sorting, then. Only the Heads of House shall witness the proceedings. If all goes well and a house is chosen, you'll don the hat again with the other first years, and everyone else will find out then," he explained gesturing for Harry to join him as he moved out of the Great Hall and started towards his office.

Harry followed obediently through the halls, the path almost familiar to him now. He didn't look at the gargoyle as they passed it, and tried not to notice the movement of the staircase spiraling them up to the office door. Inside, they found the heads of house already present. Professor Sprout was seated comfortably in a large chair, head tilted slightly back against its back, and Professor Flitwick perched in another. The potions master was standing in the darkest corner of the office with a sneer on his face, and Professor McGonagall was behind a tall stool, holding a battered old hat in her hands.

She offered a thin smile as the pair entered, and pointed at the stool. "Have a seat, Mr. Potter."

Obediently he climbed up onto the stool and waited uncertainly. The hat was set on his head, and Professor McGonagall stepped back a couple paces so nobody was too close. The hat drooped down, over Harry's eyes, and he waited nervously for whatever was to happen next.

The voice was so quiet he wouldn't have heard it had it not been practically in his ear, ears actually. Even with his sharp hearing, he was certain he couldn't have caught a single syllable from even a couple feet away. Yet he had no difficulty understanding it.

"So, this is Harry Potter," it murmured cheerfully. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Belatedly he realized that the hat itself was speaking to him, and he began to tremble very slightly.

"Odd," it commented, cheer giving way to thoughtfulness. "Why would you fear me?"

Harry clenched his eyes and tried to ignore the voice. Images and memories that answered the question flashed through his mind. It wasn't until the hat's whispered, "Dear Merlin," in his ears that he realized that he was neither directing the thoughts, nor the only witness to them. Frantically he tried to block out the thing in his mind, to alter the directions of his mind's flow, but he could do nothing.

Desperate, he moved to raise his hands to tear it from his head, but a snapped, "Harry!" made him pause. The voice was still speaking in a whisper but in a tone that always froze him instantly, aware that he was very close to a serious transgression.

"You and I will discuss this," the hat stated. "If you remove me, it means that we must discuss it loudly enough for the others to hear. Would you like them to know?"

Reluctantly, his hands fell to his sides, still tense.

"Good boy. Sort you! Merlin," the hat murmured in disgust. "We'll be lucky if we can sort you in a year's time, much less now. Oh, you've qualities for the houses. Loyalty strong enough to bind hearts, but twisted into bridle and bit. A great deal of intelligence, but warped, warped. As for courage? The courage it takes just for you to sit here in front of wizards and witches in a magical school, trying your hardest to protect those you care about, surrounded by everything you've been taught to fear. Oh, you've courage. But so bound up I can scarce bear to see it. Ambition you're lacking. Slytherin wouldn't suit you at all, not as you stand. But then, none would work as you stand. Every excellent quality in you has been twisted and stunted. Dear Merlin, I have seen similar cases, but none so bad. None nearly so bad. We haven't time to discuss this, presently, not without causing a great deal of suspicion and curiosity. So, as you'd prefer to keep this between the two of us, for as long as that is possible, we shall have to meet at some other time. And place. The headmaster's office is not a good place in which to keep secrets from the headmaster. At least, not this kind of secret. Let's see…"

Harry clenched his jaw as again memories began flashing through is mind, this time more recent memories of his week of exploration.

A low whistle. "You have been busy, haven't you? Hogwarts has been trying to make you comfortable. Not everyone finds rooms and corridors in the same places every day, you know." The hat sighed at Harry's shudder in response. "Well. After dinner I believe you shall be left to your own devices, most often, but where--" He paused, reviewing the first conversation between Dumbledore and Snape that Harry had overheard. "Ah. This is the last day of Severus's week, I see, which means you'll be getting a new room. Knowing the headmaster as I do, I believe that room shall be private and I should have no difficulty finding out where it is. I'd prefer someplace more secure, but for now it shall have to do. You may expect to see me this evening shortly after you're left to yourself, Harry. If you try to avoid this meeting, I will share what I have seen with the headmaster. And one thing the man who dares call himself your family said is very true indeed -- if the headmaster knows what they have done to you, he will be extremely angry. In a way that your … family is not likely to survive. So don't forget. No -- don't speak. No need to make them wonder more than they already are by the length of our conversation. I'll see you tonight."

The voice rose, suddenly, to a normal tone. "Maybe later."

A snort from without was muffled slightly by the hat before it reached Harry, but he recognized it as the potions master's.

"A long consultation for such an anticlimactic decision," Professor Dumbledore remarked, gently chiding.

"I do hope, Albus, that you're not trying to tell me how to sort students?" the hat asked softly enough that Harry paled a shade, still hidden beneath it. "Especially so close to the start of the year."

"No, no, of course not!" the old man said quickly, and Harry's vision returned as the hat was plucked from his head. The headmaster, looking a bit flustered, gestured for Harry to rise, sent the stool to an empty corner of his office, and set the hat carefully down atop it. Professor Snape smirked, and even Professor McGonagall had a hint of an amused twist to her lips. "Is there anything I should be aware of?" the headmaster asked hesitantly.

"A great deal, I should think," the hat replied tartly. "You are the headmaster of Hogwarts, are you not? Or are you asking me if there is information about a prospective student that I have uncovered that you should be aware of, but that I did not offer to share with you, due, no doubt, to a lack of insight on my part?"

The headmaster actually shuffled his feet uncomfortably, at which the potions master looked delighted and Madam Sprout lifted one hand to cover her mouth.

Professor Flitwick, who had glanced out the window, looked at his colleagues' expressions in surprise, and cocked his head inquisitively at the Hufflepuff Head of House, who lowered her hand to murmur, "Later."

"Of course not," the old man muttered. "So. Our easiest option would appear to be out, and yet we can't let you go entirely without schooling, my boy," he stated, voice firming as he turned towards Harry. "First off, have you any ideas?"

"No, sir."

"There's nothing that you would specifically like to do?"

He hesitated.

"Ah! There is something, then?"

"I just want to go home, sir," he admitted, relieved to realize that it was one thing he could want without it being bad.

The headmaster looked surprised. "I hadn't realized you were so unhappy here, Harry. You haven't mentioned anything."

Not knowing what response was expected, Harry offered the always appropriate, "Sorry, sir." His eyes flickered for a moment to the side at the potions master's snort, but then returned to the headmaster.

"Sorry? There's nothing for you to be sorry for, Harry," Dumbledore told him, eyes twinkling. "Indeed, I'm sorry that I can't allow you to go home if you miss it so much. What do you miss?" he asked, curiously.

"My family," he replied, not showing his discomfort at the headmaster's near-apology. He did miss them. Missed not having to wonder if he was being good or bad. Missed knowing that they loved him and were trying to help him stop being bad. Missed, rather than having to weigh his every answer, granting the instant honesty that they had taught him. He missed the safety of having everyone who spoke to him openly acknowledging his lack of worth. He was so sick of hiding.

"I see," Dumbledore murmured. "That is understandable. You were happy with them, then? There were some concerns, years ago, that they would … not care for you properly."

"They love me," he said simply.

"Then I am very glad indeed of that. I'm sure your parents would be very relieved to know it."

Harry remained perfectly still, not allowing any outward reaction to the words, while, inside, he began repeating, James Potter. Bully. Wizard. Alcoholic. Freak.

"Did they tell you about your parents, Harry?"

"Yes, sir." Lily Evans Potter. Spoiled brat. Whore. Witch. Freak.

"They were such a devoted couple. And they loved you so very much."

I was a disappointment and an inconvenience. Strange how words to the contrary hurt. Someone telling him his old dream was true, that his parents had wanted him, had loved him, had not been bad. But believing lies brought pain. It was always best to be honest.

The headmaster sighed when he didn't answer. "Well, I believe I shall come up with a schedule for you to attend some classes with first years and receive tutoring from the teachers during their free periods. And you will have some time to yourself every day, of course. Basic maths, history, reading, and writing are the basis of any good education. And Latin, I think, a language most useful for any wizard-to-be. Some basic Potions, I think--"

"What?" The potions master's exclamation was almost a yelp.

"It doesn't require a wand, Severus," the headmaster pointed out, eyes twinkling. "And the earlier one begins learning good brewing techniques the better."

"Astronomy doesn't require a wand! Care of Magical Creatures! Diviniation! Arithmancy! Ancient runes! Muggle studies! Herbology!"

"I should be quite pleased to see him for a bit of Herbology," Professor Sprout interjected with a warm smile at Harry.

"Herbology is an excellent thought," Professor Dumbledore agreed cheerfully. "But I don't think young Harry is quite ready to face the night sky for Astronomy yet -- nor the daytime one for Care of Magical Creatures. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes are both rather high level classes, and I think without further magical education both would be quite hopeless. I hardly think he needs Muggle Studies. And would you really consign him to Sybil's care for Divination, Severus?"

The potions master scowled sourly. "Why you keep that woman--"

"Is quite beyond you, yes. You've mentioned that before," he twinkled back.

"Am I the only one to be saddled with him, then?"

"Well, Pomona has already volunteered. I think some Defense Against the Dark Arts is also called for," the headmaster replied thoughtfully. "I fear he'll need it all too soon, and with our luck in teachers recently, taking it more than once with the first years won't cause any repetition."

Professor Snape smirked.

"But I do believe that shall do for now. Minerva, could you help Harry with reading and writing? And Filius, I should be grateful if you would undertake teaching him Latin."

The two murmured agreement and he flashed them grateful smiles before continuing, "I shall cover history--"

"Not Binns?" his deputy asked with a hint of a smile.

"Not before necessary, I think. And I shall ask you to cover maths, Severus."

"Surely Vector--"

"Is completely unable to comprehend how anyone cannot be instinctively aware of anything short of advanced calculus and is therefore totally incapable of teaching anything more basic than that."

"But why--"

"My dear Severus, did you truly think I didn't know you tutored the Slytherins who took Arithmancy? Did you think I took it as mere luck that Slytherins averaged considerably higher in that class than any other house? Not that Vector isn't an excellent teacher for students with strong mathematical bases, but it would do neither of them any good to put Harry with him now."

"But--"

"Good! I knew I could count on you! I shall simply write up a schedule and make sure there are no conflicts. I'll provide it to you all as soon as I can, and the last week before school starts, Harry, if we're satisfied that you know your way about the castle fairly well, I'll have you go through that schedule as though classes had begun. Just to familiarize yourself with the teachers, the timetable, and what is expected of you. Okay?"

Harry blinked at his abrupt inclusion in the conversation, but immediately answered, "Yes, sir."

"Then for now, let's return to the throng that has no doubt assembled in the great hall to complete the celebration of your birthday, shall we?"

As he didn't seem to expect an answer, Harry obediently moved ahead of the waving hand and preceded the headmaster out of the room, the other Heads of House following along with more or less enthusiasm. Professor Flitwick was practically skipping down the hall, while Professor Snape strode along silently. Harry didn't look back, but he felt he could feel a glare burning into his shoulders. And those shoulders were remarkably difficult to keep level and straight. They seemed far heavier than usual, and the desire to let them curl in and droop was almost irresistible. His eyes, too, seemed impossibly heavy. It took an effort of will to keep them wide and alert. He couldn't remember ever having been quite so exhausted before.

He hardly noticed the gathered teachers as he sank, with far less care than usual for the upholstery, into the chair he was led to. Then, he barely fought back a cringe as the headmaster loomed over him, fatigue almost breaking through his trained decorum. He looked up, concerned, at the murmur of startled voices that answered the headmaster's announcement that he had not been placed into a house early, but they calmed quickly. He waited uncertainly, wondering if they were, at last, going to begin punishing him again. Instead, a long slender package was placed into his hands, wrapped in bright paper.

"From Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and myself," the headmaster announced cheerfully.

Harry removed the paper carefully, and stared with empty eyes at the slender rod within.

"It's not a real wand," Professor Flitwick hastened to explain, hands rubbing together excitedly as he spoke. "You can't get one until you're eleven, you know. We might have gotten special permission if you'd placed in a house, but, for now, I hope this will do. It's a training wand, you see. It doesn't use your magic, but responds to your spoken commands and the way you move it by giving an illusion of the spell you cast. So you can practice getting intonation and gesture just right and be well ahead of the game once you begin classes next year!"

"It recognizes quite a wide range of spells," Professor McGonagall added in, a rare smile touching her thin lips. "The full charms and transfiguration curriculum up through third year and a few others. And it's has quite a sophisticated learning charm on it increase those it recognizes and imitates."

Harry gave himself a moment to gather himself, then managed to nod. "My thanks to you, sirs, ma'am."

"I hope you will get a good deal of fun, as well as learning, out of it, Harry," the headmaster said cheerily.

"Thank you, sir," he repeated. "I-- I'm sure I will."

A loud squawk jerked his head up, eyes, wide, and the headmaster chuckled. "It seems that your gift wishes to be given next, Hagrid."

The giant blushed, and stepped forward, hands behind his back. Harry swallowed hard and managed not to shrink back into the chair, away from the huge man. He couldn't help imagining how a blow from one of those huge hands would feel, throwing him across the room…

"Sorry," the big man boomed. "Got summat for yeh, Harry, didn't mean ta change th' order though."

"There's no order, Hagrid," the headmaster replied cheerfully. "And your gift sounds a touch impatient," he added, as a twitter emanated from behind the giant.

"So tis! 'Ere now, Harry, it isn't wrapped -- couldn' think o' a way to do't. But a boy oughter have a pet," he stated, drawing a large cage from behind his back with incongruous grace, the cage not even trembling at the motion.

Large yellow eyes stared out of a white, feathered face, then blinked. Green eyes blinked back, and some of the teachers smiled.

"Do yeh like 'er?" Hagrid asked nervously.

Harry stared at the bird wondering what they could possibly expect of him. Finally, he managed, "Y-- Yes, sir. Very much."

"What shall you call her, Harry?" Professor Sprout asked warmly.

"Call her?" he repeated blankly.

"Well, yes. Most pets have names. You could name her after just about anything. Something to let her know when you're talking to her."

"I-- I don't know," he whispered. He had no right to name something! What if he chose wrong? What if he shouldn't choose at all? How could he be trusted to do such a task?

"You can always name her after a historical personage," Madam Pomfrey suggested when the silence lengthened.

"Ah yes," the potions master murmured. "If she shares her master's tendency of self-starvation, Hedwig might be appropriate, for example."

"The Lady Hedwig was a great and noble witch!" Madam Sprout stated, sending him a dark look. "Perhaps it was not altogether wise in her that she thought fasting would increase her powers, but she did a great deal of good in her life. And she was very powerful, after all, so perhaps there was something in it, at that."

Professor Snape sneered down at his colleague. Harry, eyes slightly unfocused with exhaustion, failed to see that the professor was about to speak and interrupted with a careful, "Thank you very much for the suggestion, sir. I'll use that."

Everyone stared at him for a moment, the potions master near to sputtering. Afraid that he'd misstepped, the boy added, nervously, "If you don't mind, sir?"

"Name the bird whatever you please! It certainly has nothing to do with me!" he snapped back, seeming suddenly angry again.

Harry lowered his gaze, quickly, but nodded. "Thank you, sir," he repeated.

Madam Sprout gave a sudden burst of merry laughter. "Foiled, Severus! That will teach you to come the Grinch."

"The what?" he demanded. "As if I should ever--"

"No, no, of course not, dear boy," Dumbledore interjected, eyes twinkling. "So. An owl from Hagrid and a name from Professor Snape -- who's next, then?"

"I didn't give--"

"Now, now, my boy. Your turn is done -- unless you've another gift for Harry?" he interrupted himself.

"Of course I don't! I have no reason to be giving presents to future students!"

"Of course not," the headmaster soothed. "The name was already quite thoughtful of you. I daresay Harry shall be as grateful for that as for anything he receives."

"Yes, sir," Harry assured them both.

"But, as I say, you've had your turn," Professor Dumbledore continued serenely over his potions master's indignant denials of having given a gift. "Anyone else?"

"My gift is not something I could bring in," Professor Sprout stated, stepping forward with a warm smile. "I thought you might, perhaps, like a place of your own in one of the greenhouses, Harry. You can grow anything you like there -- muggle or magical. I'd be glad to help you with it."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, uncertainly.

"No need. I hope you shall enjoy it. I can't imagine growing up without having anything growing around me. It may not sound like much now, but if you don't enjoy it once you begin, you needn't keep working the section to please me, you know," she assured him. "I do hope you'll enjoy it, though."

"I'm sure I will, ma'am," he agreed, feeling his shoulders sink forward and hurriedly lifting them back to straight.

"Well my gift you can unwrap," Madam Hooch said with a grin, stepping forward and thrusting a small box into Harry's hand.

Obediently, he removed the paper and found a small box within. Opening it, he found a tiny broom, just like the one he had held earlier in the day, until it had grown to full size. He turned questioningly towards the woman, who was grinning widely, her yellow eyes almost glowing with pleasure as she nodded.

"Yup," she acknowledged. "It's a Fledgling. You'll have to get permission from the headmaster to fly it inside, mind. And gradually we'll work at getting you flying outside."

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed reluctantly, turning his eyes back to the broom, horrified at how tempted he felt. He wanted to fly it. He couldn't let himself want it. But it was so hard not to….

Satisfied, she faded back to allow the next person forward. Harry felt himself slumping and forcefully straightened again. The gifts continued, mostly candy and books and a couple knickknacks. Professor Trelawney gave him a large, faceted crystal, murmuring sorrowfully that she had little hope that it would save him from the dark fate she saw stalking him, but that it would, perhaps, protect him a little. Some of them just wished him a happy birthday, with greater or lesser interest, and gave him nothing, for which he was grateful. Filch didn't offer any gifts. Nor did Professor Mungrove, nor Professor Vector. The others gave him small tokens. Finally, the last was revealed to be a large sack of owl feed and a smaller box of owl treats from Professor Kettleburn, and the parade of gifts stopped. Harry felt slightly dazed, as though there was something separating him from the rest of the world. It was difficult to even keep his eyes open, much less sit up straight, and it was growing increasingly difficult to remember why it was so important to do so. Someone moved quickly in front of him, and he jerked unconsciously to avoid a blow, then straightened, eyes widening as he realized suddenly what he'd done. Reality rushed back into his fogged mind, and he straightened his shoulders and back, opened his eyes a little more widely, and waited.

"Well, one more gift, Harry, and for that we must go for a bit of a walk," the headmaster informed him, grinning.

"Yes, sir," he said softly, rising to his feet, startled when he swayed slightly. A surprisingly firm hand steadied him.

"Okay, my boy?" the headmaster asked, concerned.

"Yes, sir," he said softly. "Sorry, sir."

"Nothing to be sorry for. I daresay you're exhausted after all the flying this afternoon."

Harry hesitated, weighing the words. He had never felt like this before. But the Dursleys had sometimes said they were exhausted when they came in, and had then collapsed onto couches or chairs or beds, falling asleep or dropping into stupors watching the telly. The idea of collapsing felt incredibly tempting. He'd never felt remotely like this before. "Yes, sir," he answered, still not entirely sure if that was exactly what he was feeling, but it seemed close enough and was easier than trying to figure out something else.

"Well, just a little longer and you can go to bed. Let me take some of these for you," he added. With a wave of his wand, Harry's gifts gathered into a small pile and began to float. "Now then, this way, if you please." He gestured towards the door and glanced back at the rest of the staff. "No need to wait for me before eating. I know some of you had things you were eager to get to this evening. I do appreciate everyone attending."

"Thank you," Harry added softly, then headed out the door, almost stumbling on a slightly uneven stone.

The headmaster walked at his side, leading him up stairs and through halls. They stopped in a small corridor not far from his office in front of a painting of a young child with blond hair and blue robes who was carefully stacking a set of blocks. The boy looked up with serious gray eyes as they reached him, then smiled at Harry. "Are you going to get my room?" he asked.

Harry looked uncertainly from the portrait to the professor, who nodded reassuringly, then turned to the boy in the picture. "Good evening, Augustus. Yes, indeed, this is Harry Potter who shall have your room this year. Do you mind?"

"No, I've been awful lonely," he said. "I'd like to have a friend staying in my room. It's nice to meet you, Harry."

"Thank you," he managed. "You too." "Now, Augustus, you and Harry shall work out a password to get in, between you. For now, you can simply open on sight, but once the students come back I'd prefer you add a bit more security. You know we have a few people who would take it as a personal challenge to sneak into Harry's room."

The gray eyes lit suddenly and the boy in the paintinggrinned. "It'll be fun stopping them! We can talk about it in the morning, maybe. Harry looks awful tired."

The headmaster glanced down and nodded agreement. "That he does. Open, if you will, and let's show Harry his new room."

The boy nodded solemnly and the painting swung open, a round hole too small for most adults to pass through without ducking showing behind him. The headmaster crouched to move through it, and Harry stepped through after him and looked around. The room was beautiful. It was about the same size as his room off the potions master's quarters, but seemed larger because the furnishings were a bit smaller, as though made for a child. The walls were paneled in some warm golden wood, the floor matching, and one large window in the far wall looked out over the grounds and lake. It was set deep in the wall and a broad seat was carved, softened by green cushions and with a couple of pillows on one end. A low bookcase stood empty to either side of the window-seat, their tops about as high as the headmaster's waist. A wooden desk with a comfortable-looking chair drawn under it was set to the right, opposite a wooden bed carved with vines and leaves. The bed had heavy, emerald curtains and a thick matching comforter. A patchwork quilt in bright colors was folded at the foot of it. On the near side of the bed, a door was placed beside its head, with a wardrobe placed kitty-corner to it. A thick sheepskin rug of dark gray lay beside the bed, cushioning the floor from bed to wardrobe and door.

"No fireplace, I'm afraid," Professor Dumbledore said apologetically. "The door leads to a bathing room-- bath tub, sink and toilet, no shower. But I hope you'll be comfortable."

With a wave of his wand, the headmaster sent Harry's gifts about the room. Books ordered themselves on the shelves while candy and knickknacks landed lightly atop the desk. The plant that Neville had given him placed itself neatly on top of one of the bookshelves, where light would reach it easily. The miniature broom and toy snitch set atop the other one. A bird perch expanded into shape on the far side of the bed, and the professor opened the cage to allow Hedwig to fly out of it and over to the perch. The cage itself he shrank and sent to rest on a shelf in the wardrobe. When everything was placed to his satisfaction, Professor Dumbledore nodded and looked down at Harry, a hint of anxiety in his eyes. "We do want you to be happy here, Harry."

"Y-- Yes, sir," he murmured nervously. "Thank you, sir."

"I am sorry that I didn't realize sooner how home sick you were. Is there anything I can do to make it easier for you?"

"No, sir," he answered quickly. He shouldn't have said anything before. But it had seemed possible that they would let him go home, that this whole terrible test of his resolve could come to an end. "Thank you, sir."

"You're most welcome, my boy. If there's anything you need or if you're ever feeling lonely and wish to talk, you're quite welcome to come speak to me. And Augustus, your door guard, will come to this side of the door if you call his name, although he'll stay out unless you call him. The paintings are quite polite that way. He'll only enter if you call him or if he is asked to give you a message. That somebody wishes to come in, for example. Augustus has been lonely, lately, since none of the professors have children to talk to and even when the students are here, very few of them make time to talk to the portraits. There are the other portraits, of course, but most of them are of adults you know. I'm sure he'd be grateful if you chatted with him a bit now and then."

"Yes, sir."

"Very good, then. You do look ready to fall over -- to bed with you, my boy, and I'll see you at breakfast in the morning." He pointed to a small clock on the table beside the bed. "Just tell the clock what time you'd like to wake up, and an alarm will be set. And I'll expect you at breakfast, which shall continue to be at eight-thirty, as it has been. I'll leave the lights under your control for now," he added. "Say 'lumos' to turn them on and 'nox' to turn them off. If we find you haven't the maturity to get enough sleep on your own, and stay up too much of the night and are heavy-eyed and listless with fatigue, I shall have to set an override to them."

"Yes, sir," he agreed.

At a hint of a sigh, he dared a nervous glance up at the man. Blue eyes were studying him, eyebrows drawn slightly together. "Are you okay, Harry?"

"Yes, sir."

"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what you discussed with the sorting hat?" The boy hesitated a moment and, before he answered, a wrinkled hand waved. "No, never mind. Tell me if you wish to, at any time, but don't feel pressured, my boy. For now, unless there's anything else you need, I'll wish you goodnight."

"Yes, sir," he said softly. "I mean, no, sir. I don't need anything." A soft smile answered him. "Very well, then, Harry. I'll leave you for the night. Your belongings have been transferred into the chest at the foot of the bed.

"Thank you, sir."

"Certainly. Good night, my boy."

"Good night, sir."

Harry watched him until the door closed behind the man, then dared one nearly frantic glance about the room before sliding down to his knees, chin dropping to his chest in exhaustion. He felt tears build in his eyes, and frantically blinked them back. He couldn't cry. He had no right to cry. There was no closet, he realized in dismay. And the wardrobe was small enough that he would barely be able to curl up in, knees to chest. Should he? Or was there somewhere else he ought to sleep? He desperately wanted to go into it and see if it would be possible to sleep there, but he knew if he did he'd fall instantly asleep, and he couldn't go to sleep yet. The Hat had said it was coming tonight and he didn't dare be asleep when it arrived. It might take that as not being here and tell, as it had threatened.

His breath caught in his chest and he felt a lump forming in his throat. He was so tired and confused. His head turned without him wishing it to, and he found his eyes landing on the Snitch and the box holding the miniature broom. Uncle Vernon was going to be so disappointed in him. He'd had to ride it, of course. They'd told him to and he was to act as much like them as he could. But he'd enjoyed it. More than enjoyed it. And that, surely, was unforgivable. It could only mark him as having fallen even further than they had thought. He had been so certain he could fight against their temptations and here he was, hardly a week in their power, and already failing. Forcefully, he turned his gaze away from the bookcase and dropped it back to the floor before him, eyes unconsciously taking in the whirls of the wood. He didn't realize he was staring at it until he noticed one of his hands caressing the grain, following the faint lines of it. With a soft whimper, he folded his hands in his lap, closing his eyes to stop looking, to stop feeling.

A soft popping noise drew his attention and his head jerked up, eyes opening. Then widening as he saw a large red bird with a tail nearly as long as it was, carrying the Sorting Hat in its talons. He and the bird stared at each other for a long moment. Its beak opened and a soft musical sound came out, sounding somehow questioning. Then another, less questioning, this time, and more sorrowful. It glided down to the floor in front of Harry, dropping the hat beside him, and then stretched up on its feet, stretching up its neck until they were eye to eyes. He swallowed heavily. Bright drops appeared in its eyes and, to his surprise, the bird leaned its head forward to drop the tears lightly on his cheeks.

Harry felt a strange warming sensation that began where those tears landed and spread throughout him, making him feel strangely warm and light. The clenching in his chest released and the lump in his throat smoothed away. His stinging eyes felt soothed and his aching muscles relaxed their tension. He drew in a sharp breath, terrified, as the head brushed against his cheek again. He closed his eyes tightly and clenched his jaw, not knowing what magic was being worked on him, but not trusting it.

He opened his eyes again at the loud sigh, and turned to the hat as the bird stepped back. "This is Fawkes," the hat informed him. "He's a phoenix. The tears can't hurt you. All they do is heal."

"I don't need healing," Harry whispered.

"You," the hat stated firmly, "need healing more than anyone I've ever seen. And believe you me, I've seen a very large number of people indeed. Now. Put me on, if you please."

"I-- I'd rather not," he whispered.

"Yes, I know," the hat stated, voice startlingly gentle. "But you must anyway, you see."

Reluctantly, the boy obeyed, lifting the hat and placing it gingerly onto his head, swallowing as it fell further down, obscuring his vision.

"I know. You're scared. I'm sorry for it, but there's no real way around it for now," the hat said, softly. "Now I shall see what must be done first."

There followed a harrowing search through his memories and thoughts, with an occasional acerbic comment or murmured curse thrown in by the hat. It studied the memories of his recent punishments with food especially closely, and the more distant memories of eating and hunger with the Dursleys. Finally, it said decidedly, "Well. That's interesting. The headmaster had wondered why there had been no occurrences of accidental magic from you. Not one since you were two or three. He didn't wonder enough to check on you, though, more's the pity. Tell me, child. Is it worse to get hungry quickly or to do magic?"

"To do magic," he answered instantly, needing no thought for that one.

"Excellent. Did you know that you're doing magic as we speak? And have been, more or less constantly, for several years now?"

Harry felt his heart clench and his breathing lighten to short fearful gasps. "What?" he managed.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Your … family had their information slightly off, you see. It is not a common thing for a witch or wizard to be able to live without food, deserving or no. So in your attempts to obey their orders not to be hungry, and not to eat, you used magic to … stretch the food you ate. Rather dramatically, actually. Much more so than I would have imagined possible, even so far as getting reasonable nourishment from things that really ought to have left you much sicker. Or dead. That is why you've been throwing up since you came to the school and have been eating more normally. At first I thought that it was simply a matter of your body being out of practice in accepting food and rejecting it. But it's more than that. Your magic magnifies and stretches it to an incredible degree, making it seem, to your body, that you've overeaten. You're using every thread of magic you can to nourish yourself. I can help you stop doing the magic, if you like."

"Yes," he whispered. "Please. I-- I mustn't--"

"Use magic. I know," it said, voice expressionless. "In order to stop the magic you must first be able to tell when you are using it. Do you remember how Snape had you look through illusions to the wall?"

"Yes," he said, slowly, uncertainly.

"Excellent. What I want you to do is close your eyes, and then focus in that same way."

Beneath the brim, Harry blinked. "I-- How can I focus with my eyes closed?"

"Nobody ever said it would be easy," the hat commented.

Slowly, gradually, the hat talked him through the process, studying his thoughts and advising him, until suddenly, despite the fact that his eyes were closed and covered by the hat's material, sight burst upon him. A thin pale veil hung directly before his eyes, and, beyond that, he saw other things. A square of light where the door had been. The bird was glowing so brightly it almost hurt his eyes. His eyes slammed open and the light vanished. "What--"

"Very good!" the hat murmured. "Very good indeed. You saw the magic. When you look at yourself you will always see a faint magic -- a light glow. The one directly before your eyes was me. And the door was the painting. Fawkes was, of course himself. Some of the other things you have in the room you would also have seen, had you looked their way. But for now, you must find that way of looking again, and this time look down at yourself. There will always be a faint glow. Everyone has that. But if you have a brighter glow around your stomach and digestive tract, that means that magic is actively affecting that area of you. Try again, please, and this time look down before opening your eyes."

"But this is magic!" he whispered desperately, pleadingly. "I don't want to."

"I know," the hat said simply. "And yet you must. Because if you don't do this little bit of magic, you will continue doing a much greater magic. Practically all the time. Which is worse?"

Harry searched within himself, trying desperately to work out the riddle. Finally, his shoulders slumped, and he nodded his resignation. "Very well."

Again, he turned his gaze inwards. This time he held the focus that let him see the light when it appeared and turned his gaze downwards. In horror, he found that the hat was right. His midsection was glowing nearly as brightly as the bird. He bit his lip, hard, staring down at himself in horror.

"Very good," the hat applauded, as though blind to his misery. "Very good indeed. Now you must touch that magic with your mind and tell it that you don't need it any more. That you want it to stop."

One hand twitched towards his stomach, and the hat snapped, "No, don't touch with your hands. That will only confuse you. In fact, lay your hands palm down on the floor so that you aren't tempted to use them, please. Now. Touch with your mind." Harry obeyed, slowly, flattening his hands on the floor beside his knees, and began to say the words, but the hat interrupted again. "No, not like that. Not saying it or thinking it. Knowing it. It cannot be simply words, but meaning. Belief. You must want it to end, you must convince it that it is unnecessary."

That, at least, was not hard. He didn't want it. Didn't need it. Wanted nothing to do with the magic. It clung obstinately to him, despite his beliefs.

"Think not about the magic itself, but about what it's doing," the hat murmured. "Think about having plenty of food, about not needing to stretch a little. Think about not being hungry."

"I'm not hungry," Harry whispered.

"You are, actually. It's just that your concept of hunger has been twisted to the point that you don't think you're hungry until any one else would be sobbing with the misery of it. But it's not me you have to convince, but your magic. This will not last, by the way. You shall have to do this several times a day until the magic finally comes to realize that you do not need it. And I would recommend you be very careful to keep fed. Have a couple small meals in between the meals with the professors, and possibly another just before you go to bed. If you get hungry -- that means real hunger, not just what you consider hunger, if you feel even the slightest bit empty -- the magic will feel itself needed and come back. If you keep full for a while it will gradually give up its attempts to help you in that way."

Harry nodded his understanding, concentration completely focused on convincing the magic that he did not need it to help him. And gradually the glow in his middle faded until, at last, it vanished, leaving a pale glow that was the same as the rest of his body. Exhausted, he drooped forward.

"When you wake up in the morning, look again to see if it has returned and, if so, release it again. It will get easier with practice," the hat murmured. "You did well, Harry. And tonight will be the first night in some time you'll fall asleep not using magic. A thing to be proud of, no?"

Confused, Harry shook his head. This couldn't be right. He had the sinking feeling that his family would be horrified at what he had just done. And yet, it was true that he had been using magic, and that it appeared to have stopped now. "I don't know," he whispered. "I want my uncle," he added, voice cracking slightly.

"I know you do. But he's not here, you know. I daresay you'll disbelieve almost everything I say, but I'll try to help you, Harry."

"You want to corrupt me," he said, too exhausted to put much emotion into the statement.

"I? No, Harry. I've seen corruption and I should be very sorry indeed to see it touch you. No, indeed, that is the farthest thing from what I want. Come now, have I not helped you?"

Harry shook his head, feeling tears of exhaustion and fear and misery and confusion leak out of his eyes and trail slowly down his cheeks. "I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know. And I don't trust you."

"That's okay, Harry," the hat murmured reassuringly. "You don't need to trust me. Not for now. Just keep an eye on that magic of yours, okay? You don't want to be using it by mistake, do you?"

"No."

"That's right. You're exhausted. Go to bed, now, Harry."

Harry's eyes snapped open, startled. "Bed? I -- I can't."

"You can, though. There's no closet here, is there? And you must sleep somewhere."

"The corner--" he began.

"You've been very lucky, so far, you know." The tone was conversational, now. "Very lucky that nobody has walked in and found you sleeping not where you were meant to be. Or a house elf commented to someone that your bed was not slept in. How long do you think that would last? What would your uncle say to you if you aroused suspicion in such a way?"

A shudder ran through Harry's body.

"That's right. Is it more important to follow the rules of your family's house, or to avert suspicion?"

"I don't know."

"Well. If they notice something's strange, something more, I mean, because they're already watching you a little more closely than they were at first, you know. But, as I was saying, if they notice something that makes them really worried, they'll question you. Question you in ways you can't hide from. The headmaster can look into your mind almost as easily as I do. The difference is that he's more polite and, not realizing yet that there might be reason for him to set aside that politeness, has not looked. But if he does he will see all. Do you want to give him reason to look?"

"No," he whispered.

"That's right. Good boy. Go to bed, Harry. Sleep. It'll be okay," the hat murmured, sounding suddenly ancient and infinitely sad. "I'll talk to you again soon."

"Yes, sir," he murmured, feeling that it was wrong and yet unable to find a better path. He removed the hat and, reluctantly, stepped towards the bed. Carefully, he climbed up onto it, setting himself atop the covers.

"You'll arouse less suspicion if they find you in the bed," the hat called quietly across the room.

Obedient to the implicit instruction, Harry crawled between the sheets and lay, stiff and still but for the shuddering he couldn't suppress.

"Good," the hat murmured. "I'll talk to you again soon, Harry. Sleep well."

There was a flash of light as the hat and bird vanished, and Harry stared up at the canopy of the bed. Finally, he murmured, "Nox." Darkness fell, and he began to recite his catechism, voice shaking helplessly with reaction and fatigue.