Author's Note: I must apologize profusely if this chapter contains errors. I've not had the time to read it through and fix grammar mistakes, but I assure you it makes sense (or most of it does). Please attribute any meaning you like to passages that make little to no sense, and give free reign to your imagination.

The process I've explained of being sorted into Houses may or may not match the original books, mostly because I didn't have time to refer to the original text, but I've tried to remain as true as I could to what J.K. Rowling wrote. For example, the students have to line up before they are called to be sorted. By mistake, I had them sit down in the Great Hall and be called forward. Small mistake, but it made for excellent conversation. Anyhow, enjoy. I own nothing; it's all Rowling's. I'm just having fun.

Nine

The Sorting

Celestine Lestrange glared at Harry's back as they followed the winding path towards the gates of Hogwarts. The pier on the edge of the Black Lake faded into the darkness behind them, and they were guided by a single werelight that hovered behind Regulus, throwing out a circle of blue radiance for them to follow.

If this had been any other night, she may have paused to appreciate the haunting beauty of it all, but her mind was a jumble of furious thoughts. Celestine was undoubtedly certain Harry had planned for her and Neville to sit on the same boat, although she had no way of proving it. It just seemed like a twisted thing he would do, but it meant he knew about her parents—about what they'd done to the Longbottoms all those years ago.

Her cheeks burned with shame and her eyes stung with unshed tears, and she was glad no one could see her in the darkness. Meeting Neville had been a punch to the gut. Celestine knew who he was; she'd known for many years. But to see the boy with her own eyes, to see the hatred and pain reflected on his face—it had almost been too much for her to take. Celestine knew her parents' crimes were their own and had nothing to do with her, but it still didn't stop her from feeling guilty. It was stupid, but she couldn't help but suspect that, much like them, she was evil and rotten—not deserving of life.

To make it worse, she'd kicked Neville.

All because of that stupid Harry Potter!

Celestine gritted her teeth and shot a venomous stare in his direction. He didn't seem to care at all, ignoring her pointedly as he spoke to Hermione in hushed tones. The bushy-haired girl had her signature blank look in place, expressionless as ever. She was definitely an odd one. Celestine wondered if she was even right in head, seeing as how she struggled to even comprehend the simplest emotions yet managed somehow to blather on about almost every topic known to wizarding kind.

She was probably going to be the Bathilda Bagshot and just as nutty.

"Out of the way, Death Eater," snapped a voice from behind, just before she was shoved aside unceremoniously.

Ron sneered at her as he walked past, the Prewitt cousins—Rory and Matthias—tagging along. They went straight for Harry, boxing him in from either side and pushing Hermione back with as much gentleness as they had her. They didn't stop walking, however, each grabbing an elbow and pulling Harry along with them as if nothing at all was happening.

She had to respect the precision of it all.

"Now you listen well, Black," said Ron, his voice just loud enough to reach Celestine. "I want my wand back right now. You hand it over without a fuss, and I'll tell my cousins to go easy on you. Otherwise…"

Harry frowned in confusion. "Your wand? Why on earth would I have your wand?"

Rory, the larger and more brutish of the twins, drove his fist into Harry's ribs. The smaller boy barely even registered the blow, although it must have felt like a train had rammed into his side. Harry just turned his head and stared right at Rory, his green eyes burning with such malice that it forced him back two steps.

"Hit me again and I'll tear your throat out," he said simply.

Celestine felt her blood run cold. People their age came up with stupid threats. I'll beat you up. I'll punch you in the face. Nonsense like that. This was so much more real; so much more brutal. And the way he said it left no doubt he was serious.

Matthias released him as well—wisely enough. Ron, fool as he was, stalked close behind Harry, keeping his voice low so the Gamekeeper wouldn't hear him. "Don't think I didn't see you talking to Fred and George," he hissed. "They like playing pranks, but they won't be able to protect you from me. I don't listen to those fools, do you hear? If you don't hand me my wand, I'll make your life hell at Hogwarts. I've got friends in Gryffindor. My brother's a prefect—!"

Ron landed on moss covered ground, clutching a bloody nose.

Celestine stumbled to a halt.

She hadn't even seen what happened, it was so quick. She carefully replayed the events in her mind. Harry had turned, almost as if to say something in reply to Ron's threat, and then nothing. She couldn't begin to understand how he had managed it, but somehow he'd hit Ron in the face with such speed that it had entirely escaped her notice, and perhaps everyone else's.

Most of the students stopped to look back, alerting the Gamekeeper to trouble.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

When no one replied, he strode swiftly through the press and looked down at Ron, who still nursed a bleeding nose, tears of pain in his eyes.

"I asked a question. What's going on here?" he demanded again.

Ron pushed himself up, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand. "Fell down, sir," he replied, still trying to blink back tears. "My mistake."

"You fell down?" asked the Gamekeeper, eyebrows raised in noticeable doubt. "And how did you land on your nose, if I may ask?"

"Fell down, sir. On my nose."

Regulus turned and stared right at Harry, no emotion on his face. "Did he fall, Mr. Potter?"

"That would be Mr. Black, sir."

A charged silence filled the night.

"Did he fall?" repeated Regulus slowly.

"If Mr. Weasley says he fell, then that's what happened," said Harry without a twitch or even a hint of mockery. "I was walking in front of him. I wouldn't know."

The Gamekeeper drew his wand and waved it with a flick of his wrist. The blood evaporated from the front of Ron's black school robes and his face, and his nose stopped bleeding immediately.

"I've fixed you for now," said the Gamekeeper, "but see Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing after the Welcoming Feast. And should you fall again, make sure it's not on your nose."

The students snickered aloud, with Draco Malfoy not even attempting to hide his mirth, and Ron glowered fiercely at the Gamekeeper's back as he walked away. His baleful stare turned immediately to Harry, and there was pure loathing in it—a vicious anger that Celestine recognized well. There would never be peace between them, not even a tenuous truce to end the violence.

From what she had heard about Hogwarts, it was a place of secret duels, underhand bullying and brutal rivalries that sometimes spanned years. Her mother had been a notorious tyrant during her time, terrorizing most of the students before she was even in her third year. And considering most of the noble children had parents on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, it was rare that a student was ever expelled. The worst they were punished with was detention or a short suspension, which often meant sending the student home for a week or so.

You would they actually wanted students to fight.

"I will get my wand back, Potter," said Ron, as the students began to move on. "Maybe not soon, but it'll happen."

Harry just watched him, and then beckoned to Hermione and Celestine as if nothing had happened. Neville kept his distance, which was no surprise, but he stayed close enough as not to be entirely alone.

The Hogwarts gate loomed above them, and Regulus came to a halt before it. He raised his fist and knocked thrice, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence of the night. For a moment, nothing happened, and then the doors swung open to reveal a tall, stern woman in midnight-blue dress robes.

"Minerva McGonagall," breathed Hermione under her breath. "She's one of the greatest witches of her generation and undoubtedly one of the most knowledgeable in the subject of Transfiguration. I read in Transfiguration: A History that she single-handedly rediscovered the ancient magical properties of quicksilver and ectoplasm. They say she even be as good as Albus Dumbledore, but there're some who still believe otherwise."

Oh, lovely. Is there anything she doesn't know?

Celestine was aware Professor McGonagall was Rose Potter's adoptive mother. She had seen them on more than one occasion in Diagon Alley, in the company of Severus Snape and Damien Potter, both of whom she had disliked on sight. Celestine was prone to making snap judgments about people, but she believed herself to be in the right when it came to the Potions Master and his son. They were too much alike, quiet and reserved, even somewhat arrogant.

Like Dudley.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," spoke the Professor, surveying them with a shrewd eye and drawing Celestine out of her thoughts. "I hope you have had a safe journey. My name is Minerva McGonagall and I am the head of the Transfiguration Department here at Hogwarts as well as the Head of Gryffindor House.

"You will soon be escorted to the Great Hall to await sorting into your respective Houses," she continued. "For some of you, it may be a trying experience, but not do not fear. This is the beginning of your time at Hogwarts, which I hope will be both enlightening and fulfilling to you all. Thank you, Regulus. I'll take it from here."

The dark-haired man nodded and disappeared, leaving them with the witch. "Follow me, first years."

The filed through open doors into the Entrance Hall, its high vaulted ceiling rising far above them. The school was ancient, and Celestine could feel it in bones as surely as she did when she was at the Lestrange Manor, amongst all her family history. There was a sense of deep grandeur to it all, as if the stones itself breathed with life. Hogwarts was a place of a magic and power, a place where the most gifted witches and wizards of history had passed through on their path to greatness.

"Hogwarts was built in late Early Middle Ages, with the foundation stones laid by the four most celebrated wizards of their time, Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff and Godric Gryffindor," said the Professor, leading them through the halls. "It is considered to have the most ancient and powerful protection in the whole of the wizarding world, with some of the original defenses being forged by Godric Gryffindor's own hands, considered by many to be the most skilled warder in history. It has been the task of Headmaster's since to learn Gryffindor's original designs and raise the defenses should the need ever come.

"For this very reason, Hogwarts has never fallen into the hands of dark wizards, despite numerous attempts by some of the most powerful Dark Lords who have ever tainted history" she said. "I say this to assure you that despite what you may have heard concerning the wizard Gellert Grindelwald, you have very little to fear within these walls."

Very little, but not nothing, thought Celestine sourly.

"Of course, let us not forget that the very man who once defeated and imprisoned Grindelwald is the Headmaster of Hogwarts and undoubtedly the most powerful wizard alive," she continued. "For the next few years, this place will be your home. I hope you will come to love it as much as I have."

And with those solemn words, they arrived at an arched entrance through which they could see the Great Hall. It was lit by hundreds of bright werelights that floated in the air over four long tables, where the rest of the students were seated. The tables were laid with gleaming golden plates and goblets, all empty.

At the very end of the hall opposite the entrance was yet another long table where the teachers sat in stoic silence, dressed in their best robes and looking regal in their place above the students. Hundreds of bright-eyed faces stared at them as they filed in, like pale lanterns in the steady werelight. Celestine looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars and scattered with tufts of cotton-white clouds.

Hermione's whisper was louder than she thought: "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside. The fourth Headmaster of Hogwarts came up with it."

"Quite right," said McGonagall, turning to give her a smile that only made Hermione blush. "But wait until it rains. It's not nearly as much fun."

Celestine wondered whether she was joking, because it would probably be the stupidest thing in the world if the rain actually passed through the ceiling.

At that precise moment, Harry had arrived at a number of conclusions, not least of which was that Hogwarts was the first step, that initial leap, which would propel him to achieve his dreams. He was here to learn; to gather all the knowledge he needed to equip himself with the means and intelligence to never have to depend on anyone.

He wouldn't be bound by school curriculum or the pace of his peers. He wouldn't be bound by school books he'd already read during the summer or pointless school rules that kept him from exploring his boundaries. He was not here to relax, to spend the next seven years in ease, enjoying 'school life'. This was a journey of discovery for him, and he owed it to himself to make the best of what he'd been given. To become a wizard who others would fear and respect, one whose enemies would think twice about striking at.

And it all started here, at Hogwarts.

Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness.

Harry didn't know where the thought came from; it had just appeared in his head, and for a moment he almost thought he'd heard it whispered in his ear. As if the necklace around his throat, the gold Slytherin necklace, had spoken to him.

"What did you say, Dudley?" asked Celestine rudely.

"Sorry?"

"Something about Slytherin," she replied.

"Oh, the Slytherin motto," he replied. "Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness."

Hermione fidgeted slightly. "Isn't Slytherin for…dark wizards?"

Harry only shook his head and smiled.

Professor McGonagall turned around to face them again. Harry had decided he liked her. She didn't seem like the kind to put up with nonsense, a serious witch if he'd ever seen one. She was brilliant too, which meant she actually had something to teach him that he couldn't find in a book. In fact, Harry knew quite a bit about her.

After hearing about his sister, Rose, Harry had asked Griphook for information on the Transfigurations Professor, for a substantial fee of course. The information packet had included Severus Snape as well, an unusually mysterious man whose history was convoluted and inextricably linked with Dumbledore's.

What he'd read about McGonagall impressed him. She'd easily been the most outstanding student of her year while attending Hogwarts, with a noticeable talent for Transfiguration, which had naturally attracted Dumbledore's attention as he'd been the Head of the Transfiguration Department during those days. McGonagall had gone on to become the Headgirl of Hogwarts, which meant she was liked by her teachers and probably envied by her peers.

She'd spent some time in the Ministry, working for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but apparently not as an auror. Her experience there had been less than satisfactory, claimed Griphook's report, which eventually led her to return to Hogwarts and teach there under the guidance of none other than Dumbledore. Apparently, she'd finally found her place here since she was still around, Head of the Gryffindor House and perhaps the most respected member of the staff after the Headmaster.

"You may take your seats," McGonagall informed them. "Sit wherever you see fit, at the table you believe you most belong, and wait for your name to be called out. When it is, you will come to the front of the hall to be sorted. Remember, there is nothing to fear."

Or is there?

The moment Harry stepped through the entrance to the Great Hall, his gaze sought out the figure on the other end of the open space, seated at the very center of the staff table. Although he was sitting, Harry could tell Dumbledore was an incredibly tall man. He was quite old, judging by the gray of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to disappear under the edge of the table. He was wearing purple robes and an odd hat, and a pair of half-moon spectacles rested on the end of his nose, almost as if he was looking down on the world from his lofty place in the clouds.

Even as far as he was, Harry could feel the man's power. The sheer force of his character, which demanded attention; commanded obedience. Perhaps he seemed harmless to many, but Harry knew what hid under that grandfatherly visage. He was the man who'd defeated Gellert Grindelwald, who had battled and captured dozens of dark wizards, and who had kept Voldemort at bay for many years. To underestimate him was the greatest mistake anyone could male.

Harry snapped out of his thoughts when a loud call broke through the chatter of students, reaching him and possibly every other student in the hall.

"Harry Black!" shouted a voice.

He turned toward the Gryffindor table, frowning.

"Harry!" came the voice again. "Over here! Come—"

"Dine with us!"

Fred and George, he thought with a groan. Of course.

Almost everyone in the Great Hall twisted in their seats to stare right at him. Hundreds of eyes, boring into him—judgmental, amazed and distrusting. Harry felt their gaze on him, but he found himself entirely unaffected. He didn't care what they thought, so long as they kept their distance and didn't bother him. Fred and George certainly weren't helping the matter at all.

"Neville. Hermione. Celestine," he said, glancing at his three companions with a hopeful smile. "Coming?"

Celestine muttered a curse under her breath and quickly made her way to the Slytherin table, leaving Hermione and Neville behind. Harry let out a sigh and walked toward the Gryffindors, ignoring all the eyes on him. He was tempted to search for his brother and sister, both of whom he knew were in Gryffindor, but there would be time for that later. Instead, he kept his gaze focused right ahead, not caring to meet anyone's eyes.

Several Gryffindor's moved over stealthily, giving Harry, Hermione and Neville space to sit. With their stares still on him, Harry dropped down opposite the twins. Down the length of the table, people craned in their seats to get a look at him, and whispers ran across the Great Hall, nagging at him annoyingly. He felt Ron's glare most acutely, but there were another pair of eyes looking at him just intently.

Green, like his.

She sat almost twenty spaces down from him, a girl with dark red hair and opaline eyes. Harry's heart seized for a moment, as he saw something reflected in those features. A distant memory of a beautiful woman, a flash of green light and a scream so high that it pierced the deepest parts of his mind.

Rose.

The girl looked away first, her cheeks coloring with a dark blush. She stared down at her empty plate, and he waited for her to meet his eyes again, but she wouldn't. Why wouldn't she? Is she afraid of me? Angry? Disappointed?

Harry dismissed the thoughts to be addressed later, without the whole world watching his every move.

"Fred," he said nodding to one of the twins and then the other. "George. It's good to see you again."

"I'm George, not Fred. Honestly, Harry."

"No, you're Fred," he replied with a twitch of his lips. "I'm not fooled."

The twins looked at each other with raised eyebrows. "Well, that's quite impressive, Harry."

"Not even our mother can tell us apart," said Fred. "How'd you do it, then?"

Harry pointed at Fred's sleeves. "You're missing a cuff," he replied. "I noticed on the train when you introduced yourselves."

"Clever, very clever," said George, grinning at him deviously. "But it's a good thing we didn't introduce ourselves correctly then, isn't it? We lied, Harry."

"I'm George," said Fred. "And this is Fred."

He looked at them for a long moment.

"Does it really matter?" asked Hermione from beside him.

Harry shrugged. "I suppose not," he said. "So tell me, Fred…George. Why am I here, exactly? And don't say you invited me out of the kindness of your hearts. From what I can tell, you'd much rather make a fool out of me than by my friends."

One of the twins (George?) clapped a hand over his heart. "You wound us, Harry!" he exclaimed, loudly enough once again and have everyone looking. "Why would you ever think that?"

"We're the best friends a man could have."

"Fun."

"Clever."

"Loyal."

"Brave."

"And fun."

"Don't forget clever too."

Fred leaned back. "Simply extending an olive branch, Harry," he said. "We don't want our brother's problems to be our problems."

"Ron's a prick," said the other.

Hermione bobbed her head in agreement; she still seemed upset with the Weasley for pushing her.

Harry smiled slightly. "You mentioned that."

"Well pricks tend to prod what they shouldn't be pricking," said George. "And seeing as how our brother walked in with a swollen nose, I'm guessing the situation hasn't much improved since last we met."

"All we want is some good old fun," continued the other twin. "We like getting on people's nerves, and right now, you have more potential to cause havoc than any other person in the wizarding world."

"So…should you ever need our help with anything—"

"Anything."

"—Just tell us and we'll be happy to oblige," said George. "Should you require contraband of any kind—we have patented inventions designed specifically to bring chaos. Mums the word, Harry."

Hermione was giving them a disapproving look, a deep frown on her face, and Neville seemed overly interested in the werelights overhead, almost as if he didn't want any part in the ongoing conversation.

"Sleep on it, Harry."

"Dream about it."

"Come over to the dark side."

"Oh, look," said one of the twins, suddenly distracted. "It's about to start. You'd better choose Gryffindor!"

Harry looked around to see Professor McGonagall silently place a four-legged stool at the front of the Great Hall. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard's hat. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty, no more than a rag, really.

For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth and then—

The Sorting Hat started singing some stupid song in a grating voice that had everyone clapping their hands over their ears and howling in displeasure.

"Quietus," said George, waving his wand.

Harry recognized the spell from his time reading over the summer, just one of many he had studied and dedicated to memory, intent on practicing them once he was at Hogwarts. The moment the spell was done, a cone of silence settled over them, canceling out the Sorting Hat's song.

"George and I have wanted to burn that hat ever since we came to Hogwarts," said Fred. "Dumbledore keeps it locked away though so we've never had a shot. We're hoping this year will be different."

Hermione's perpetual frown deepened. "The Sorting Hat is an ancient relic of the wizarding world; the magic that made is now long lost," she said crossly. "You seriously aren't going to try destroying it, are you?"

Fred and George stared at her.

"You are?"

Harry laughed aloud and nudged her with his elbow. "Don't worry, Hermione," he said. "I doubt they can. If it's a precious as you say it is, Dumbledore probably has a thousand charms on it. Charms I'm sure no student in Hogwarts can break."

"We thought about that," replied the twins impishly. "But there's always a way around magic, Harry. We make it our business to know these things. And I guess the Sorting Hat's done with his song. Good riddance."

The cone of silence lifted and the Great Hall's noise reached them once again, a clamor of voices excited for the sorting. Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,' she said, looking up briefly to fix the hall under her gaze. "Any derogatory comments towards the students and or the Houses will result in immediate detention.

"Abbot, Hannah!"

A curly-haired girl slipped away from the Hufflepuff table and shuffled over to the stool. Professor McGonagall waited for her to take a seat before lowering the hat down on her head.

Before it had even touched, the hat shouted, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

The Great Hall broke out in claps, and the Hufflepuff table cheered for the girl as she beat a hasty retreat to where her friends were sitting. Harry realized suddenly that they were moving in alphabetical order, arranged by second names. He was probably going to be called—

"Black, Harry!"

Heads swiveled on hundreds of necks, and Harry let out a quiet sigh of frustration. He rose smoothly from the table, gave Hermione and Neville a warm smile, and then crossed between the isles towards the Sorting Hat.

Dumbledore watched quietly as the boy looked down at his friends, a confident smile coloring his face. The Headmaster had been pleased to see Harry join the Gryffindor table; he had feared the possibility that the boy's life had somehow twisted him, stripping him of those qualities that were so abundant in Lily and James Potter, and by extension in Rose and Damien.

But there remained the distinct chance that Dumbledore could not read Harry as he did others; from what he had heard, the boy wasn't a fool. That he had somehow earned the respect of Griphook the Stalwart. Furthermore, there was the business surrounding the Noble House of Black, certainly something to worry about.

With the discerning eye of a man who had stared down the greatest wizards of his time, Albus Dumbledore watched Harry's solitary march towards the Sorting Hat.

Rose Potter had almost leapt out of her seat when she heard her brother's name called out across the Great Hall, summoning forth a tide of voices.

"Black, Harry."

The boy stood, smiling at his friends. There was no fear there, not like what Rose had felt when she'd been called the year before. He straightened his robes with a careless gesture and moved toward the hat, his step sure and unfaltering.

"Is that him?" asked Katie Bell, her best friend and classmate, sounding awed.

"Yes," she whispered softly. "That's him."

"He has your eyes."

"My mothers," replied Rose, absentmindedly.

"But he looks like Damien."

"Like my father," corrected Rose a second time.

Katie's grin was obvious in her voice. "Damien's looks and your eyes," she said. "He's going to have to fight the girls off with a stick."

"Eww!" exclaimed Angelina Johnson. "He's eleven!"

"And I'm twelve," countered Katie. "Besides, I meant in a year or two. Not now. But just look at him."

Rose watched her brother every step of the way. She wanted to look at Damien, to see his reaction, but she knew her brother wouldn't be happy. He hated Harry—hated him. She'd never thought it possible, but he did. And she didn't know why.

It tore her up inside. It hurt her beyond imagining.

Celestine watched Harry react to his name, or rather not react at all. He just stood and smiled, and Celestine wondered whether she could ever muster that composure. Once again, she marveled at his nature, his absolute Slytherin-ness. There was no doubt in her mind what the Sorting Hat would say.

Certainly not Gryffindor.

Slowly, quietly, he reached the stool and sat down facing the ocean of enraptured students. Professor McGonagall stepped forward tentatively, hat in hand, but paused before she lowered it onto his head. It was almost as if she was afraid what would happen.

Then she set it down.

Harry felt the hat's warmth engulf him a second before darkness settled over his vision.

"Hmm…" said a voice in his head, resounding against the boundaries of his mind and echoing back in a thousand discordant but distant sounds.

It was powerful, old and wise, what he imagined Dumbledore to be.

"I am certainly not Dumbledore."

Harry sat perfectly still. "You can read my thoughts," he asked. Then: "Of course you can. How else would you sort me?"

"Not very smart are you?"

There was a mocking laugh.

"Do you talk to everyone like this or am I special?"

The hat wriggled on his head. "Most times, the answer is quite evident," said the hat. "Eleven-year-olds do not usually have a wealth of experience to shape them. They are a bundle of emotion, of unfocused thoughts but clear intentions. I can often discern their true nature without much trouble, but it is not as simple with those who have lived a more…colorful life."

"That's one way to put it."

"A life where they were beaten, ridiculed, used and kept no better than a slave," said the hat. "A life of hatred, fear and suffering—every moment a waking nightmare, every thought consumed by dreams of revenge. I know you, boy. Better than you know yourself."

"Show off."

"Your anger is deeply entrenched in your soul, a spreading corruption," spoke the hat. "It eats at you, and it feeds you dreams. You have the intelligence of Ravenclaw, certainly, but the House will do you no good, and I have no interest in exposing those children to your malice. Hufflepuff is certainly not your House, and that I do not even have to explain."

"Just ask me what I want already," thought Harry. "You've already read it from my mind. Make you decision and let me go."

"Why?" asked the hat. "I thought you were unimpressed. I can read your mind, and therefore I see your contempt of me. You do not believe I have any right to decide where you go. You do not believe I can understand you."

Harry snorted, but he knew no one could hear. This conversation was in his head. "You're a product of complex magic, but you're ultimately a human creation, with a specific function beyond which you have no understanding," said Harry dismissively. "I have no doubt you know what suffering is, but you have no understanding of what it is to experience that suffering, nor to contemplate its effects.

"Similarly, you might know what motivates a human; you might know what emotion is. But you have never had any motivations nor any emotions, and therefore you have no inkling of what it means to be human," continued Harry. "You follow a set of formulas and arrive at a conclusion you cannot even begin to understand. You are a flawed and antiquated tool, tolerated only by tradition. I would rather not leave my future in your hands."

"So much hatred."

"Enough." Harry's voice was hard now, tendrils of pain spreading through his mind. "Slytherin is my house. Leave me be."

"Not Gryffindor?" asked the hat with a wily twist to its voice. "Your siblings have found their time there most fulfilling. As did your parents."

"My parents are dead because they were brave; we are orphans," replied Harry, trying to hold back the agony. "You have to reconsider your definition of fulfilling. As for Gryffindor, I have no interest in heroics. I am no lion."

"A snake then? A worm?"

"A basilisk, if anything," he growled.

The hat laughed, and Harry would have curled up into a ball to escape the noise if he could. There was simply too much magic in it for him to deal with all at once. It was hurting him, affecting his mind in ways he couldn't understand. It was clear the hat wasn't intended to remain on for as long as it had.

"I am the amalgam of four parts. Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin," said the hat. "Two parts of me argue most vehemently on your behalf. Gryffindor seeks you for your power, your potential to lead and bring peace. He sees the valor you do not.

"My other quarter sees your power too, but he hungers to coax the darkness, to bring out the cunning and desire for greatness," continued the hat. "You can either be loved or feared, but never both. What will it be?"

"Slytherin," said Harry with finality, struggling not to scream in pain. "Love will not frighten my enemies; love will not bring me safety. But fear…I know fear. I know it better than you, or anyone else. It is fear I seek, and you will give it to me."

"Very well…"

And then the Sorting Hat shouted.

The students and teachers watched in hushed silence.

At first, the boy sat perfectly still, the hat resting there unmoving. They waited. A minute, two minutes. The hat twitched, and so did the boy. He began to tremble. They could see the quake in his hands, which spread slowly to his knees and through all of his body. It was slight, and if they had not been watching so closely, they might have seen it.

Another minute passed, and then the hat stirred. The slit opened. A roar erupted.

"SLYTHERIN!"

Hermione almost jumped up and clapped, but it took her a second to realize what the hat had said.

Everyone in the Great Hall began to cheer, but they stopped as the single word sunk in.

Fred looked at George. George looked at Fred.

Katie Bell just pouted.

Severus Snape choked on his own tongue.

Dumbledore smiled, but the twinkle was gone from his eye.

Minerva McGonagall made no move to take the hat.

Ron shouted with glee and pumped his fists.

Draco Malfoy was as calm as ever.

Celestine Lestrange smirked.

Neville Longbottom had no idea what was happening.

And then some idiot jumped to his feet and shouted, "THE DARK LORD LIVES!"

That's when all hell broke loose. All but the Slytherin table leapt to their feet.

Rose Potter's hand had clamped down over her mouth, trying desperately to contain the horror that threatened to spill out. She'd read all the Daily Prophet articles but thought nothing of them. And suddenly, with a sinking feeling in her gut, she began to wonder whether they were true. Whether Rita Skeeter had seen the truth no one else could.

Her brother had survived a killing curse. A KILLING CURSE. Who knew what that had done to him?

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and she turned to find Damien crouched down behind her seat, shielded by the rows of students. He looked troubled and sad, almost as if his worst nightmare had come true.

"Are you sure that's our brother?" he asked.

Rose couldn't answer.

Author's Note: CLIFF HANGER. Not really, but still. Gimme dem reviews. Next chapter, Harry belly-dances for Dumbledore.