Professor McGonagall lowered the hat onto the boy's nervous head, where it came suddenly to life, mouth moving a mile a minute.

The boy was puzzled. Not moments before had he seen the hat sorting his peers-to-be without a moment's hesitation, yet here he sat, waiting rigidly as the hat mumbled to itself in an old voice, a human voice, which made the boy even more discomforted. He turned his head this way and that, as though even in the blindness the great size of the hat brought on him he hoped to find the voice.

It was after one particularly violent jerk of his head that the hat began to speak louder and the boy realized it was speaking to him. His mind raced as he struggled to catch the hat's one-sided conversation, and at last the words began to make sense. Yet the moment he caught on, he lost track, for the one word he heard was 'Slytherin.'

For a moment his mind went blank, yet the hat kept talking, so he shook his head and forced himself to listen again.

"...not the type for Ravenclaw, and not as friendly as the Hufflepuffs... and you are practically seething with potential..."

The boy felt his face pale as the words began to make sense. He opened his little lips and managed to choke out, "Not Slytherin!" Then again, stronger, he hissed, "Not Slytherin!"

"Why not, boy?" the hat questioned, and unbidden the conversation with the boy on the train came back to him. The hat cackled.

"'Dark arts?'" it quoted, and the boy squirmed at the garment's blatant invasion of his thoughts. "These 'dark arts' are only dark if you use them for such things, boy, as those who have previously chosen the wrong path have. But I can see in you, boy. Your resolve to do good is strong... and your potential for such power is stronger still!"

"Not Slytherin!"

"You belong there, boy, with others of your potential and your... dark past."

And then, as he parted his lips to speak his plea again, something happened to that the boy, young and strong minded, was not accustomed to. His voice did not sound, and his mouth remained ready but motionless in the quiet hall.

Harry Potter hesitated.

"Belong?"

The word passed his lips before he had even thought his question through, and the hat jumped at the opprotunity.

"Yes, my boy. For the Sons and Daughters of Slytherin would be rejected elsewhere, scorned, even. The ones with families are known by their ancestors; the ones without are suspected, mistrusted. The sad fate that has fallen on the house of Slytherin, to bear the burden brought on by the dark wizards it has raised, was not always its role in this caastle. Once Slytherins stood as proud defenders of justice, a house of judges, it was called. Yet now... You could restore the glory days, boy!"

Harry opened his mouth, yet closed it just as fast, unsure of what to say, and for a moment he imagined the hat as a little boy, grinning, holding a gun pointed straight at Harry's chest, ready to pull the trigger and seal Harry's fate.

How appropriate this picture was.

"You have no problem with it, then?"

Harry jumped. "No, wait-"

"SLYTHERIN!"

A single word, met by the most deafening sound the boy had heard yet.

Silence.

For a moment everything was still in the Great Hall of Hogwarts; then Professor McGonagall remembered to remove the hat.

The table on the far right of the room exploded with cheers, and all doubt in Harry's mind vanished. He smiled at the professor, suddenly blind to her shell-shocked appearance, and practically ran to join his new housemates, who grinned and thumbed him on the back with a force akin to that Dudley had used when he punched a hole through the telly. Somewhere down the line upperclassmen started the chant; "We got Potter, we got Potter!" and Harry was so impressed by the joy on the faces around them that he scarcely noticed the sullen faces of those seated at the tables behind him.

As the table quieted, someone leaned down the table and waved to get his attention. For a moment Harry couldn't tell who it was, then he recognized the boy from Diagon Alley and the Train, seated between his two porky-looking friends. Harry swallowed, still expecting some sever unpleasantness to come out of the house, but all Draco Malfoy said was "Congratulations, Potter." Harry blinked, but the blond boy gave him no time to respond as he leaned back into his seat. For a moment he regarded Harry with something of a smirk, but then he turned his attention back to the sorting and Harry did, too.

Finally Professor McGonagall took the hat from the stage, the final students sorted. Harry was disappointed to see his redheaded friend-Ron Weasley-head cheerfully to the Gryffendor table and seat himself beside the girl who had fixed his glasses. Harry let himself ignore the feeling, telling himself, "You belong here, in Slytherin." He focused instead on the man who had replaced the lady Professor on the stage; harry immediately recognized the face as he felt the pentagon card he held in his pocket.

"Good evening, again, students," said Professor Dumbledore as the hall fell once more into silence. "Good evening, and welcome to another fine year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"

Harry stared at the headmaster uncertainly, though around him the hall erupted into cheers and applause. He leaned towards the student ahead of him on the bench, and asked quietly; "A bit odd, isn't he?"

The first year turned around and grinned-and it was the first truly pleasant grin Harry had seen in his new house. "Are you kiding me? He's a genius! My brother's told me all about him-he's a Ravenclaw-my brother, I mean! Oh, but where are my manners?" he stuck out a hand warmly. "I'm Blaise Zabini! Wretched name, but mine none the less!"
Harry took the hand nervously, though cheered by the boy's friendliness. "I'm-"

"Harry Potter, yes! A pleasure to meet you! A bit surprised you're, well, in-well, we do get all the best! Just look at Merriweather-oh!"

Harry blinked at the boy, but quickly caught sight of what had Blaise exclaiming-and blinked again. The house tables were now lined with glistening dishes heaped with food.

"Sausages, Harry?" offered Blaise, who's own plate was already heaped with food.

Harry at last grinned and accepted the dish, forking a few onto his plate, and as he set the dish down he looked up to find the students all around him trying to pass him something different-"Peppermint Humbug, Harry?" asked one girl as he was tasting the pumpkin juice. He choked and barely avoided spewing the drink across Blaise's plate, then recovered himself and quickly rejected her offer. She shrugged. "Your loss. Creamed corn?"

This time Harry accepted the dish. "Thanks, er..."

"Pansy Parkinson. My family is quite important, you know-though I expect you wouldn't, would you, having been raised by muggles and all. "What's wrong with muggles?" Harry asked, surprised to find himself getting defensive. The boy from Diagon Alley, seated across from Pansy, stared at him.

"What's wrong with muggles?" he repeated. "What's wrong with-honestly, Potter, you don't know? I'd expect you-having experienced them first hand-"

"Well, having experienced them first hand, and now listening to you lot, I'd say there's not much difference from them and wizards, minus the magic."

"There's nothing 'wrong' with muggles," said another boy a few seats down. He was, from the looks of it, a prefect, like Ron's older brother was-though he looked even older than that. "There's nothing wrong with muggles, Potter, there's just nothing good about them either."

"My mum was muggle-born," Harry growled. The boy nodded.

"And I've heard she was an excellent witch-now don't you start, Malfoy, or else," he warned. "And a word of caution to you. Don't ever, ever insult Potter's mum or any other muggle-born around Professor Snape, Malfoy. Not only will you have to deal with him, but now that I've warned you, you'll have to deal with me."

"Adrian!" the girl on his other side exclaimed. "What have we told you about threatening the first years?"

Blaise leaned over to Harry as the older boy tuned away, hissing; "That's Adrian LaConner! I've heard bad things about him... he's gotten away with more torture of younger students-and some older, I've heard-I mean he's cursed more people than any other student at Hogwarts, and gotten away with it, too."

Harry swallowed and tried to ignore the feeling of dread that gripped his stomach. "And the girl-the girl next to him? Who's she?"

Blaise leaned forward, pretending to grab the peppermint humbug, to get a better look at her. As he returned to his seat, he had a knowing smile on his face. "Oh, that's Rose Hawthorne," he said as through it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I've met her a few times-her brother's also a Ravenclaw, friends with mine, you know. Rumor has it she's the only one who can keep LaConner in line! And she's only a third year! Her brother's always complaining about how she practically works for Professor Snape, though-her and LaConner..."

Harry quickly swallowed a mouthful of potatoes. "Who-who's Professor Snape?"

"Who-who's Snape?" Blaise chortled, and Harry saw Pansy snickering across the table.

"Who's Snape?" she repeated. "Honestly, Potter, don't you know anything about Hogwarts?"

"Not really," he said glumly, at last setting down his fork.

"Obviously not," the girl replied with a shrill laugh. "Who's Professor Snape? At least you're in Slytherin! You'll learn more here than in, say, Hufflepuff-more in a year here than you'd learn your whole time with them! Professor Snape is, of course, the Head of Slytherin, and he's the potion's master."

"Potion's master!" Harry said excitedly. Of all the book's he'd looked at in his month before leaving, the potion's book looked the most interesting. Harry turned to the High Table. "Well, which one is he?"

Pansy checked. "He's talking to the professor with the turban," she began, but harry had already found him.

He was pale, and his black attire matched his long, scraggly hair. His nose was hooked, completing the nefarious air that seemed to surround him. He was very intently talking to Professor Quirrell, and even from the distance Harry could see his eyes flicking repeatedly to the purple turban he had wrapped around his head.

"He, he doesn't look very nice," he muttered to Blaise. The boy grinned.

"Oh, he's not," he assured Harry, who couldn't understand why the boy looked so happy about that. "He's the reason I wanted to be in Slytherin, though-my parents have, er... worked with him before, and he's a genius! Mean as they come, Professor Snape, and a tongue like a whip. And he's after Quirrell's job, I hear-if only Professor Dumbledor would give it to him!" He shot the headmaster a wistful glance. "But no wonder he won't! Snape's got a lot to teach about the dark art's-maybe too much.

Harry glanced again at his new housemaster, and suddenly found himself locked in gaze with the sallow man.

"Ow!" His scar throbbed dangerously.

"What's that?" Blaise asked, turning back to Harry, who quickly pretended to be fixing his bangs.

"No-nothing. Look, desert!"

The food from dinner had vanished off the table, and the golden platters were once more glimmering as though they'd never been touched, and where the heaps of meats, potatoes, and vegitables had sat now rested piles of pastries, tarts, pies, cookies, puddings, and a good deal of other sweets Harry had never even heard of before. He helped himself to a generous slice of the nearest pie-he wasn't sure what it was, though Pansy had taken some too, exclaiming, "Ooh, charbury and creamed egg!" and despite the name he found it thoroughly delicious.

The blond boy from Diagon Alley-Malfoy, Harry recalled-suddenly jumped. The seat beside him, vacant as one of his thick-looking friends had left for the bathroom, was suddenly filled by a ghost. He was exactly the same color as Dumbledore's beard. Harry, fascinated, leaned closer to get a better look-and found himself examining the silvery blood splatterings and chains with great interest.

"Evening, Baron," said Adrian cheerfully, helping himself to some rice pudding. "Have a good summer?"

"The Bloody Baron!" Blaise hissed in Harry's ear. He was so excited Harry couldn't imagine how he was managing to stay in his seat.

"I heard that, Mister Zabini," said the ghost coldly. "And it's Sir Baron to you. I had an excellent summer, LaConner-if chasing Peeves through the castle on Filch's orders rather than spending a nice vacation relaxing is what you consider to be excellent."

"I see Professor Snape's been teaching you a thing or two about sarcasm," the boy laughed. The ghost shook his head ruefully.

"On the contrary. You'd do best to remember that I was around long before Professor Snape was even a thought.

Harry turned back to Blaise. "Who's Peeves?"

"Peevers the Poltergeist," he said proudly. "He plays pranks about the castle-wouldn't cross the Baron to save his live, though." He burst into laughter, apparently finding himself quite clever. Pansy rolled her eyes and began twirling her hair in agitation.

"How is it that you know so much about Hogwarts, anyways?" she asked grumpily, her expression sour.

"Like I said, my brother-"

But the boy was cut short as the remains of desert disappeared and Dumbledore got to his feet once more. "Now that we have all eaten our fill of our kitchen's very best, he began, the candle's from the enchanted ceiling making his eyes twinkle beyond his glasses, "I have a few announcements to make. No doubt with full bellies you're all tired, yes, tired, so I'll be brief."

He paused and gazed around the room, eyes landing on faces and flicking away just as quickly as they'd come. His gaze paused, for a moment, on Harry, and it seemed to rest there longer than the others-perhaps he's imagined it, for Dumbledore looked away and carried on without hesitation.

"First, a reminder from Mr. Filch to all students that the Forbidden Forest is, in fact, forbidden to all unaccompanied youths. Although it may seem like a nice place to hide when you've set off a dung bomb or stolen the keys to Mr. Filch's office, you'd be sorely mistaken."

His eyes flashed in the direction of the Gryffendor table, and Harry wondered if it was a house of trouble makers. Before he could ask Blaise about this idea, though, the headmaster spoke again.

"Some of the students that my previous warning applies to would also do well to remember that between classes, the corridors are for traveling to your next destination though-and not for using magic in. Mr. Filch will of course, be responsible for issuing punishment to those of you who wish to ignore this." A few students laughed, and Adrian yawned loudly, only to be elbowed in the gut by Rose, a scowl on her face.

"All students interesting in playing quiddich for their houses will be pleased to know that quiddich trials will be held next week, and anyone of age may be accepted onto their house teams. However, it may be wise to contact Madame Hooch about their chances of being able to dodge a bludger before attending trials.

"And finally, the third floor corridor on the right-hand side is strictly off-limits to all students. As all doors are locked anyways, I am sure you will have no trouble following this rule; however, if you wish to die slowly and painfully, I suppose it would be in your best interest to look into some unlocking spells."

Harry stared and again muttered to Blaise-"A bit odd, isn't he?"

Before he got an answer, however, Dumbledore spoke again, this time quite excitedly. He waved his wand, which he seemed to have conjured out of nowhere, and a golden ribbon streaked out of the end, twisting itself into words. Harry quickly cleaned his glasses and stained his neck to read the floating lines.

"Everyone pick a tune and we'll sing the school song!" Professor Dumbledore exclaimed. "Here we are, one, two-"

The school erupted before the headmaster had finished, and Harry looked around in amazement. Not two people in the whole hall were singing the same song, except a pair of flaming redheads that Harry recognized from the Station. "Fred and George, Harry murmured. "Ron's brothers. And he's sitting next to... Percy the Prefect." Looking around at the hall of singing students, Harry hoped briefly that he would never have to try to remember them all.

The last singers were, in fact, the Wesley twins, who seemed quite comfortable soloing in the eyes of nearly every person in the hall. Aside from himself, Harry noticed, the only person who didn't seem to be paying any attention was Professor Snape, who, with a sour look on his face, seemed to be glaring pointedly at Dumbledore, who was too busy conducting the twins with his wand to notice.

At last the funeral march version of the school anthem was over, and Harry was glad-his vision was bleary despite his freshly cleaned glasses. As he joined the school in thunderous applause, he stifled a yawn. It had, after all, been a terribly long day.

Professor Dumbledore waited for silence to fall again before raising his voice again. "And with that, we must call it a night! Prefects, please escort your first years to your common rooms and make sure they are situated before heading to bed yourselves! Goodnight!"