A/N: Happy Evil Author Day! So I found something in a file and thought I'd be evil and post it. Evil because this was a story that didn't get finished, so I decided to just end at a certain point and post it today.
There is a prologue and six chapters, which I've combined into two posts. My plan is to post this first part and then the second part later today.
In a time of international . . . disruption . . . I hope you can find some escape in fan fiction.
Prologue
31 July 1991
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. Their house was exactly like the others on their street. They had perfectly fine cars—not too posh, but not at all shabby—and Vernon Dursley worked at a normal, respectable job while his wife, Petunia, stayed home with their only son, Dudley.
And that other child they took care of: Harry James Potter, Petunia's only nephew.
It galled but, when Vernon got irritated, Petunia reminded him that they did receive a stipend that they had to account for in all particulars for her nephew. To do otherwise would bring in, alas, authorities. Which meant unwanted attention. Which meant abnormal. Which they didn't want at all.
Abnormalities brought on those . . . those freaks. They'd shunted the boy to the boot cupboard when he'd been dumped on their doorstep as if he were a milk bottle, with nary a "Will you please," in November of 1981. Stupid freaks. Horrible toddler. A woman had shown up after a week, however, to "check on him" and when that, that freak had found out . . . everything . . . she'd threatened them with exposure. And she'd made sure to tell them that there were provisions for the boy. And they'd better keep to them, or more freaks would arrive to . . . handle the matter. Damned freaks. Just like the ones that had taken Lily away. Petunia hated them for that. She didn't like Harry, either, but she had made do over the years.
. . .
The doorbell rang. A perfectly normal doorbell, thank you very much. No escalating chimes or anything showy. "Get the door, boy!"
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry called back. He pushed out a breath and finished wiping the breakfast dishes. His cousin Dudley was upstairs playing video games in his room and Petunia was already watching the telly. Of course they wouldn't consider answering the door.
When he did as ordered, he saw a woman that he had never before seen in his life. "Hello?"
She wasn't very tall, but she was quite, er, round. A bit like Aunt Marge, but her face was a smiling face. The kind of face one trusted instinctively, but Harry didn't really trust anyone instinctively, so he merely smiled politely until she said something.
She smoothed a hand down her skirt. It was a long, green skirt and it matched the collar of her top. "Hello! You're Harry Potter, aren't you? Why, I'd know you anywhere. Your eyes are just like your mother's. Indeed they are."
Inwardly floored by the mention of his mother, Harry nevertheless managed to ask, "Who are you?"
Her face sort of exploded in an even larger, surprised smile. "Oh! Pardon me, yes. Here," she said, producing a letter from . . . somewhere. "I'm Pomona Sprout, Professor and, er," she went on, lowering her otherwise happy voice, "we should discuss the rest of this indoors."
He wasn't letting anyone indoors without permission. "Aunt Petunia?"
His aunt, irritation fairly vibrating from her entire body, appeared. "Yes?"
"Oh, hello! I'm Pomona Sprout, from, er, the school your sister went to?"
Harry saw his aunt's cheeks go sheet white. "Get in the house. I can't have anyone see you."
The newcomer's face lost its smile but she hurried in nevertheless. "Why, of course. So, I'm here to give Mr. Potter his letter and an introduction to Wizarding Britain."
Aunt Petunia gave a loud sniff before turning on her heel and returning to her television show. "Fine," she said. "Bring him home before dark."
Harry finally found his words. "Who are you and where did you think to take me and what letter?"
She stared into his eyes for a full minute—he counted—before saying, quite seriously. "Harry Potter. Do you know who you are?"
He blushed but tried to answer. "Erm. I'm Harry Potter. I'm, erm, the son of James and Lily Potter, but I don't know who they are, either. Except they're dead, so I'm an orphan."
The lady smiled gently into his eyes and he was reminded of his first impression of her. "Have you ever done anything…unusual?"
Fear struck him in his chest, but she seemed happy when she asked, so he answered. "Y-yes…?"
Her smile grew, and her bright eyes twinkled. "Why, you're a wizard, Harry Potter. Just like your father. Open your letter, and I'll take you to a marvelous place and introduce you to someone who knew your mother for many years."
A wizard? Someone who knew my mother? What?
He turned to find his Aunt Petunia, forgetting to excuse himself from the Mrs. Sprout person in the foyer. "Aunt Petunia?"
"Oh, just go, boy."
He went, that letter—written on actual parchment!—clutched in his hand like it was his only link to home.
When he returned—before dark—he felt like he was an entirely different person, and he still had that link.
. . .
Half a world away…
Dr. and Dr. Granger had no address in England. They had only one child—a precocious daughter they had named Hermione, after the daughter of Helen and Menelaus of Greek legend, since their first names were Helen and . . . Troy. A fact that had amused them in university and continued to amuse others as they had traveled with Doctors Without Borders for the past eighteen years—ever since the organization first began helping others in Nicaragua, then all over the world.
The Grangers were so well regarded that even when Helen fell pregnant—against most medical advice—they were encouraged to stay and continue their good work in the developing field of maxillofacial surgery. They gave birth to their little girl and brought her with them everywhere.
"Your daughter seems quite intelligent," many people from many cultures had told them.
Troy nodded. "Thank you. We do our best."
Helen would watch Hermione learn how best to say, "Rest, and make sure to only eat soft food," in whatever language was prominent at their posting. She'd been doing so since she was three years old.
"I'm grateful we have the opportunity to educate her at home," Helen said on more than one occasion. "She'd likely be bored in a traditional school."
"She does very well in our school," community leaders had protested, laughing.
It was true. Hermione attended some schools everywhere they went, if such were available. When they weren't, she was educated by her parents, who answered every one of her myriad questions about languages, cultures, the sciences, and how to tie her shoes.
But there was one major area of their daughter's life that they had no answers for.
Giggling baby Hermione clutching at her favorite blanket—a gift from a local mother—in Burundi. She loved it. It had been folded on a chair across the room, but it was somehow in Hermione's pudgy hands, though she was not even walking yet.
Angry toddler Hermione demanding to follow a flock of chickens stomped her foot and the door of their flat cracked in two for no discernible reason.
Mourning eight-year-old Hermione when a friend in Cambodia died. Her grief caused the air to change around her, frightening her parents when they couldn't reach through an invisible barrier to their own daughter.
"Mum? Dad? What's wrong with me?" Hermione whispered, staring at her face in the mirror. She was ten and her front teeth had transformed right before her eyes. Her own reflection told her it was true.
Helen overcame her sense of fear and wrapped her arms around her daughter. "I don't know, sweetheart. I really don't know."
Hermione from that point on had endeavored to keep careful record of what she called "wishes and wants" that she had. Some of her wishes and wants changed things around her; some did not. She didn't know why there were differences, when there seemed to be no consistent pattern to the . . . events. When her parents mentioned taking a sabbatical in England for the first time in Hermione's memory, she thought it would be quite beneficial.
"Perhaps I can find the biggest library in London, Mum, and research why I can make things happen. Maybe it's a psychic ability."
"Or maybe you're a superhero," her father teased, referring to Hermione's recent obsession with Marvel Comics' Doctor Strange.
"Daddy! Do be serious!"
They were staying in the St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel, as a gift from wealthy friends of the Doctors Granger. Troy had obtained reading passes to The British Library, though their first day's foray thence had not produced results which fit all of Hermione's requirements.
She was pouting about it as she stared out the window at London.
"It's too early to give up the search, Hermione," her mother said calmly.
"But, Mum! We only have a week!" She returned to staring out the window from the bedroom of the suite, musing about what search parameters she could employ the next day.
Until her father called to her from the sitting area of their room. "Hermione! We have a guest!"
Prepared to meet with anyone, Hermione ordered her mind and joined them.
There was a woman, there, dressed in a faded tweed suit. She appeared to be in her fifties, rather like Hermione's mum, and had dark hair and green eyes. She also appeared to be English from the top of her head to the bottom of rather pointy shoes.
"Miss Granger?" the woman began, with a Scots accent lacing each consonant. "I am Professor Minerva McGonagall." She presented Hermione with an envelope that was clearly made from parchment paper.
Hermione Granger
Chambers Wing, Suite 180
St. Pancras Hotel
London
"Dad? Mum? What is this about?"
The woman didn't wait for her parents to answer. She simply snapped her wrist to produce a carved stick. "Well, Miss Granger, you're a witch. You're magical."
Hermione didn't think she'd be able to erase that from her memory even if she chose not to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, which is what she told the professor hours later.
"I guess I don't need to go back to the library for research," she said as her parents sat in silent communication at bedtime.
"No . . . but . . . a school of witchcraft and wizardry?"
It seemed so.
Chapter One
The Train
1 September 1991
"And good riddance," Harry Potter mumbled as his Aunt Petunia's heels click-clacked back to the car park after she'd dropped him off at Kings Cross Station.
"We neither want nor expect to see you until summer hols, boy, so wherever you spend Christmas is up to you, understand. I won't have any of those ridiculous owls at my house, either, so if you can't send me a note by post like any normal person, you can just phone when your train arrives at the end of the year."
"Yes, Aunt Petunia," Harry had barely managed to say before she left him alone on the platform.
Fortunately, he knew what to do. Professor Sprout and Professor Snape had both seen to that.
Professor Severus Snape—a lean, dank fellow with a frankly enormous nose that Harry had met on the day he got his Hogwarts letter—had at least seen him outfitted properly. The man had actually known his mum, though it seemed as if Professor Sprout had had to pull each word about Mum from him like it was stuck on something.
"We were neighbors and attended Hogwarts together," he had said in that flat, hard voice of his. "As you are also your father's son, I fear her genius will be diluted in you."
"Severus!" the other professor cried. She'd made that sound often during Harry's Wizard Orientation Day. At least until she'd had to leave him alone with Severus Snape.
Wizard. I'm a wizard. That's still so weird.
Professor Snape had rhymed off manners and expected conduct as well as how to dress and what to bring on the train to go to Hogwarts. It was as if Harry were a burden, a smelly, stinky pile that the professor wished to have done with. However, as Harry had spent his entire life—that he could remember, anyway—being treated basically just that way, it didn't bother him overmuch.
And finally, he'd be on the train he'd heard about but not yet seen. His heart pounded as he located the proper place. There were families milling about; it was quite early for the train, which was fine. But what if he had the wrong date?
He frowned at his trunk and decided to try anyway. If he was wrong, at least he'd be on the magic side of the platform—he'd seen it for himself—and he'd find someone who could help him.
Remembering how the professor had shown him through, Harry blew out a breath, waited until it seemed safe, and strode right to the place that he'd been told was Platform 9 3/4. Among the people moving about, he recognized someone. "Professor!" he called, remembering only at the very last instant that he should be careful about names and such when on the "normal" side of Kings Cross. "What are you doing here?" he asked her quietly, holding tight to the trolley that held his trunk.
"Station duty, Mr. Potter. It was Professor Snape's turn on the rota, but we made a change. So, you are ready for today?"
"Yes, ma'am."
The professor smiled and rolled up on her toes a bit. "Safe to go now, Mr. Potter. Off with you!" She tugged on his arm just a bit and he went to the wall and straight through.
It still surprised him!
The magical side of Platform 9 3/4 was an entirely different place. He'd asked the professors, on his orientation day, how they managed to have a place that was the same yet so different, when no one else knew about it. There were quite a lot of people and he took a breath to get his bearings. Some of them were clearly used to being here and they had friends they met up with. Others lingered with adults—Harry presumed they were parents—looking a bit uneasy, or excited. Harry felt all those emotions as well.
But he had no one to share them with, and that struck him with a sharp ache in his chest. He decided to get on the train and find a place that he could make his own, if only for a while. Just as he was nearing one of the carriages, he was approached by a family of light-haired people who were all dressed quite well, he thought.
"Pardon me, but are you Harry Potter?" the adult male of the family inquired. His voice was that rich, monied, London sort that made Harry feel underdressed and ignorant.
Still he faced the man and nodded, recalling that everyone seemed to have known him when he'd been taken shopping in Diagon Alley. Remembering the manners he'd been taught, he extended his hand. "Yes, sir, I am. And you are . . . ?"
"Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy, Mr. Potter. Pleased to make your acquaintance." They shook hands briefly, and Harry held quite still, not sure what to make of this man. Around them, there was still a lot of greeting and talking, but at that moment, he felt all alone with the three in front of him. "May I present my wife and son? This is Narcissa Malfoy, and this is my son, Draco."
Harry nodded and looked to Draco Malfoy. "Hello."
"Hello."
Mrs. Malfoy smiled and nodded. "Mr. Potter. It is good to see you looking so well. May we assist you in boarding? Perhaps you might ride with Draco, as you are both in your first year?"
Harry thanked the lady and looked to the boy once again. "If you'd like?"
Draco Malfoy extended his hand and they shook on it. He was about Harry's own height, with pale blond hair that was slicked back as if he'd used a lot of what the adverts on the telly called product. "Yes, actually. I've been wanting to meet you," Draco Malfoy said before darting a quick glance at his father, who inclined his head. "Come on, then! We'll get a good compartment before everyone takes them all," Draco added, sounding pleased.
Never having ridden on a train of any sort, Harry just followed, glad when the Malfoy parents helped them in with their trunks as well as seeing to it they got a compartment in the second carriage. The Malfoys seemed very formal in their goodbyes, but Harry could see clear affection in their expressions, which led him to imagine Draco had a happy home, anyway.
The Wizarding world had to be better than Privet Drive!
"So, Potter," Draco Malfoy began, sitting in his seat across from Harry. "Where do you think you'll get sorted?"
Sorted. House sortings, right. "Well, I read about the Houses, you know…"
"Read about them? Didn't anyone tell you where you parents were sorted?" Then, the other boy winced a bit. "Sorry, Potter. I only meant—" He seemed at a loss. "Er. Right, then."
Uncomfortable and wanting to shift the focus from himself, Harry asked, "What about you, Malfoy?" If surnames were what was used, he'd use them. "What House for you?"
"Slytherin," the other boy said with a tilt of his head. "Malfoys are always in Slytherin."
"So it's a family thing?" Harry asked.
Malfoy appeared to think about it. "Well, usually. But sometimes, of course, one's parents are from different Houses. But both of mine were Slytherins. I'll be one, too. The Potters—your father's people—were usually Gryffindors, if that helps."
"Home of the courageous? And Slytherin is…"
Malfoy smirked. "Cunning and ambitious."
"Are you?" Harry asked, thinking Malfoy likely was.
"It's expected of me." Malfoy shrugged. "So, there's other Houses, and I wouldn't mind Ravenclaw, as they're considered to be the most clever. Hufflepuff's for losers, though, Potter. Try not to get sent there!"
Losers, to Harry, translated as underdogs. Victims. Those he naturally sympathized with due to years of being shunted aside at the Dursleys and bullied at school. He resolved to keep his opinion about Hufflepuff to himself.
While the boys were getting acquainted, Harry became aware of the increasing volume of noise in the train. He jerked his thumb toward the corridor. "Sounds like everyone's getting here."
"Some families aren't as . . . prompt . . . as ours," Malfoy stated with a definitive nod that had marked much of their conversation. "Which reminds me, Potter. No one knows where you've been living since, you know . . . your parents . . ."
His relatives had told him his parents had died in a drunk-driving accident, which was a complete lie, he'd found out. He'd since learned that he'd been housed with his mother's sister for his protection from evil wizards; so Professor Snape had said. Harry decided to play it safe when he answered Malfoy.
"Do you know Professor Snape?" he asked, since Malfoy's family was clearly established in Wizarding Britain.
Malfoy's pale blue eyes widened. "You've been with him? He never said, and he's my godfather!"
Harry opened his mouth to correct him, but they were interrupted by a young, ginger boy with big blue eyes and a long nose. "Oy!" the boy said, his expression scrunching in obvious distaste. "Malfoy. I'm lookin' for Potter. Harry Potter."
Malfoy stood. "Why?"
Harry decided to follow Malfoy's manners, since this was a world he wasn't familiar with. The professors had emphasized the need for him to understand that the magical world was very different from where he'd grown up. They'd been astonished to find he'd been left with a non-magical family, relatives or no.
The newcomer's gaze flickered to him and away. Then back. And his jaw dropped open as if it became unhinged. "Oi! You're Harry Potter! The Boy-Who-Lived!"
Harry felt every muscle in his body stiffen. He'd heard that moniker repeatedly in Diagon Alley, and it hurt every time. He'd had enough. "Stop it. That's like saying, 'You're the bloke with dead parents.' D'you want to be called that? Do you?"
"Blimey, it is you," the other boy whispered, apparently not having heard a thing Harry had said. "I'm Ron Weasley. My mum said you'd be on the train, this year. I'm sittin' with my brothers, if you want to come over." He gave Malfoy a really obvious side-eye. "You don't want to get stuck with Malfoy, mate. He's gonna be in Slytherin. They're all dark wizards," he added, as if he were talking about, say, Jack the Ripper.
Malfoy rolled his eyes and sat back stiffly on his side of the compartment and just looked at Harry. It felt, for a moment, like a dare. And then it felt like something really, really important. As if he were being, well, Sorted. Right at that moment. Weasley or Malfoy.
Is this really like the Sorting? he wondered. Like being chosen to be in Slytherin or Hufflepuff? He discounted Gryffindor entirely, as he had never felt particularly courageous. And Ravenclaw? He wasn't that smart, really. He did all right, but not a genius or anything.
All of these notions went through his mind in a moment. He sat down where he'd been before. "I'm all right here, Weasley. Thanks." He saw Malfoy's posture relax just a bit. "I don't suppose you want to hang out with the Boy Whose Parents Were Killed and Jack the Ripper, so, you know, you can sit with your brothers."
"Wait, I did not call you that, and who the bloody hell is Jack the Ripper?"
Malfoy snorted. "As if you care. Go on, Weasley. We'll see you at the Sorting."
"Where I'll be in Gryffindor! Like Harry Potter!"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Not if I have a choice," he muttered.
Then, the train's whistle blew and Weasley dashed, frowning, from their compartment.
"Boy Whose Parents Were Killed, Potter?"
Harry blushed, feeling guilty but not apologizing. "I heard that other name so often. I hate it. I hate what it means. You call me Potter. That's who I am and it's good enough. Maybe," he reflected as the train made a slight lurch in preparation for leaving, "someday, I'll have a name for something I remember doing, yeah?"
Malfoy snorted. "Boy Who Told Off Weasley!"
"Well, it's a start!"
"And who or what is Jack the Ripper?"
The boys chuckled together and Harry secretly wondered if anyone else would join them in their compartment. He wasn't sure if he hoped someone would or if they wouldn't. So long as it wasn't a Weasley, it might be okay.
. . .
"Well, hello, young lady. Can I help you? I'm Professor Pomona Sprout."
Hermione knew she could get through to the "other" side of the Kings Cross platform but she was a tiny bit concerned she'd miss it by enough to knock herself senseless. She watched a series of people dart furtively through the wall, though, and thought she had it, once her parents had left her. That the heavyset, smiling woman named herself banished most of Hermione's worries that she'd do it improperly, however. Professor McGonagall had, at Hermione's admittedly relentless interrogation, given her the names of every professor she'd have that year.
"Professor Sprout, yes," she answered quietly. "I was trying to remember exactly where to go, you see."
The older witch nodded and smiled. "Yes, dear. That's one reason I'm here. Lovely owl you have, there."
"His name's Homer. Thank you!"
"Might consider telling him to go to Hogwarts, dear. He'll find it sooner with the others," the professor went on. "There's usually quite a parliament of owls on their way, today."
Hermione felt her eyes go wide. "Of course, there would be. I'll, er, make that happen on the other side, then."
"Excellent choice, Miss…?"
"Granger, Professor. Hermione Granger."
"Right, then, Miss Granger. Aannnd, it's clear. Off you go!"
"Oh! Thank you!"
Bracing Homer's cage on top of her new school trunk on the trolley, Hermione took a quick breath and pushed right through the brick wall, all by herself.
That. Was. Amazing.
"Well, Homer?" she asked, opening the handsome, squared-off cage. "Can you make it to Hogwarts, do you think?" She had owl treats in her skirt pocket, to bribe the owl to behave, so she presented him with a nibble. "Hogwarts?"
Homer chattered his beak at her before taking the treat and launched into the sky. Feeling both nervous and proud, she watched as Homer found two other owls heading north, so she hoped he'd fallen in with good company.
Would she?
Lines of students were at the different carriages of the brilliantly red Hogwarts Express. Hermione—always preferring the front of the room to the back—tried to get in the first carriage but was told by a robed student—who introduced herself as the Head Girl, Gemma Farley—that that was the Prefects' carriage and she would have to choose another.
Mortified, she did so, slipping to the end of the line for the next carriage. There, a boy perhaps a year or so older than she was, helped her with her trunk and told her the procedure. "Just look for an open compartment with an empty seat in it, right?" He studied her face for a moment. "Muggle-born?"
"Yes?" She didn't know why that mattered.
The dark-haired boy nodded once. "Don't let anyone give you Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean."
She repeated the name soundlessly. "I'll try. Thank you."
Then, dragging her trunk behind her, she went about trying to find a place to sit for the long ride to Scotland. The whistle blew and the corridor was still thick with students—mostly older ones—and she had a hard time making her way through. One compartment was filled with boys with red hair; she bypassed that one immediately. The train started to move and there was a general scattering of students, then, so she had better luck pushing forward. She found another compartment and it had girls who looked about her own age. She paused, about to ask if there was room for her, but one of them did something with her wand and the door closed in Hermione's face.
Dismayed and hurt, Hermione plucked up her courage and tried again, two compartments down. There were only boys in that one, as well, but . . . there was room . . .
"Hello?" She did her best to be polite. Professor McGonagall had stressed that manners were important, and Hermione did not want to offend anyone in a new culture. "I just got on the train. Might I join you gentlemen, since we're pulling out of the station? My name is Hermione Granger."
The boys both got to their feet. There was a blond boy and a black-haired boy. They hadn't spoken yet and she dropped a nervous curtsy that she had practiced in her room the night before. Just in case it was part of the culture she should have remembered at first.
The boy with the dark hair had arresting green eyes that went wide when she curtsied. "Hello. I'm Harry. This is Draco Malfoy."
The Malfoy boy stared at her before bobbing his head in what might have been acknowledgment; he never said a word. Harry, though, nodded and said, "We've got room. Come in."
Relieved, she thanked them both, remembering to make eye contact, and dragged her trunk in with her. The boys both helped her get it set up and then they took the bench seat across from her. "Well, thank you ever so," she began, wanting to try to have a conversation and be polite. "Are you both starting at Hogwarts this year, too, or are you returning?"
The green-eyed boy exchanged a smile with the other one. "We're starting. We were talking about getting sorted, earlier."
She pressed her lips together to choose her words carefully. "I read Hogwarts, a History," she began, struggling so hard not to get all the words out all at once. "And though they mentioned the Houses, there wasn't a clear idea as to how students got placed in them. Do you know?" she asked the still-silent boy with the slicked-back hair.
He seemed irritated that she asked him but she held her impatience behind her teeth and waited while the other boy huffed and looked at the blond boy oddly.
Then, at last, the blond boy spoke, in an accent that told Hermione he thought he was the bee's knees. "It is tradition, at Hogwarts, for the incoming first year students to be surprised by how the Sorting happens."
This time, Hermione could hear the capital S in Sorting, so she made a mental note to keep it there. "So we're not supposed to know how to be Sorted until we get there?"
"That is tradition."
"But what if there are things we have to know, like an entrance exam? What if—?" Anxiety flooded her body and it was all she could do not to get up and try to pace in the small train compartment.
Harry laughed a little. "Don't be so upset, Granger. I think it's just a game, you know? So we can have something to look forward to."
She thought on that. "Like, like Christmas? Or birthdays?"
The Malfoy boy nodded abruptly, as if he were reluctant to acknowledge she came up with an appropriate simile. Harry, though, frowned and glanced out the window. "Like Christmas," he said softly.
He doesn't have good Christmas thoughts, she surmised, staring at him for a moment. It would be rude of her to say so, though, so she tried to talk to the other boy again.
"Professor McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress, came to see me and we have met more than once since she told me I was a witch. I have the feeling though, Mr. Malfoy, that you have always known you're a wizard."
"Yes. My family has always had magic. Unlike some families," he added, sighing and not meeting her eyes.
She sighed as well and tried again with Harry. "Did someone come visit you to tell you you were a wizard, Harry?"
He jerked his head around to look at her. "Yes, actually. Did you see Professor Sprout at the station?"
"I did! She was ever so helpful."
"She gave me my Hogwarts letter."
"Oh! How lovely! I am so looking forward to using the textbooks in lessons. I've read them all, and I can't wait to use my wand to try some of the spells."
"What kind of wand do you have, Granger?" Harry asked, moving to find his in his trunk.
This caught Malfoy's attention and, at last, the three children managed to find topics of conversation that lasted until a lady with a trolley filled with sweets arrived. Hermione discovered she was the only one of them who had an owl for her own use. Draco Malfoy seemed ever so slightly impressed that she'd sent him on ahead to school to wait for her there. Harry didn't have an owl at all. She promised he could use hers if he wanted, though. The Malfoys had a family owl and Draco boasted that his mum would have sent him a letter already, so he could use the owl to send back word of his sorting.
The conversation continued all the way to Scotland. It wasn't until later that Hermione realized she hadn't learnt Harry's last name.
But she would.
Chapter Two
Black Lake
1 September 1991
Still grimacing after finding out that Bertie Botts beans really did have every flavor, even the most disgusting ones, Harry was rinsing his mouth out with newly discovered gillywater when the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade Station as darkness was falling over Scotland.
Malfoy had mentioned getting into their uniforms and had hinted that Granger ought to take hers to the lavatory to change, but she just eyed Malfoy with confusion brimming in her brown eyes. "Is that how it's done, then? Will you both do the same?"
"It's tradition to just wear the robes, yes," Malfoy said, his tone flat.
Harry shrugged. "I didn't know that was the way it is, either."
"Well, if that is the tradition, I'll remember when we get to Hogwarts. Thank you for telling me. I think the robes will cover my clothes, though, so I hope I won't stand out too much on the way there."
She shook out a set of black robes and put them on over her skirt and top. Harry could still see her tights and shoes, but that seemed like what he had seen everywhere in Diagon Alley. He thought back to what Professor Snape had told him about robes, but Granger's way still made sense. He followed her example and Malfoy just stared at both of them.
"Fine," the boy huffed at last. "I suppose it won't hurt. But it's not traditional," he said again. Harry heard the edge in his voice.
Granger didn't seem to. She perked up a bit while tucking stray strands of hair back into the braid that she wore. Her hair was brown and—judging by the stray parts—a bit wild. She eyed Malfoy eagerly. "I am eager to learn all about the traditions of the Wizarding World," she said, her breath seeming to come fast as she spoke. "I've lived in many places all over the world, but never with magic. There's so much to learn."
Malfoy seemed to gawk at her. Harry couldn't quite figure the other boy out. Malfoy said, "It's what I've always known. I can't imagine not living with magic."
"Oh, I'm sure!" Granger gushed, hands busy as she straightened sleeves and fluffed out her robes and checked her shoes. "Sorry," she added after a moment, her eyes shifting from one to the other of them. "I guess I…talk quite a lot and I always have questions. I used to make my mum go spare."
Malfoy shrugged one shoulder. "My mother's never said she was ever concerned about my speech."
"What about you, Harry?" Granger asked.
She doesn't know. Harry couldn't find it in himself to be insulted because she wasn't trying to be mean; he could tell she really didn't know. "My parents…are dead, Granger."
She blushed a bright pink color and her eyes went round and immediately wet with tears. "I'm so sorry! I didn't know, I swear. That's so hard, and you're going to school and—" She took a half step toward them, hand outstretched. "You're very brave."
Harry heard an older, nearly adult voice, start calling in the corridor: "All right, everyone off the Express. Firsties, leave your trunks on board; they'll be seen to. Everyone, off the Express!" This was accompanied by knocks on the walls and doors. "Off the Express!"
"What do we do now?" Granger whispered.
Malfoy cleared his throat. "Well, we get off the train, Granger. My father said that first year students get a special ride to the castle proper." The blond boy stood a bit more stiffly at the mention of his father, Harry noticed. "I'm sure he was being truthful with me."
Granger nodded slowly. "Of course. Well, then…" She looked at them expectantly.
Malfoy rolled his eyes and some of the stiffness left him. "Ladies first, Granger."
Her cheeks grew pink once again. "But I don't know…"
"This is so ridiculous," Harry muttered, pushing past both of them and stepping into the flowing stream of robed students. "Let's just go!"
He hadn't gone more than three steps, hoping that Malfoy and Granger were following, when he started to hear the whispers and remarks and even some gasps of shock. "Potter."
"It's Potter."
"Harry Potter!"
"It's the Boy-Who-Lived!"
"It's Potter, he's here."
Harry clenched his jaw and wondered if what he'd said to Weasley could be said to all of them. He hated the label. He hated that he was apparently a celebrity or something…for not dying.
Professor Sprout had, with a sad smile, explained why everyone had been so awe-struck to see him on Diagon Alley. "It's in our history books, Mr. Potter. You-Know-Who—"
"Who?" Harry had demanded to know. He tossed aside being polite to a teacher at that point; he'd been so upset at his apparent notoriety. "What's his name?"
At that, Professor Sprout had gone a bit pale before inhaling and urging him to a nook just past a shop with what looked like cauldrons—actual cauldrons!—in the window. "He calls himself Lord Voldemort," she admitted in a quiet voice. "But no one says the name."
"Why not? In the non-magical world, sometimes serial killers have names like Jack the Ripper or something, but that's not their real name and everyone knows it. What's Lord Voldemort's real name?"
The professor shook her head. "No one knows, lad. But he had a group of people that supported him and they were intent on . . . oh, it's very complicated to talk about now. I'll make sure you get a book at Flourish and Blotts that talks all about it, all right?" He nodded and she continued, though Professor Snape stepped away to the Apothecary. "But your parents, wonderful people, they were. So bright! So clever! They were Head Boy and Head Girl in their final year at Hogwarts, too. Just delightful." Her eyes had teared up and that, more than anything else, had struck him like someone was squeezing his heart out. It was painful and he'd felt his own eyes sting as well. Professor Sprout sniffed a bit and continued. "They fought against You-Know-Who more than once, but he finally cornered them. They were betrayed, lad. By a friend. And, and You-Know-Who killed them. And he tried to kill you," she added flicking her gaze to his forehead. "Headmaster Albus Dumbledore said you'd been left with a scar, which is unheard of when someone has been hit with the Killing Curse."
She hadn't said any more and it had taken all Harry had not to rub at the irritating scar on his forehead at that moment. "And that's why they were all talking about me, back at that pub?"
"Yes, Mr. Potter. I'm afraid so."
Well, he didn't like it and he didn't want to hear that again. As he was getting off the train, he stopped on the steps, so he could see out over the throng of students moving in a slow herd on the walk, under what looked to be gas lamps like in a film. He felt Granger and Malfoy all but stumble to a halt behind him but he held on to the railing at the side of the carriage door and waited until someone said that awful name again, because he knew the light shone on his face. But he wanted this over and done.
It didn't take more than a minute. "See? I told you the Boy-Who-Lived was on the train!" It was Weasley, and he hadn't stopped using that name.
A sort of desperate need and building anger exploded in Harry's mind at that point. "I am not that person!" Behind him, Granger muttered something but Malfoy hushed her and Harry was relieved. "It's like I said to Weasley already, that's like saying The Boy Whose Parents Were Killed. I'm Harry Potter. Yes. Don't call me that other name. It's…not good. Not welcome."
"Oi. Potter, come on down and get on the boat, now," an older boy shouted. He was tall and had broad shoulders, and he wore a badge on his robes. "Hagrid's coming!"
A rough but friendly voice boomed out just as Harry reached his limit of being the "leader" in their little, three-person group. "Right, then! First years! This way, please! Come on, now, don't be shy! Come on now, hurry up!" He smiled to hear the rustic accent; it felt like a part of all that he had seen since learning he was a wizard. Which was still quite weird.
"Look, he's so…so tall!" Granger whispered.
Malfoy snorted. "Oi. That's Hagrid. He's the gamekeeper at Hogwarts."
"How'd you know?" Granger asked before Harry could.
"My father's on the Board of Directors for the school." Malfoy caught his eye and nodded. "I've heard a lot."
"But not how we're Sorted," Granger retorted. Malfoy looked like he'd say something right back and Harry didn't know how he would manage not to get in the middle of that kind of thing, but Granger shook her head. "I know. Tradition. Oh, look! Boats!"
. . .
Hermione was still rather in shock that the Harry she'd been getting to know on the train was actually Harry Potter. The most famous Harry in the Wizarding World, according to everything she'd read in the books she'd purchased from Flourish and Blotts. Professor McGonagall had muttered something under her breath about "Ravenclaw" during one of their teas that Hermione had requested over the summer, as well.
Well, clearly he didn't wish to be called by a rude epithet, so she did her best to bury the Boy-Who-Lived label deep under a rock in her head.
Besides, there was a lot more to the moment than Harry Potter telling everyone off. There was a big lake, Black Lake the one boy said. He must have been Head Boy for his badge looked like the one Gemma Farley had worn and she was Head Girl.
They were all gathered near the shore and the big man, Hagrid the Gamekeeper, was ushering them to board. "Four to a boat," she heard him say.
"There's only three of us," she whispered.
"We can count, Granger," Malfoy shot back. Harry was studying the boats but found one he liked. They all had lanterns on posts in the middle, but Hermione was still a bit leery of getting into a boat on a lake in the dark…without her parents.
Perhaps this was a test, a test that all children had to take to go to Hogwarts. All of them sounded nervous. She had read that there were classes, castes in the Wizarding World. It was, as her mother had reminded her, a different culture. She guessed that Draco Malfoy was what her parents might have termed "old money". He had background. An elite lineage, perhaps. So he might be a pure-blood. Harry Potter was, as the 20th Century Magical History text she'd read indicated, a half-blood. Which made no sense to her as his mother and father had both been magical, so why wasn't he a pure-blood? She herself would be called a Muggle-born. She didn't like the sound of it and her parents hadn't been pleased at the term, either.
Maybe she could find a better one? She'd have to be quite clever, though.
"Granger, c'mon," Harry was saying. He pulled on the sleeve of her plain black robe and she followed.
The three of them went to a boat, and she could hear the water lapping along the sides of it, the whispers of the other first years, and the occasional muted cry of dismay as someone lost their footing. She couldn't go in first. She wanted to, but she couldn't.
Malfoy made some sort of sound under his breath before saying, "Fine." He balanced and then gracefully lowered himself to sit in the prow of the little craft. Harry smiled at the other boy and then up at her before following Malfoy in.
"C'mon, Granger."
Hermione nodded and held her breath as she went to step to the boat but a toad jumped right in front of her and she slipped and nearly fell.
"Ai!" she squeaked, trying hard not to scream as she lost footing on the moist soil of the shoreline.
"Sorry, sorry!" A heavy hand caught hers, preventing her from falling. "Sorry. That's Trevor, my familiar. He's been escaping all day. Sorry!"
Hermione felt herself blush as she tried to get comfortable on the ground again. "Thank you. And it's fine. Everything's fine."
"Except that we have to go," Malfoy reminded them.
Hermione extricated her hand and curtsied. "Hermione Granger."
The new boy, who had blond hair, was just securing the toad in a pocket of his robes. "Neville Longbottom."
"We've got to go," Malfoy said again, sounding—with reason—irritated. "Longbottom, get in."
"Come on," Hermione said. She tried again, relieved when Harry scooted over to lend his hand for balance, though he was sitting himself.
Neville Longbottom followed her and the four of them breathed a sigh of relief when their boat finally pushed from the shore, following the gathering of other boats and their lanterns. Only two or three were still to follow and Hermione apologized to the boys in their boat.
Harry, who was seated in the front near Malfoy, smiled a little. "No worries. No one fell in, yeah?"
"Right!"
Neville cleared his throat. "You're Hermione Granger, you said."
Remembering her manners, she lined up etiquette lessons in her mind. "Yes, thank you. And up front is Draco Malfoy. And the boy who helped me in is Harry Potter," she said, pretending that Neville didn't know who he was, because Harry didn't want everyone to call him that horrid name. "Malfoy, Harry, this is Neville Longbottom."
They all turned properly to face in the direction they were heading as a group, then, and Hermione was surprised to find that she didn't even want to speak at that moment. It was so…well…magical. Whispers drifted over the water, carrying soft sounds of awe, and Hermione's heart felt the same. There was an arch and Hagrid's voice reminded them to watch their heads. Which was a bit funny, as none of them were anywhere near tall enough to have to worry about that. But he was, so he warned them.
And then, all amusement was gone with a gasp of amazement. "Hogwarts!" the whispers assured her.
Hogwarts. Hermione had read Hogwarts, a History, of course. Twice over. But nothing prepared her for the sheer impact the ancient castle made. Especially at night with the windows alight and the moon shining over a patch of clouds.
"I never knew it'd be so big," Neville Longbottom murmured. "Here, Trevor, take a peek." The toad's skin caught a bit of the moonlight, but Trevor was silent in his wizard's hand.
Malfoy didn't say anything, but Hermione saw the way he thrust his hand out as if he'd touch the castle, as far away as it was. Harry was entirely still, and she wished she could see the expression on his face.
The boats all floated toward the castle, so that the building loomed large and both intimidating and reassuring, it seemed to her, as they approached. All the lights seemed to indicate safety. But the shadows made her anxious and a wee bit afraid.
She'd never admit to that, however.
Getting out of the boats was almost more awkward than getting in to them. She was thankful she wore a skirt, tights, and sweater underneath the plain black robes of a first year student, but she wondered, briefly, if those who were more traditional were uncomfortable as they found their footing on dry ground once again.
But then, they were there. At Hogwarts. She'd been hearing about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for nearly a full year and she desperately wanted to immerse herself in its wonders and secrets. To learn all she could about everything magical.
She remembered the shadows, though, as they approached a thick, ancient door. Hagrid thumped the door three times. "Perfesser McGon'gall! The Firsties are here!"
The door opened and light poured out from the interior. Hermione felt something deep within relax to see the familiar face of a professor she had already met. Professor Minerva McGonagall, with her dark hair, deep green eyes, and pointed witch's hat was now presenting herself as Hermione guessed was in her customary attire for her culture. Her face was stern, but her eyes shone with something that felt like welcome to Hermione.
"Thank you, Hagrid. Well, children, come in!"
Chapter Three
The Sorting
1 September 1991
"Good luck, 'Arry," Harry heard the heavily bearded Hagrid say just as Harry stepped into the castle.
"Thanks." He didn't know why the gamekeeper singled him out, but he wasn't going to ask, either. Probably had something to do with the reason his parents were killed and Harry really wasn't up to dealing with any more of that. It had been a long day and it wasn't over yet.
Granger was standing next to him, still on his right, while Malfoy was on his left and Longbottom was just behind him. They stuck together as they assembled before Professor McGonagall.
"She's very intelligent," Granger whispered. "I've had tea with her."
"You're a Muggle-born, then?" Longbottom asked quietly.
"I am," Granger said evenly. She might have said more but the professor began speaking.
"Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House. You will all be Sorted into your Houses shortly."
She went on to share distinguishing characteristics for each House and then said, "Your House is like your family, whilst you're here at school." This did not thrill him, but he saw Granger's head bob in affirmation and Malfoy nodded once as if this were expected, so Harry did the same. "Each House has a Head. For Slytherin, it's our Potions Master, Professor Severus Snape." This heartened Harry for they'd met and Professor Snape had been friends with his mum. "For Ravenclaw, Charms Professor Filius Flitwick. For Hufflepuff, Herbology Professor Pomona Sprout." A very nice lady, Harry decided, and he felt he could be at home in Hufflepuff if she was the Head. "And as already said, I'm Head of Gryffindor and I teach Transfiguration. I'll be taking you in to the Great Hall in just a few minutes, as everyone is sitting down for the Welcome Feast, so spruce up whilst you wait." She swept them with a look. "Behave."
There was a general ruffling sound as all of them did try to fix ties, straighten robes, and smooth their hair. Granger fussed over his hair, which he tolerated as she did the same for Malfoy and Longbottom as well. Harry helped her with a stray strand that came out of her braid. While he did so, she gasped and went pale as a ghost.
He froze. "What? Did I pull too hard?" he whispered.
"Ghosts," she whispered back, eyes huge and round as they stared at the opposite wall. "I've never seen ghosts before." Quickly muffled shrieks erupted from several children followed by a chorus of "Muggle-born" from others.
Harry frowned. Was it really so obvious? The word was said with…a bad undercurrent that reminded him of his relatives. He glanced at Hermione, but she didn't seem to heed the whispers; she was focused on the transparent ghosts.
There were four of them, pointing at the gathered first year students. Perhaps they were speaking amongst themselves; Harry couldn't have said. The most disturbing ghost was one that looked like his head had been mostly cut off. He was dressed like paintings Harry had seen in history books. Like maybe one of the King Henrys. There was a fat ghost next to him that reminded Harry of Friar Tuck. There was another ghost that looked like it had silver splotches all over his clothes. The last ghost he saw was of a lady. She had long hair and Harry thought she was pretty…for a ghost. The four ghosts kept to themselves, just inside the room, and they floated a bit off the floor. They didn't seem threatening, though.
Harry wondered if he would get used to living in a haunted castle. Dudley would be terrified if he had to live here. This idea did not upset Harry in the least.
Professor McGonagall returned just then, her face lined with dismay at the noise in the waiting room. "What is the matter?" she demanded.
"Ghosts!" The word came out in many different tones, Harry noted. Some still sounding scared, some almost too casual. For himself, he didn't answer. He'd get used to the ghosts and there was still the Sorting to get through.
Professor McGonagall sighed. "You'll be introduced to the ghosts of Hogwarts over time. Those there are the spirits that are attached to each of our four Houses." She turned a stern eye on them all. "Respect the ghosts and they'll cause you no concern. Now, it's time to join the rest of the school. Follow me."
Small murmurs of wonder drifted from the first years as they followed the Deputy Headmistress. It was like being in some sort of museum, Harry figured, except that there were actual ghosts and it was a place he'd be spending most of his year in for…quite some time, he guessed.
Another pair of enormous wooden doors opened for them and they entered what he guessed was the Great Hall. This was impressive. The ceiling could have been the sky, and candles floated in the air to light the room. There was a raised portion on the far end of the hall, where it seemed like the professors sat and there were four tables arranged lengthwise to fill the rest of the hall.
Granger gasped and had a huge smile on her face the whole way in. He could see her taking in a breath to speak before frowning a bit and biting her lip instead. This happened a few times and he wondered what she was thinking. Was she afraid? He nudged her a bit as they came to a stop. "You're going to do great," he said, hoping to make her feel better if she were scared.
She beamed at him, and the smile made her look like what he imagined Christmas would feel like for families in stories. "Thank you, Harry! I'm sure you will, as well!"
Up near the raised tables, there was a stool Professor McGonagall went to stand by. On the stool there was a wrinkled, pointed hat. Harry was wondering what that was all about when, suddenly, the hat started to sing.
A singing hat! What on earth? How did that happen? Well, magic, right. His own thoughts made him smile, smile so widely that his face felt strange, but good, too. Magic. Hats sing. A ceiling looks like the sky. Ghosts float through walls. There's a huge man who can get boats to float in one direction without rowing or motors. And I'll be going to school in a ruddy castle.
This is amazing.
The hat's song was rather long but he understood it was explaining about the Houses—at least, he thought so—so he tried to pay attention, but he was nervous. This place was all about being magical. He was a wizard; Professor Sprout had said so. His mum and dad had been magical, too. They were in Gryffindor, Malfoy had said. How did that happen?
When the song was done, Harry realized he hadn't heard all of it, despite his wishes; his thoughts were too full. Professor McGonagall just began by calling a name and that student—a girl named "Abbott, Hannah!"—came forward, her eyes wide and blue and nervous. The professor indicated the girl should sit on the stool and then she put the hat on the girl's head.
Harry watched, amazed, as the hat seemed to move about and the girl nodded and then the hat called out, "Hufflepuff!"
"So that's how we're Sorted," Granger murmured, clearly to herself.
"Right," Harry whispered to her. "Magic."
"Magic," she repeated.
The names were called in alphabetical order, so Harry felt some sort of security in knowing he'd be able to have some idea as to when his name come. The three students he'd had the opportunity to get acquainted with would all be sorted before he was, and that also gave him a bit of security; he might know someone in his new "family". Maybe. Possibly.
"Granger, Hermione!"
He smiled at her determined expression. She's a fierce little witch. The notion came to him without any idea of why he thought it, but he felt it was true. She was a Muggle-born. Neither of her parents had magic, and here she was, coming to a new school far from home. Her hands were in fists on the walk up to the stool and the hat, but she smoothed them over her lap when the hat was put on her head. It was big for her—as it had been for most everyone, so far—and the brim slid down over her eyes. She was the first person he knew who was being Sorted, so he felt like he was really seeing it happen for the first time.
The hat moved, as it had before, and Granger frowned a little, her lips moving as if talking silently. Could he do that, too? Talk to the hat? She shook her head once, her lips pursing in a frown again. This went on for quite some time; longer, he thought, than it had for any of the other students who had gone ahead of them.
"Is she a Hat Stall?" someone called from one of the long tables.
"Oi, a Hat Stall? Haven't had one yet, this term!"
All the kids around Harry were shifting from one foot to another, and some of them were muttering comments about Muggle-borns having Sorting issues. Harry checked with the professors, to see if they were concerned; they'd be the ones to know, right?
The faces at the head table seemed to be in various stages of amusement. Professor Sprout was smiling, as was a small man who sat next to her. There was the oldest man there, Harry guessed, who sat in a big golden chair. The Headmaster, no doubt. He looked a bit…bored. Professor Snape smirked. Another man, with a turban, looked aggressively agitated, actually. Harry studied him, already hoping that wasn't a professor he had to have. Maybe he'd be a professor for, say, fortune telling? Did they do that, at Hogwarts? The turban made that seem likely…
The professor turned and looked at him before looking abruptly away. Suddenly Harry felt a fierce, stabbing, itching pain in the scar on his forehead and he hissed, staring up at the turban and rubbing his forehead. What was the matter?
"Finally she's in Ravenclaw!" the hat called out, sounding a bit exasperated.
One of the tables broke out in applause and Harry's attention was redirected. His scar stopped hurting so much and he joined in the applause for Granger's sorting. He was pleased for her, as she seemed to be thrilled to be joining that House, but a part of him felt a bit sad, too. There was no hope for him to go to Ravenclaw.
Longbottom was called up not too long after that. The heavyset boy seemed nervous, and Harry could hear him muttering as he stepped through the diminishing group of students. "I hope I don't get sent home."
Sent home! That had never been presented as an option and Harry seriously hoped it wouldn't be one. But no, as soon as the hat was put on Neville Longbottom's head, it shouted, "Gryffindor!" and even Professor McGonagall looked pleased about it.
"Malfoy, you ready?"
"Slytherin, I told you," the other boy said out the side of his mouth. His name was called and he basically strutted to the stool after nodding to Professor Snape. His godfather, right, Harry reminded himself. He rubbed absently at his forehead again, as the scar was still prickling, but mostly he just smiled when the hat was plopped down on Malfoy's head.
"He belongs to Slytherin!" the hat called immediately.
Professor Snape nodded in satisfaction, which made sense. Those at the far table applauded. Behind him and to the left, Harry heard, "He's a dark wizard, I'm tellin' ya. They all are in Slytherin. Bunch of snakes."
Weasley. Harry grimaced and tried to ignore the ginger's running commentary.
They were halfway through the alphabet, now. Soon enough, twin girls were sorted, the Patil sisters. One went to Ravenclaw, the other to Gryffindor. Then another girl got sorted to Gryffindor and then—
"Potter, Harry!"
He inhaled, cringingly inwardly. He half-expected to hear the chorus of "Boy Who Lived" making another round, but he only heard it once or twice before the words were stifled. Good. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes on him, it seemed like, as he reached the stool and the hat. Professor McGonagall eyed him as he climbed on the stool but she dropped the hat on his head without comment.
It fell over his eyes. Predictable, but he felt oddly vulnerable, not being able to see anything. The hat began to speak to him, and Harry froze, considerably unsettled to hear a timeless but ancient voice in his mind.
Oh ho, Harry Potter! It is indeed time for you to be here. Your family has a long and glorious history at Hogwarts, you know.
I really don't, Harry countered.
Both your parents were Gryffindors, but I don't think you should be…
Harry thought of the different people he knew in different Houses already. Professor Sprout was a Hufflepuff.
Yes, yes, you are a fine fellow, and very hardworking, but I don't think Helga's House is for you.
Hermione Granger was in Ravenclaw and he thought she was a fierce little witch.
She is, she is! And a fine time she gave me, let me tell you. You're clever, lad, but not quite in the same way as Rowena's House. Gryffindor…well, you're brave, to be sure, but I think you'd do well in Slytherin, where your cunning nature can be seen and appreciated. You are destined for great things, Potter.
I don't want to be destined for great things. I just want to get out of the Dursleys' house and learn more about what happened to my parents.
The hat offered no more discussion, but announced, "He belongs to Slytherin!"
Harry took the hat off his head only to see that Professor McGonagall looked gobsmacked. "Off you go, Mr. Potter," was all she said, however.
Harry, accordingly, went and was happy to see Malfoy—his tie now green and silver—beckoning to him from the far table. As he walked, he looked toward Professor Snape. The man, draped all in black, with his characteristically distant expression, met his eye with a slow nod. Good enough.
"Hey, Potter." Malfoy scooted over for him. "Glad you're here."
"Well some of us are," said an older student a few spaces up.
One girl—whose robes had lapels in silver and green as well as a badge that said Prefect— cleared her throat. "None of that, Flint."
"He killed the Dark Lord," the boy named Flint said in a low, hard voice.
That was unexpected. He'd killed someone? "I don't remember killing anyone," he decided he had to say up front. When all eyes flickered to his forehead, he sighed. "Look, this happened when I was still in nappies. Can we not talk about it right now?"
The prefect nodded emphatically, her black curls swishing around her face. "Excellent notion. Enough."
At last, the Weasley boy was sorted into Gryffindor and the very last boy—Zabini, Blaise—was sorted into Slytherin. Harry felt a tingle of magic on his chest. Looking down, he saw his tie, too, had adopted the colors of his new House. He really did belong there.
His relief at being "home" in Slytherin was interrupted when Headmaster Dumbledore declared, "And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death."
Malfoy, Bulstrode, Crabbe, and Goyle all shrugged off this cautionary statement and Harry could only stare at them. "He does know this is a school, right?"
Millicent Bulstrode cocked her head a little. "I'm sure he knows, Potter." She lowered her voice and continued in a whisper, "He might be going a bit barmy, my mum said. He's over a hundred years old, you know."
"Blimey."
Notes regarding the physical set-up in the Great Hall from the hp-lexicon: "in PS7, the table positions differ slightly. When Harry stands in front of the High Table, facing the students, he sees the Hufflepuff table on the right, Ravenclaw as second from the left, and Gryffindor on the far left. That makes the order in 1991 (starting from the doors): Hufflepuff, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor. Apparently they changed places by 1994."