Chapter 3

Harry didn't mind the rain. It drizzled over him and the other first years, sliding over his skin and soaking his clothes, and while he cast a water-repellant charm on his trunk, he didn't cast one on himself. The feeling of little rivulets running down his face and seeping through his robes made him feel refreshed, and clean, and somehow attached to the world—all the things which brooding over his situation and the strange dream made him not feel.

He frowned as he thought back yet again to the dream he had last night. It was incredibly vivid—more like a vision than a dream; and yet, it didn't have the same feeling as a vision did when he awoke. It almost felt like… a memory. He remembered the rising hatred that he had—no, that the boy in his dream—had felt, and shivered. He lifted his face and closed his eyes as the raindrops gathered on his eyebrows and eyelashes. Whatever you are playing at, Voldemort, he thought, I won't let it be easy for you.

"Follow me, first years!" McGonagall barked.

The castle was just as he had remembered, and thoughts of hate-filled dreams and Voldemort were easily swiped away as Peeves cackled and McGonagall shouted and first years screamed. Harry let a little smile creep onto his face.

The smile faded, however, when he caught sight of the frayed Sorting Hat in the middle of the Great Hall.

McGonagall marched to the middle of the hall and quelled the laughter and chatter with a stern gaze. Then she picked up the scroll and shouted the first name: "Adams, Nathaniel!"

So I'll be Sorted again, Harry thought dryly. The brief happiness of returning to Hogwarts dissipated as what he knew all along and had managed not to think about finally made itself known: that he would probably not get sorted into Gryffindor, because he hadn't been a Gryffindor in a long time. He remembered the months of training in the Founder's Nest, the Gryffindor mask he had learned to wear, the Yggdrasil wand that wasn't his, the dream that couldn't be his—

You never know, a small, inexorable whisper murmured; you pulled that sword out of the Hat in your second year, didn't you? The small, terrible hope rose like a tendril of smoke, and Harry swallowed hard and tried to squash it before it could inflame his thoughts and make the disappointment even more painful.

"Hudson, Frederick!"

Harry glanced up briefly at the head table. I suppose I'll be Sorted last, then, he thought, and watched one of the first years trot to the…

His breath caught in his throat. Sitting there happily cheering was James Potter, black hair everywhere and glasses glinting, and next to him was Lily Evans, red hair pulled back and a smile on her face; besides them was Sirius Black and Remus Lupin and—and Peter Pettigrew. Harry felt a cold feeling clench his heart as he scrutinized the man who would later betray his parents. He didn't look like a traitor. There was a certain amount of idolatry, or bumbling indecision, but Harry could also see the courage that had landed him in Gryffindor. Courage to turn to Voldemort in his friends' time of need, Harry thought darkly, and squashed the thought before it could fester. He reminded himself that he couldn't change the future—that he couldn't change his past.

"Lee, Michael!"

He felt the weight of a stare, and glanced up to see James Potter sending him a threatening look. Harry looked away quickly, wondering if the hostility had shown on his face. He felt his throat tighten—his parents had been so good to that rat, and in the end…

"Mattingly, Kathy!"

Perhaps it is best that I am not Sorted into Gryffindor, Harry thought. He had known he would see them sooner or later—his parents, and Sirius, and Remus, and Pettigrew; and he had felt not a little dread at the prospect, but the reality was far more painful than his imagination. It'll be hell getting used to seeing them and not gaping or choking or whatnot. I suppose any other House will do, as long as I'm not in Slytherin. He glanced at the head table. Albus would get chokingly suspicious if I get sorted into Slytherin. He shivered and closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the Sorting Hat's words to him at his first sorting—'You could be great, you know…' A little thrill of excitement that rose up in him—you could be great: powerful…

He shook himself, vaguely unsettled, and turned his head decisively to examine the head table.

"Turner, Megan!"

Dumbledore was there, resplendent in robes of purple and silver; Flitwick, looking much as Harry remembered, was gazing indulgently at the first years; Sprout was looking bored. Harry didn't recognize any other staff members, besides Filch, who had a nasty gleam in his eye, as always. That last aspect was strangely comforting.

"Zwelling, Asmot!"

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

The last first year trotted away, and Harry realized belatedly that he was only person standing where all the first years had been.

Albus Dumbledore stood up, face wreathed in smiled. "This year, I would like to introduce a special guest: we have here a transfer student from Merriman School of Magic. He will be a seventh year, and I am sure we will all endeavor to make him feel right at home. Everyone, please welcome Jonathan Frost!"

The headmaster sat, and there was a smattering of applause.

"Frost, Jonathan!" McGonagall barked.

Harry strode to the middle of the hall, too used to being stared at to be self-conscious. He felt Albus's ceaseless gaze, and made sure that he didn't glance towards the Gryffindor table—it wouldn't do him any good to stumble in the middle of the Great Hall; but as he lifted the hat and let it settle over his ears, he glanced to the Slytherin table, and he squarely met Severus Snape's eyes. He hesitated, caught by the intensity, before he closed his eyes and waited for the Sorting Hat to begin to speak.

'I see that I've met you a few times already. Strange that I don't remember you.'

'Ah,' Harry thought back, feeling a sudden rush of delight at talking with the Sorting Hat. Perhaps it was because he had nothing to hide—that he couldn't hide anything—from the Hat. 'I assume you would also know why?'

'Hmm, yes. And of course, I will keep it a secret.'

Harry let a smile creep over his face. 'Thank you. And where will you place me?'

'A tricky one, you are. You are hard working, and patient, but only to suit your needs. You've got plenty of intelligence, but you won't and can't distance yourself from the world. A life of books isn't for you. You have courage, yes, plenty of courage, but you certainly aren't reckless—'

'Anymore,' Harry interjected.

The Sorting Hat sounded faintly amused. 'Yes, anymore. And you rather detest the spotlight and rash glory that so typifies Gryffindor. Slytherin now—you've got cunning, you've got ruthlessness, you've—' There was a pause. The, the Sorting Hat said, slowly, 'How interesting. There is… something to you that I have never seen, nor would have expected to see. And it is not for me to reveal it to you.'

Harry frowned. 'What do you mean?'

'Nothing,' the Sorting Hat said dismissively, but Harry caught a rather preoccupied note in its chirpy voice. 'You would do very well in Slytherin, but ambition isn't your suit. Where shall I put you, Mr.—er—'

'Frost,' Harry supplied. He shrugged. 'Put me where you will.' He had a moment of hesitation as he remembered James Potter's laughing face and Lily Evan's smile, and he felt a muted tug of pain; but he remembered, also, the inscrutable look in Albus Dumbledore's blue eyes, and the thrill of excitement as he contemplated the possibility of power, and he was acutely aware of the thirteen and a half inch Yggdrasil wand on his right forearm. He gave an internal sigh. 'Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, if you please. It will be less painful, and it'll take off some of the suspicion while I try to find a way back—home.'

The hat chuckled. 'A rather Slytherin thought, that is. Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, hmm. Hardly where you belong. You will do well in either, but you will not discover what you need too discover. Better be…'

"SLYTHERIN!"

Harry pulled the hat off his head, knowing without looking that the heavy gaze he felt was Albus Dumbledore's. Once more avoiding glancing at the Gryffindor table, Harry made his way to the end of the Slytherin table. He hesitated a moment when he realized that he'd be sitting next to Severus Snape, who was staring balefully at the Gryffindor table, but Harry slipped into the seat anyway.

So I'm a Slytherin, now, Harry thought. The notion wasn't particularly odious, and parts of him that had always felt out of placed slipped home immediately, but other parts of him—precious memories, and that fragile sense of identity—teetered, and fell into a bottomless pit of black fog. Stop it, he thought irritably. It hardly makes a difference. You're still Harry Potter, you're still the subject of the prophecy, and it doesn't matter what House you're in.

He knew he'd have to tread cautiously. He knew without doubt that Albus's suspicions had sharpened and that he would be watched more carefully than ever. But he knew Albus's wiles, and after he figured a way to solve this tracking spell problem, he would have access to the Founder's Nest and find a way to return.

He tried to ignore the muted gloom that lay over him by the fact that, once again, he and Albus were opponents. The best thing Voldemort did to me, Harry thought, was to push Albus and me into what we became. Old veterans with a peculiar camaraderie. Then he stopped that train of thought before it could widen the emptiness in him, and he wished that Snape were the kind of person to attempt small talk. At least that way, he'd be distracted.

He felt a slight tapping at his shoulder and turned to see Lucius Malfoy scrutinizing him with cold gray eyes. Harry winced inwardly—he'd forgotten that he'd have to deal with this git—but he consoled himself: it could have been worse, much worse. In a different year, he might have had to endure Macnair, or Rookwood, or Rodolphus Lestrange. Malfoy had never been a really good Death-Eater: his interests in the Malfoy family had always superseded his loyalty to Voldemort. It had been his eventual undoing.

"Frost," Malfoy said arrogantly. "I am Lucius Malfoy."

"How do you do," Harry replied coolly, surprisingly himself at how easy it was to keep his face calm and stony, his voice expressionless and suave. How easy it is to be a Slytherin, he thought.

"The Muggle-loving fool said you were a transfer student," Malfoy continued. "I've heard that Merriman School of Magic doesn't accept any mudbloods."

"Really," Harry said with an arched eyebrow. He glanced furtively towards the head table and, as he expected, Albus was staring at him. Harry smirked. "Whoever told you that was a liar," he said with a negligent air. "I am what you would call a 'mudblood.'"

Lucius Malfoy's face morphed into a full-blown sneer. "I see," he spat and turned away. Harry turned away as well, but he couldn't refrain from glancing again at the head table.

Dumbledore was only a split second too late in masking the suspicion that still burned in those pale blue eyes.

Harry sighed. He admitted that it was a rather stupid thing to do, to make enemies of his classmates on the first day of term, but he had hoped that it would somewhat alleviate Albus's suspicion, and that was far more important than the good will of the pureblood bigots of Slytherin house.

His plate began to fill with mashed potatoes when he looked up to catch Snape staring at him intently.

"What?" Harry asked guardedly.

Snape sneered and quickly turned back to his dinner. His black hair swung down on either side of his face. "You must be daft to make an enemy out of Lucius Malfoy," he said condescendingly after a moment.

Harry shrugged, feeling unexpectedly warmed. At least Snape was still Snape—perhaps not as bitter, his mask of disdain not yet perfect—but it was Snape nonetheless. Nobody else could sneer and make you feel like an imbecile quite like Severus Snape. "There's a reason I'm not in Ravenclaw, you know…" Harry said around a mouthful of potatoes.

The other Slytherin gave him a withering look, and Harry answered it with a grin he knew would irritate the future potions master.

A loud bark of laughter caught his attention, and before Harry could stop himself, he looked towards the Gryffindor table. His appetite fled. It hurt to see them so young, so carefree… Sirius had evidently just told a joke, and James was roaring with laugher. Remus and Lily were trying not to join in, but their giggles were spilling out. Pettigrew was looking wistfully reverential. Sirius reached an arm across and playfully punched the rat animagus's shoulder…

This is hell. I can't stay here, Harry thought fiercely as he turned back to his cold dinner, keeping his face smooth and emotionless as he mechanically lifted the spoon to his mouth. I'm going to get back, and I'm going to get back soon. He could still remember with absolute clarity the Founders' Nest and the ordeals that had to be undertaken to open it. It would be much more difficult this time around without Albus and Hermione's help, but he'd already done it once, and he was going to do it again.

He ate quickly, efficiently, and didn't notice Severus Snape curiously glancing at him every so often.

"Password is carnificina," said the Slytherin prefect, a slender, black-haired boy with aristocratic features.

So much for pleasant passwords, Harry thought as he followed the other Slytherins into the common room. It was much as he'd remembered: large, roomy, rather dank, with the only source of light being the low flames of the fireplace and the few torches along the walls. There were tables next to the torches and large, stuffy green chairs scattered throughout the room.

"Everyone should be going to bed," the prefect said. "I doubt our head of house, Professor Camentum, will be giving any kind of welcoming speech." There were a few dry laughs, and the students began to drift down the corridors that would lead them to the dormitories.

Harry was following the boys into one of the corridors when he heard a voice addressing him: "Not so fast, Frost."

He stopped and turned to face Malfoy. Harry had a moment of déjà vu as he noticed, on Malfoy's right, a gorilla-like bulk, and on Malfoy's left, another, smaller ape-like mass. Crabbe and Goyle, Harry thought. At least they're not in the same year again. That would have been… disturbing.

"Malfoy," Harry said with a cold nod of his head. He noticed, from the corner of his eye, the dark-haired prefect standing squarely in the passageway to the dorms—blocking my escape route, apparently, Harry thought.

"We wonder, really, how you tricked the Sorting Hat into placing you in Slytherin," Malfoy sneered. "Filthy mudbloods aren't allowed."

Harry arched an eyebrow as he dispassionately scanned the crowd. A ring of mostly older students had gathered around him, and Harry had another flash of déjà vu, this time of black cloaks and blank white masks of Voldemort's circle of Death-Eaters. He hastily shook away the thought and noticed that only about a third of Slytherin was part of this… mob. The rest, save for one or two wide-eyed first years, were scattered throughout the common room, acting as though they noticed nothing.

Typical Slytherin behavior, Harry thought with a mental snort. His gaze wandered to a darkened corner, and he noticed Severus Snape curled there in green couch. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Snape turned away in a movement that was a bit too quick. The black curtain of his hair fell over his face.

Harry's attention snapped back to the Slytherins around him as a girl sauntered up to Malfoy and declared in a high-pitched voice that made Harry wince, "We should teach this mudblood his place, shouldn't we?"

Let's see them try, Harry thought, well aware of the balance of power that would be determined in this confrontation. He curled his upper lip and adopted a negligent pose, arms crossed and head slightly cocked. The ring drew a bit tighter. Malfoy elbowed Crabbe and Goyle, who then stumbled forth like zombies.

Harry sidestepped lazily and lashed out his foot in an almost imperceptible movement, and the two goons fell over a chair. Someone laughed before hastily smothering himself.

Two spots of color had appeared high on Malfoy's cheeks. He had his wand out and hissed, "Adligo!"

Harry dodged it easily, and would have smirked and slipped into the corridor towards the dormitories had he not felt a flutter of magic behind him. He immediately sidestepped that as well, and was faintly alarmed by the hot haze of its malice and power as it flew past him veered up into the air before it could reach Malfoy.

Harry turned, and his gaze met that of the prefect's, who had his wand out and a cold smile on his face. Interesting, Harry thought, eyes narrowed. He took a step forward and saw the prefect flick his wand. Cold magic pooled towards him. Instantly Harry flicked his wand in response, cutting through the hostile magic, and the prefect's eyes widened. Harry smiled coldly in return, though inwardly he was quite startled at the power and complexity of his adversary's magic. I wonder who he is, Harry thought. He is dangerous. I don't remember him being one of Voldemort's, but he… reminds me of someone.

Their eyes met for a moment. Harry felt a vague, futile probing at his mental shields before the prefect stiffly stepped aside. In defeat, Harry thought with grim satisfaction. He heard Malfoy sputtering but he ignored it and strode into the corridor. He also ignored the dark-haired prefect's unyielding gaze, though he could still feel it burning the back of his neck even after he disappeared around the corridor's curve.

He stopped, realizing that he didn't have a clue where he was going. Calm down, Potter. Don't be reckless, he chided himself. Though he didn't really think there'd be a deadly trap in the boy's dormitory. The corridor was long and winding and dank, and for the moment, empty. The only source of light was a torch at the far end, which protruded from above a tapestry that was so dark he couldn't make out what it depicted. There were seven doors, four on his right, and three on his left.

I suppose I should go through one of these, Harry thought, moving swiftly and finding the door marked "Seventh Years" in a strangely serpentine handwriting. He pushed it open, and found himself staring at four more doors. He blinked. The Gryffindor dorms were so much simpler…

"Problems, Frost?"

Harry tensed and turned around. The black-haired prefect was leaning negligently against the wall, a small smile playing on his face.

"I am not sure which door to enter," Harry said coolly.

"Ah." The prefect straightened. "With you, we have five Slytherin seventh years. There are three rooms in the dormitories, two students each. That one," he waved lazily at the rightmost door, "is Winston Crabbe's. This one," he pointed to the door next to it, "is where Lucius Malfoy and I room. This one is Severus Snape's room." Harry couldn't help notice how the prefect's lips curled at the mention of Snape. "And that, there, is the toilet."

Harry nodded.

"So you can either room with Crabbe or Snape," the prefect added. He stretched out his right hand. "I'm Terrance Lestrange. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Lestrange, Harry thought. No wonder he looks familiar. Rodolphus must be his brother. He took Lestrange's hand and shook it briefly. "Jonathan Frost." Their hands parted, and Harry had the distinct urge to wipe his hand on his robe. "I've had a tiring day," he said as Lestrange eyed him calculatingly. "Please excuse me." He turned and headed for the third door from the left.

"I'd room with Crabbe if I were you," Lestrange called. "In the long run, he's better company."

"I think not," Harry replied coldly, without turning, and entered the room he would share with Severus Snape. When he later sat down on one of the large, four-poster beds, he wondered if there was another level of meaning to Lestrange's words.

He walked down the corridor, rubbing his bruised elbow and not meeting anyone's eyes. The rainwater still clung to his tattered robes and he shivered: it was so cold in the dungeons, and he really didn't want to be sick for his first day of classes…

He reached for the door that said "1st years" when he nearly fell; he didn't have to turn around to know whom it was that pushed him.

"Half-blood freak," the tall, black-haired boy sneered before sauntering down the hallway. A few other boys snickered, eying him disdainfully, from his scrawny build to his frayed robes.

Pretending nothing had happened, he pushed open the door to the first years' dormitory and, taking a brief glance at the four doors, plunged through one of them.

Someone was already there, and his heart sank as he recognized the other boy's features.

"This is my room," the blond sneered from where he was lying on the big, four-poster bed. "Half-blood freaks aren't allowed."

He didn't move for a moment, too full of seething anger and the desire to shout out his true heritage to leave so meekly.

"GO!" the boy on the bed shouted, lifting his wand.

He gritted his teeth and turned around—and felt a hot blaze of magic hit his back. He slammed into the door and slid to the ground, head spinning. Someone opened the door from outside; he stumbled through, the other boys' laugher mingling with the hatred and loathing, of the world and of himself, that was burning, burning, burning in his heart—

Harry awoke with a start and his wand was already in his hand as he sat bolt upright.

He blinked. His heart was pounding his blood into a whirlpool that jumbled his mind until he couldn't form a single coherent thought. He stared sightlessly at the blank stone wall, slightly reddened from the dimmest light of smoldering embers from the small fireplace.

He lay back down, slipping his wand back under his pillow.

It's a dream, he thought, another dream, like the one last night. Except it wasn't a dream: it couldn't have been a dream. No dream felt so raw, so real, so full of real emotion and pain; he could still feel the bruise on his elbow, the faint pulse of pain on his back… And it wasn't a vision, that he knew for sure. What he saw in his sleep didn't come through breached walls and curse-scar links; it came from somewhere within him.

Damn you, Voldemort, he thought fiercely, eyes staring at the deep green canopy, black in the darkness. What are you playing at? The boy in the dream—or memory—or whatever it was—in whose body he'd been in felt incredibly familiar. Like it was his own. But despite it all, he still didn't know whose body it was (because it couldn't have been his own, no matter how familiar it felt; he'd never had had those memories, he was sure). And he recognized the corridor—he was only a few steps away from it after all: the dream obviously took place here in the Slytherin section of Hogwarts. He could still see the arrogant faces with echoes of hatred and feel that constantly burning loathing of himself and the world…

I won't let you have your way, Voldemort, Harry thought angrily. He knew that all this must have had something to do with Voldemort and that silvery wisp and that excruciating pain, but how, and why, and even what, exactly—

He closed his eyes. The answers were so close, he knew, so frustratingly close, but when he tried to grasp them, they flew away like shadows and smoke, veiled by the memories of hatred that confused all his thought.

He sighed and turned over. He'd get no answers tossing and turning. Starting tomorrow, he'd busy himself with figuring out a way to get around Dumbledore's tracking spell and open the Founder's Nest. There, he'd find what he needed: millennia of information, carefully stored and guarded…

He frowned, eyes opening again. He was so wrapped up in reminiscing his dream and planning that he'd forgotten about how he'd awakened. It wasn't the dream itself that had awoken him; somehow, he remembered a thud, and something hitting his ribs. He turned onto his other side and stared at Snape's bed.

The room was silent. Green curtains fell around Snape's bed, hiding its occupant from view. Snape, Harry recalled, had seemed rather sour with the prospect of rooming with someone. They hadn't exchanged a single word that evening, besides Snape curtly telling him which bed was his. Snape's breathing, which Harry could hear clearly despite how quiet it was, was calm and controlled—too calm, Harry thought, and noticed that on the floor next to him, between him and Snape, there was a shoe that he distinctly remembered not being there before.

He sank back into his bed, and something laboriously worked its way up through memories of disturbing dreams and quivering darkness and played at his lips and felt a bit like the fresh, cleansing rain. So that was what the thud was, Harry thought. He had a pretty good idea of how he'd been awakened, and who had done it. He took a deep, calming breath, and pulled the soft sheets closer to his neck. Then, remembering all his (effective) Occlumency lessons, he tried to slip into a meditative slumber and actually get some rest.

Sleep did not come to him for a long time.