A/N: Since she's the ONLY ONE REVIEWED THE LAST CHAPTER, this chapter is dedicated to Joan Mistress of Magic.
The First Half Of First Year
Headmaster Albus Dumbledore stood, eyes twinkling, arms wide, to address the school. "I have only a few words for you. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
Food appeared on all the tables and the students applauded.
"Can you believe it?" one of the older Gryffindors asked another. "Harry Potter. In Slytherin."
Dudley bit his tongue. Don't say anything. Don't call attention to yourself. It won't help anything.
"Are you okay?" asked Ron, sitting next to him.
"Just nervous. It's a lot to take in…" Dudley gestured helplessly around the Hall.
"Yeah, I guess." Ron began to cram food into his mouth.
At the Slytherin table, Harry was in a rather awkward position. Everyone stared at him, and no one — besides Drake and Sandra — seemed willing to talk to him. To buy himself some time before facing the stares of his housemates, he scanned the head table.
Professor McGonagall was sitting next to the headmaster. At the far end, Hagrid (whom, if memory served, was featured in many a Marauder story) was drinking something likely alcoholic. Closer to the Slytherin table was a nervous man in a large turban, who was speaking to a man with greasy black hair and a large nose.
"Who's the man in the turban?" Drake wondered.
"Professor Quirrell, the Defence Against The Dark Arts Professor. The man he's talking to is Professor Snape, Potions Master and our Head of House," said Sandra.
"How do you know that?"
"Mum told me about the current teachers so I would be prepared."
At the end of the feast, one of the older Slytherins stood up. A silver badge on his chest read Prefect. "First years, follow me," he said bluntly. Harry, Drake and Sandy ended up leading the knot of short, twitchy students.
"Being in Slytherin," the prefect snapped, as they arrived in the dungeons, "means that you are targets. The other houses are against us. Your fellow students will not hesitate to hex you. Do not expect to be babysat. Do not trust your fellow students. Do not trust the faculty. The staff is all prejudiced against us—and yes, that includes the headmaster. The only teachers you can trust are the former Slytherins, and right now, that's only Professor Snape, the Potions teacher. If there's a problem, go to him. Only go to him." They stopped in front of a blank wall. "Manticore," said the older boy. The wall opened.
The room behind it looked a lot less foreboding than the others they had passed. It was lit by a roaring fire. Throughout the low room were ornately carved armchairs and round tables. The main colour scheme was green, black and silver.
"Girls' dorms are over there, boys' dorms are over there. This is the common room. It's strictly Slytherin territory, so it's the only place you don't need to worry about getting hexed. Unofficially, the dungeons are Slytherin territory, too. Got it?" The first years all nodded. Harry gulped. Uncle Remus had told him and Dudley that there was a lot of rivalry between the houses, but he hadn't thought that it was this severe.
After looking around to familiarize himself with the common room, Harry decided to go to bed. Two behemoths were standing dumbly in the middle of the dorm, looking lost—Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, if Harry's memory of the Sorting was right. Drake and the other two boys, Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini, had already chosen beds.
Drake gestured Harry to the bed next to his, with Harry's trunk already propped against its foot. Harry nodded his thanks. He quickly changed to his pyjamas and got into bed.
Slytherin's not half as bad as Uncle Remus said, thought Harry drowsily. A bit cold and abrupt, maybe, but not horrible. Suddenly, he jerked back into awareness, and fought the urge to sit bolt upright. Oh, no. Uncle Remus is not going to take this well.
Harry got up at 6 o'clock the next morning. He had to send a letter to Remus and explain things before Dudley did. By the time he was satisfied with it, it was 8 o'clock, and the other boys were waking up. He nodded as he looked over the finished letter. Assuming Remus read the whole thing, it should work. Harry felt a bit guilty about jerking Remus' heartstrings like this, but it was the best way to go. Besides, he told himself, Slytherins have to be manipulative.
Remus Lupin winced as he awoke. Would it be too much for the moon to … explode, maybe? Get knocked out of orbit by a comet? Turn into the harmless cheese that so many Muggle children thought it was made of?
Apparently, it was. Remus had been grumbling about and cursing it for more years than he cared to count, yet it was still there.
Remus went to the kitchen for his traditional morning cup of tea. He drank tea more out of habit than of any real preference for the beverage now.
Two owls were perching on his kitchen table. One, a screech owl, carried a Daily Prophet. Like drinking tea, Remus received the paper out of habit. He paid the owl, gave it an Owl Treat, and removed the paper. The other owl, a white one, Remus recognized as Harry's new owl, Gabriel. He gave the bird an Owl Treat as he removed the letter. Gabriel hooted a cheerful farewell and flew out the window as the lycanthrope sat down and unfolded the letter. Remus blinked in surprise. Why didn't Gabriel stay to take back his reply?
Dear Uncle Remus,
Hogwarts is just as cool as you said it was. I know why you made the Map, it's impossible to find anything without getting lost. I'll probably get lost six times on the way to the Owlery to send this. I don't know if you've heard from Dudley yet, but we got Sorted into different Houses. He's in Gryffindor. I'm in Slytherin.
Remus' eyes went wide. Harry was a Slytherin? How had that happened? He stared at the letter like it was diseased. How could Harry — sweet, trusting, innocent Harry — have been Sorted into Slytherin, of all the Houses? If not Gryffindor, he was smart enough to be a Ravenclaw, or loyal enough to be a Hufflepuff. He was tempted to throw the letter into the fireplace, storm Hogwarts, and demand that Harry be re-Sorted. Before he could do this, years of practised calm took over, and he continued the letter.
I hope I'm wrong, and you didn't just rip apart this letter, or crumple it up and throw it in the fire. Please don't be mad, Uncle Remus — I know you never got along with any Slytherins, and you were expecting me to be a Gryffindor, like Mum and Dad were. I'm sorry I disappointed you.
Harry
Stunned, Remus didn't even hear the telephone ringing. He barely noticed in time to get take call before the answering machine did.
"Hello, this is Remus Lupin. How may I help you?" His voice was shaking.
"Remus, it's Petunia. I was wondering how you were feeling. Should I come by?"
Remus almost smiled. Petunia always called him on the days before and after the full moon, in case he needed something.
"I'm fine, Petunia. There's no need to come over."
"You always say that. I don't believe it any more. You push yourself too hard, Remus. Someday it's going to catch up to you. I'm coming over there to check up on you in person."
There was no point in trying to argue with her. Since the boys were gone, Petunia's motherly instincts had redirected themselves. She watched over Remus like a hawk — or maybe a mother hen.
Petunia was as good as her word. Within five minutes she was in Remus' house, taking his temperature, ordering him to lie down awhile, and making him breakfast despite the fact that he'd already eaten: 'You need your strength, Remus.'
"Heard from the boys yet?" Remus asked.
"Yes, Amber showed up this morning with a letter from Dudley. He's quite excited. I haven't heard from Harry yet, but they have only been gone for 24 hours." Petunia offered him a very long sheet of parchment covered in Dudley's handwriting. "I hope that they're both okay with being in different Houses."
"Yeah…" said Remus slowly. He didn't trust himself to say anything more concrete.
The first week at Hogwarts went by to quickly for either Harry's or Dudley's liking. Between dodging Caretaker Filch, running from the poltergeist (Peeves), and trying to find their classrooms, it was amazing that they were able to learn anything. But learn they did.
By the end of their Transfiguration class, Harry was the only Slytherin who had succeeded in changing his match into a needle. He was still edgy about using his wand, but he was more nervous about doing wandless magic while under strict instructions not to. Dudley, meanwhile, was the only student immune to the sleep-inducing voice of Professor Binns, the History of Magic teacher. He copied down every word droned by the boring ghost, often having to explain it to the other Gryffindors after class.
Friday, the cousins each felt a small bubble of excitement as they checked their schedules – Gryffindor and Slytherin had Double Potions together that morning. The class was in one of the dungeons, freezing cold and made even more intimidating by the pickled animals floating in jars that lined the walls.
Professor Snape began the class by taking the register. His voice never raised above a cold whisper, but he had a gift of keeping the class silent without trying. His black eyes looked coldly at the class as he finished the register, and several people shivered – being under Snape's gaze tended to make the temperature drop by ten degrees.
"You are here to learn the subtle silence and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind ensnaring the senses … I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death…" The class leaned forward, almost enraptured by his words. Professor Snape harshly broke the spell. "If you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
His onyx eyes roamed swiftly around the class. "Longbottom!" he said suddenly, causing the round-faced Gryffindor boy to jump. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
"I- I don't know, sir," Neville squeaked fearfully.
Professor Snape sneered at him. "Weasley! Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?"
Ron shot a panicked look at the rest of the class. "Er – an apothecary?"
"Five point from Gryffindor for being cheeky, Weasley." Ron's face went as red as his hair. "Dursley! What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
Dudley almost collapsed with relief. Uncle Remus had told him this. "There isn't one, sir. They are the same plant, which is also called aconite."
Snape's mouth set itself in a thin line. "At least someone actually opened a book before coming. Quartz! After allowing the Draught of Peace to simmer for seven minutes, how much of which ingredient do you add?" Most of the class gasped. Few of them had even heard of the Draught of Peace, never mind knowing how to brew it!
"Three drops syrup of hellebore, sir," said Sandy politely, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.
Snape didn't get any better as the class went on. He put the students into pairs and had them start mixing a simple potion to cure boils. He swept about the class in his billowing cloak, an even darker black than his eyes, which were watching critically, waiting for someone to make a mistake.
Harry had been paired with Dudley, but neither one got much chance to talk, as they had to focus on the potion. Next to them, Drake was weighing dried nettles as Sandra carefully crushed a handful snake fangs. All of a sudden, Sandy had vaulted herself over the table and grabbed Neville, pulling him away from Seamus' cauldron.
"Are you trying to get us killed?" she hissed, sounding rather like a cross between the snakes whose fangs she had been crushing and Professor Snape, who was making his way over. "Take the cauldron off the fire before you add the porcupine quills, or you'll blow up the whole thing!"
"What's going on?" said Snape dangerously. Dudley couldn't understand how Sandy seemed so calm — if Snape had been looking at him like that …
"Longbottom was endangering the class, sir. He nearly turned to potion into a deadly acid." Snape raised an eyebrow.
"Keep to your own work, Quartz. If Longbottom wishes to fail this class he is free to do so on his own."
Sandy nodded, returned to her mortar and pestle, and continued to crush snake fangs as though nothing had happened.
"How do you know all that?" Harry demanded after class.
"All what, exactly?"
"All that Potions stuff! Who taught you that?"
Sandy tossed her long braid over her shoulder. "My parents run an apothecary."
Slytherin and Gryffindor were also paired together for flying lessons. Harry and Dudley were the only ones in their respective houses not upset by this. In the Slytherin Common Room, Sandra Quartz was heard to voice the belief that the Headmaster took sadistic pleasure in placing the most volatile Houses together in potentially dangerous classes. Most Slytherins fervently agreed.
"That or he's trying to keep Hufflepuffs from being traumatized," said Drake sarcastically to his dorm mates as the went to breakfast. Harry glared.
"Easily managed: pair Hufflepuff with Gryffindor, and Ravenclaw with us. Maybe he just hopes the Hufflepuffs will get Ravenclaw brains from getting stuck together," suggested Theo, ignoring Harry as always. Theo's father, Theodore Nott Senior, had been an accused Death Eater, and neither Theo nor Harry felt comfortable around each other.
Precisely three-thirty that afternoon, the Gryffindor and Slytherin first-years milled around the twenty or so broomsticks they would soon be riding. The arrival of Madam Hooch, the flying teacher, made everyone freeze and those who were talking amongst themselves fall silent.
"Everyone stand on the left side of a broom. Stick your right hand over the broom and say 'Up!'" she said briskly.
Harry, Dudley, and Ron were the only ones who actually had their brooms leap into their hands at once. Drake got his to jump up on the second try. Sandy, after four tries, gave her broom the same look Snape kept giving Neville, and said 'UP!' in a do-it-or-else tone: the broom shot into her hand as though someone underground had thrown it.
Once everyone's broomstick was in their hands, Madam Hooch taught them how to mount without sliding off the end, and began correcting their grips. "Now, she announced, "when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle: three … two…"
Before the whistle even touched Madam Hooch's lips, Neville kicked off. Very hard.
Dudley didn't even think. As Neville rose like a cork shot out of a bottle, Dudley kicked off after him. Crouched low on his broom, his expression looked like nothing more that a bird of prey to those on the ground. Harry hesitated a moment longer before he also shot after the terrified Gryffindor. If Neville fell — which he looked about to — there was no way that Dudley could hold the other boy's full weight.
"LONGBOTTOM! DURSLEY! POTTER! COME BACK DOWN THIS INSTANT!" shrieked Madam Hooch. Harry's broom wavered as though he was about to obey, but he shook his head fractionally and urged the broom so that he was hovering below Neville.
Dudley, now at Neville's side, grabbed the other boy's broomstick. Neville slipped, but Dudley made a wild snatch that caught Neville's sleeve. Harry rose in the air and took hold of Neville's other arm. Sandwiching Neville between them, Dudley and Harry managed to ease the three brooms back to the ground.
Madam Hooch was still yelling, but was by now getting hard to understand. "HOW DARE – MIGHT HAVE BROKEN YOUR NECKS – I SPECIFICALLY SAID – MIRACLE NONE OF YOU DIED!"
Harry had the sense to bow his head and look ashamed. His Gryffindor 'partners-in-crime' didn't. Neville was staring up at the sky in horror. Dudley was trying to argue with Madam Hooch.
"But – couldn't let him fall – it wasn't – we just –"
"QUIET! I don't want your excuses, Mr Dursley. Detention, all three of you, seven thirty tonight with Filch!" Harry winced at the punishment, but kept his mouth shut. Arguing with teachers would just make the punishment worse.
Apparently Dudley disagreed. "You can't blame Neville, he just lost control of –"
"I told you that I didn't want to hear your excuses, Dursley! Five points from Gryffindor!"
Dudley looked about to continue protesting, but Madam Hooch's glare made him shut his mouth at last.
Argus Filch, the caretaker, was a sadistic man who kept them up past midnight, polishing in the trophy room. All three of them were in agony as they tried to unbend their arms.
"Urgh," Dudley moaned. "I hope I never win any trophies. That polishing is dangerous – I think my arms are going to fall off."
Neville muttered in agreement. Harry was mentally filing everything he'd picked up from the trophies. You never knew when random information could come in handy.
Tom Riddle won a 'Special Award for Services to the School' in 1942. Slytherin has won the House Cup every year since 1985. Frank Longbottom won – "Hey, Neville, is Frank Longbottom a relative of yours?"
Neville jumped. He was quite twitchy – almost suspiciously so. "He's my dad, why?"
"He got a medal for 'Magical Merit' in 1978."
Neville looked mildly shocked as they reached a staircase. Harry turned to go down it, and went back to his mental filing.
"Don't mind Harry," Dudley advised Neville. "He sounds random sometimes, but that's 'cause he thinks the rest of his idea rather than saying it. He's quirky that way."
Hogwarts food had surpassed itself on the night of the Hallowe'en Feast. Every student was stuffing him- or herself like a ravenous wolf – well, almost every student.
"Where's Sandy?" Harry asked Drake.
"Visiting with Moaning Myrtle, one of the ghosts. Myrtle haunts a toilet on the first floor."
Harry blinked. "A toilet? Why?"
"No idea."
Neither boy had thought up any reason why a ghost would want to haunt a bathroom, of all places, when the doors were thrown open, Professor Quirrell ran up to the Headmaster and stammered: "Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know," before fainting.
There was instant mayhem. Everyone was screaming and running for the doors. Professor Dumbledore had to set off three purple fireworks to make himself heard.
"Prefects, lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"
"Well, that's dumb," Harry heard Blaise grumbling to Theodore. "Our dorms are in the dungeons, is he trying to put us in danger?"
Harry grabbed Drake's arm. "Sandy doesn't know," he hissed.
Drake pulled his arm away. "She'll be fine."
"But what if she's trying to get back to the dorms later and the troll finds her?"
"If you want to go on a rescue mission, feel free. I'm not stopping you."
Harry sighed. Ducking behind a statue, he joined a group of Ravenclaws heading the other way. He gave them the slip a few minutes later, heading down a small, deserted staircase. When he reached the landing, a foul smell hit him in the face. A low grunting sound and the shuffle of giant footfalls was moving towards him.
A huge grey beast emerged into a patch of moonlight. Its bald head looked like a coconut, balanced precariously on top of a boulder. Dragging from its long arms was a giant wooden club. It turned to an open doorway and slouched slowly into the room. There was a scream.
"Sandy!" Harry shouted. The ghost of a young girl whizzed past him, screeching at the top of her lungs. From the room the troll had entered, another girl's voice was shouting incantations.
"Stupefy! Petrificus Totalus! Locomotor Mortis! Expelliarmus! Wingardium Leviosa!"
Harry ran inside to find Sandra trapped in a corner, pointing her wand at the troll. None of her spells seemed to be having any effect.
He didn't even realize that he had drawn his wand, he only knew that he wanted the troll gone. Knock it out, Vanish it, I don't care, just get it out of here. A beam of red light shot out of his wand and hit the troll right in the small of the back. The force of the blast lifted the troll off the floor and sent it into the wall.
The two Slytherins just stood there, shocked. Harry stared at his wand. Sandra stared at Harry. Both turned to stare at the unconscious troll on the floor.
"I suppose I should thank you for that," said Sandy finally. "Being clubbed to death by a troll has never been high on my priority list."
Harry's jaw dropped. "You're really good at the 'calm under fire' thing, has anyone ever told you that?"
"Yes."
Before the conversation could really take off, a ghost Harry assumed was Moaning Myrtle returned through the wall. Professors McGonagall, Snape and Quirrell came in at a run. Quirrell took one look at the troll and sank to the floor, clutching his heart. Professor Snape bent over the unconscious beast, and McGonagall glared at the two students. "What happened?"
Snape turned to Sandy before either she or Harry could answer. "Miss Quartz. You weren't at the feast."
"I was visiting Myrtle when the troll showed up. She went for help, but since I couldn't get out, I tried to fight it. It was about to finish me off when Harry showed up and blasted it into the wall."
Harry tried not to look too shocked when Snape turned to him. "Is this true, Mr Potter?" Harry nodded, flushing horribly. "Miss Quartz was not in the Great Hall, and didn't hear the announcement. However, why didn't you go to your Common Room, as the Headmaster instructed?"
"I went looking for Sandy." Harry didn't like being on the defensive.
"Do not take that tone with me, Mr Potter." Snape closed his eyes a moment. "I say you were lucky. Nevertheless, not many first years could have survived an encounter with an adult mountain troll. Five points to Slytherin. If neither of you are hurt, you'd best go back to the Slytherin Common room. Students are finishing the feast in their Houses. I will inform the Headmaster of what's happened. You may go."
A/N: Okay, I can't think up a better ending, so I'm ending it here.
