Sorry about having to copy some of the stuff from Canon, I just didn't feel like writing the sorting hat's song and Dumbledore's speech.
Oh, and if you're interested in being my beta, please PM me, or leave a review. And thanks to the reviewers who pointed out my mistakes.
CHAPTER TWO
Perenelle placed a hand on Nicolas' broad shoulder.
"It'll be okay," she said gently.
"I know," Nicolas squeezed her hand and smiled.
Harry navigated his way through the throng of kids, pets and adults on the platform. Because of his size, he wouldn't attract attention. He looked the part of the average kid going to Hogwarts.
Harry's trunk had been hit with a lightening charm, so as to make it easier to flow with the crowd. He hopped onto the train and began his search for a compartment.
Kids ran back and forth, cages swinging from thin-wristed, clumsy grips. Harry dodged and wove through this oppression of bodies and eventually located a compartment to himself.
Nicolas peered through all the windows, till he found the face of his young charge. Harry Potter met his eyes and Nicolas smiled at Harry, who smiled back.
"I'll be fine," his smile seemed to say, and Nicolas believed him.
Harry heaved his trunk into an overhead stowage compartment and sat back, opening a book against his knees. Hopefully, this would deter any people, who wanted to share his compartment, from bothering him.
A boy, his hair of the brightest red, sat down in the long bench across from Harry. When Harry looked up briefly at the boy, he said:
"All the other compartments are full."
Nodding, harry returned to his book, his bangs obscuring his expression.
"You need to make friends, Harry," Nicolas had said. "You need to fit in."
"But how will they treat me?" Harry had asked.
"Some will use you, Harry. Some will hate you, envy you, even. But that's part of life, Harry."
Harry looked back up at the boy, who looked to be rummaging in his battered trunk for something.
"Are you a Weasley?" Harry asked suddenly.
The boy looked up; his face and ears matching the deep crimson of his fiery locks.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Ron Weasley."
Harry smiled, put his book aside after bookmarking the page, and stuck out his hand. Gathering himself, and bracing for the impact of the onslaught of adoration that was sure to follow, Harry stuck out his hand and said:
"I'm Harry... Harry Potter."
The sharp intake of breath, the flicker-quick movement of his blue eyes to Harry's bang-covered scar and the awe-filled expression was all part of the package.
"Are you really?" Ron asked.
"So you have that..." Ron jabbed a finger at the patch of hair obscuring the trademark of the-Boy-Who-Lived.
"Yep," said Harry.
He hated such attention, attention that he didn't deserve.
The spell was broken by Ron, who couldn't think of anything else to say, so continued rummaging in his trunk. Finally, he came up with a package of sandwiches, squashed beyond pristine.
"Corned beef," Ron muttered sourly. "She always packs me corned beef."
Ron bit into his sandwiches and Harry ignored the trolley lady as she prowled by, the apex of her belly nearly covering half of the flat service of the trolley.
Having nothing else to do, Harry read, occasionally looking up to gaze at the scenery flashing by along side the whizzing train.
"Have you seen a toad?"
Harry looked up at a pudgy, round-faced boy, who looked back at him with the utter desperation in his tear-filled eyes. Tears collected under the eyeballs and slip-slid down the protuberant undulations of baby fat. Harry shook his head.
"Sorry, mate," he said softly. "Haven't seen any toad in here."
The boy's face nearly crumpled into a clenched mask of hopelessness and Harry felt a spurring of pity for him.
"What's your name?" Harry asked.
"N-Neville," the boy hick-upped. "Neville Longbottom."
"Okay, Neville. What's your toad's name?"
"Trevor," said Neville.
Harry drew his wand and felt it. He channeled magic through it, gathering it into a vortex. This was a trick Nicolas had taught him.
"When you don't have enough magical energy left, this is how you summon."
"Accio Trevor!" Harry shouted.
Harry halted the toad in mid air, before gently levitating it into the waiting hands of Neville Longbottom.
Harry had made room for Neville, who took a seat beside him. Trying to penetrate the barrier of Neville's shy facade was hard, almost damn near impossible, but Harry tried to coax him.
'This bloke needs an ego,' he thought. 'He needs to grow a pair.'
"So," said Harry. "What house are you planning to be in?"
"Gryffindor," said Neville, more confident now that the subject had moved onto familiar territory.
"Really?" said Harry. "My parents were in Gryffindor."
What Harry liked about Neville was the fact that he didn't gape at Harry or stare.
His shyness was because he was being included in something, not because he was being addressed by the-Boy-Who-Lived.
"And you, Ron?" Harry asked the redhead."
"Gryffindor, same as Neville. I don't fancy ending up in Slytherin."
"Why not?" Harry asked, interested now.
"Because Slytherin is where the wrong sort end up."
"The wrong sort?" Harry asked.
"Dark wizards and pureblood bigots."
The fashion in which the boy stated this, made Harry think that this boy was brainwashed into thinking such things. The word 'Bigot' was not an everyday word applied by an eleven-year old boy.
"You do know of Perenelle Flamel, don't you?"
Ron shook his head.
"No?"
"I do," said Neville, the light of something coming together in his eyes.
"Well, Perenelle is my guardian, and she was a Slytherin. And she's one of the most delightful people I know!"
Ron looked sheepish for a moment.
"I thought she went to Durmstrang?" said Neville, uncertainly.
"Yeah," said Harry. "She did. She was a transfer student. She attended Hogwarts after taking her OWLs."
Neville looked fascinated.
"Well, you learn something new every day, eh?"
"Indeed," Harry smiled.
"So, what house do you want to be in, Harry?" asked Neville curiously.
"That, Neville," said Harry, with the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "is a bloody good question.
OOOOO
"I was told that Harry Potter was in this compartment."
Harry, Ron and Neville looked up and into the pointed, tapered face of a Malfoy.
"That would be me," Harry said.
The boy stepped in, forgetting about his goons.
"I'm Draco Malfoy," he said, before jabbing a negligent finger towards his goons. "And this is Crabbe and Goyle."
The only difference between Crabbe and Goyle, Harry thought, was the huge mole that rode high on Goyle's brow. Goyle's hair was too thin to obscure it, so he chose to expose it, the one defining characteristic of his unflattering appearance.
Harry took his hand and smiled.
Draco glanced around the compartment and said: "You don't want to be making friends with the wrong sort, Harry. I can help you there."
"What is it with purebloods and this wrong sort crap?" asked Harry, to no one in particular.
Draco flushed, the spots of pink standing out livid and fresh against his pale complexion. Harry, however, was torn. His new friends, or Draco, who was his back door into the circle of purebloods.
"The difference between what is right, and what is easy," Harry had once overheard Albus Dumbledore say.
So instead, Harry said:
"I'll think about your offer, Malfoy."
His storm-grey eyes clouded over slightly, but Draco nodded, all the same.
OOOOO
Disembarking from the train, Harry noticed, because it was impossible not to notice, a giant holding a lantern aloft,
"Firs' years! Firs' years, follow me!"
Harry followed his fellow first years to the fleet of boats lining the bank. Harry, Ron and Neville commandeered a boat and sat chatting, waiting patiently for the flotilla of boats to get a move on. They discussed the different classes they'd take, with Ron chipping with criticisms about the variety of teachers that taught his older brothers, Fred and George.
"Duck yer heads!" Hagrid, the giant bellowed, before practicing what he preached.
Harry rolled his eyes and spotted the algae above him, before the view suddenly cleared.
"Jus' round that bend, there," Hagrid called over the sudden noise of cascading water.
Harry held his breath and let it out in a gasp of excitement.
"Holy Merlin," he whispered to himself.
The castle looked like a Christmas tree, what with the many flares of light. It towered over the main village of Hogsmead and the highest branch of the forbidden forest. Harry observed in awe, the many protruding towers and the ethereal comfort it exuded.
"And that's Hogwarts!" Hagrid called jovially.
Harry's amazement was mirrored by many, if not all. Even Draco Malfoy looked impressed.
Disembarking from the boats and trying not to get their feet wet, they proceeded up to the looming, hard oaken doors. There was no visible door handle in sight, so Hagrid knocked, his knuckles causing a cacophony of sound to brake across the hills like the echoes of thunder. The door was opened by a stern witch, Minerva McGonagall, who stared the first years down imperiously. Harry had to admit, she did look imposing, with her hair drawn into a bun so severe, and it looked to have drawn the skin tight across the bones of her high forehead.
They were lead into an antechamber, off the side of the great hall, where McGonagall began her stern lecture.
"Each of you will be sorted into four houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin.
These houses will become your family here at Hogwarts.
You will attend classes with them, share dormitories with them and most importantly, share or lose victories."
She stared around at all of them and pointed students out, who dared to enter with the improper way of wearing robes.
Once McGonagall had left, the students began the discussion on what and how they would be sorted into their respective houses. Harry tuned them out, opting to merely be alone with his thoughts.
He thought of what Nicolas and Perenelle had said, last night.
"Whatever house you are sorted into, just know that we'll be proud of you."
Was he brave? Harry wondered. Or was he smart? Was he loyal and hard-working? Or was he cunning or ambitious?
He was all of those things, he knew. So, he would leave it in the capable hands of whatever would be sorting him.
"Proceed to the great hall, if you please?" McGonagall said briskly.
Harry followed the line of students into the great hall and stared, openmouthed at the ceiling, where the approximation of a star-filled sky hung over the scene. Four candle-lit tables, what Harry assumed were for the four houses, including the staff table, were in a straight-angle formation. Albus Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, his eyes agleam with excitement at the prospect of the reception of new students.
Harry saw a diminutive wizard, what he assumed was a professor, carry in the stool, a frayed and dusty hat perched atop it. He opened his mouth as wide as the sudden rip of the brim, as the hat began to sing.
"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
if you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!"
The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.
Harry bit his lip and felt the stirrings of anxiety begin to prickle at his insides. Where did he belong? Where did he fit in with all these people?
"When I call your name," said Professor McGonagall, "You are to please sit on the stool."
"Abbott, Hannah," became a Hufflepuff, much to the delight of the Hufflepuff table. The Fat Friar made room for her and smiled at her, winking cheekily.
"Bones, Susan," joined Hannah at the Hufflepuff table.
"Boot, Terry!" became the first Ravenclaw and was joined a minute later by "Brocklehurst, Mandy!"
The honor of the first Gryffindor for the first years was bestowed on "Brown, Lavender," who skipped up to her table, looking much the same as Hannah, except for the skinnier stature.
"Bulstrode, Millicent" then became a Slytherin, much to the delight of some of the Slytherins.
"Davis, Tracy!" became another Slytherin.
"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!" "Hufflepuff!"
"Finnigan, Seamus," became the second Gryffindor, much to the delight of the table on the far left.
"Granger, Hermione," ran to the stool and the hat made her the third Gryffindor, causing Ron Weasley to groan behind Harry.
"Greengrass, Daphne!" became yet another Slytherin.
"Longbottom, Neville," Harry's new friend, took a wile to sort. Eventually, the hat decided on Gryffindor, much to Harry's shock.
"Well, well," he muttered. "Seems like he does have some potential, after all."
"MacDougal, Morag," became a Ravenclaw.
"Malfoy, Draco!"
Draco swaggered up to the stool and was immediately declared a Slytherin and joined his friends, Crabbe and Goyle.
"No surprise there," Ron muttered bitterly.
Harry nudged him.
"Prejudices are unbecoming of you, Ron," Harry muttered, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.
Ron scoffed audibly in his ear, but Harry ignored him, in favor of watching Lily Moon being sorted into Slytherin.
"Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson followed suit.
Two Dark skinned twins, Padma and Parvati Patil, joined Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, respectively.
Sally-Anne Perks became another Hufflepuff...
And then it was Harry's turn.
"Potter, Harry!"
McGonagall seemed to draw out the bur in the R's of his name. They rattled in his skull, driving all semblance of clarity, of decisive action from his mind.
Whispers stalked him to the stool, sounding like the hissing of snakes underfoot.
"Where has he been?"
Was the most prominent question.
Harry ignored them, in favor of concentrating on his movements. The hat was lowered over his head, and Harry caught the scent of shampoo and dust, mingling to become something unique. His mother and father had worn the same hat. Did they feel as nervous? Were they this unsure of where the hat would place them?
Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, A my goodness,
yes - and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting...
So where shall I put you?"
"Buggered if I know," Harry thought darkly.
"You're the smart-arse piece of cloth.
"Hmm," said the hat again. "Slytherin, maybe?"
"Maybe," said Harry.
"You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that."
"On my way to greatness, eh?" Harry smirked. "What about Gryffindor?"
"Maybe..." said the hat, "but I think Slytherin will be your best option."
"Alright, then," Harry said. "Slytherin, it is."
"Slytherin!" the hat called out.
The hat was lifted off his head and Harry saw the varying expressions of disbelief, calculating and, from Ron, betrayal.
A prefect, broad of shoulder and venomous of countenance got up and shook Harry's hand formally.
"Glad you could join us serpents, Potter."
Well, hell! thought Harry. Quite the bloody welcome, indeed.
Harry took his place beside Draco, who smirked at him.
"Guess you know your place, after all, Potter."
Harry hummed and stared at Dumbledore, who was staring back at him, his face devoid of emotion. His eyes, however, still held that twinkle, which was a slight reassurance.
Harry scanned the staff table, and met the black eyes of Severus Snape, his head of house. He seemed to be glaring a hole right through Harry, but he ignored him. That was until he felt the prickling of his scar.
The Bloody Baronn, the Slytherin ghost fixed him with a blank stare, but Harry avoided his gaze uneasily.
"What's the big deal?" he muttered under his breath.
Draco, who had apparently heard him, said:
"Well, the big deal is... it's you, Potter. Defeater of Dark Lords and all that tripe."
"Ahh," muttered Harry, comprehendingly.
They expected him to be a Gryffindor, because he was a damned hero.
"Sorry to disappoint," he told Draco.
"Disappoint? Ha!" Draco scoffed at the idea. "We are not disappointed in the slightest, Potter!"
"Glad to hear it..."
Harry was interrupted by Albus Dumbledore tapping his crystalline goblet with the handle of his silver fork. Apparently, he had missed the rest of the sorting, due to his interaction with the several people.
"If I can have your attention for a moment?"
All noise ceased, leaving Dumbledore to take the floor.
"I have but a few words to say," he began, before Dumbledore smiled, a mischievous twinkle blasting the Great Hall. "They are: Nitwit!
Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!
Thank you!"
Dumbledore sat down, and the golden plates started to heap with food.
The Slytherin table et in silence, a vast contrast to the other four tables in the hall. Apparently, it was the way of Slytherin to see who would be the one to break the silence.
But nobody did. Harry et, till he couldn't eat any more. He had his last mouthful of pudding, before glancing expectantly up at the staff table, where Albus Dumbledore was taking the stage once more.
"Ahem - just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.
"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."
Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Weasley twins.
"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.
"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch.
"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 very painful death."
Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did.
"Stupid old man," muttered Draco. "He might as well have been saying: 'Please... Go there...'"
Harry had to admit Draco had a point.
"Wonder what his game is?" he asked Draco.
"Old fool like that... Who knows?"
"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed.
Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.
"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"
And the school bellowed:
"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,
Teach us something please,
Whether we be old and bald
Or young with scabby knees,
Our heads could do with filling
With some interesting stuff,
For now they're bare and full of air,
Dead flies and bits of fluff,
So teach us things worth knowing,
Bring back what we've forgot,
just do your best, we'll do the rest,
And learn until our brains all rot.
Everybody finished the song at different times. At last, only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march.
Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped loudest.
"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here!
And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"
"Off you trot?" Draco mocked. "Does he think we're five or something?"
Harry ignored Draco's scathing remarks and assisted with pushing the bench back.
"Follow me!" said the Slytherin prefect, a fifth year by the name of Flint.
The Slytherins marched out of the great hall and descended toward the dungeons, where it grew progressively darker, and the further down they descended.
"This is Filch's old punishment room, where he used to dangle students by their thumbs from the ceiling!" Flint kept up a running commentary, as they passed locations of importance.
Five minutes later, Flint lead them to a blank stretch of wall that appeared to be a dead end.
"The password is Lingis," said Flint.
The stone vanished, baring the Slytherin common room.
It was one square room, with passages branching off in all directions from each corner. At the far wall, was a fireplace that nearly took up the whole wall, but just leaving enough space for two battered-looking armchairs to flank noticed other armchairs scattered around, like a smattering of freckles on an otherwise barren floor.
"Alright, little ones!" Flint bellowed. "First-year dorms are over there!"
Flint jabbed a negligent, sausage-like finger at the passage farthest from the entrance.
"You share this corridor with the second and third years, so mind that you keep it down, yeah?"
Flint's voice took on a gravely, threatening edge that none of them missed.
"Now," said flint. "We are your prefects, and we'll be obeyed at all times, no matter what. Understood?"
Some of them nodded furtively.
"Good. Snape might be our Head, but in this place," he jabbed a finger at Terence Higs, the head boy and seeker for the quidditch team, "is king!"
They nodded again and flint smiled suddenly.
"Glad we understand each other," he growled. "Now, off to bed!"
Harry's bed was along side that of Blaise Zabini, who didn't even glance at Harry, when he pulled back the serpent-covered hangings that obscured his bed. Harry shut them again and ignored the chatter and gazed at the trunk that stood at the foot of his bed.
"Should I read?" he wondered out loud.
Deciding against it for tonight, Harry lay his head on the pillow, and within minutes, was asleep.
OOOOO
"Master," said Quirrel. "What can you tell me about Nicolas Flamel?"
The face at the back of Quirrel's head smiled indulgently and began listing off information about Nicolas Flamel:
Born: 1327 aged around 665 Brown hair, dark eyes, pale skin,
Wife: Perenelle Flamel
Occupation: Alchemist, Philosopher, manufacturer of the Philosopher's stone, which produces the elixir of life.
Flamel loves his opera.
He enjoys a quiet life in Devon,
Graduated Hogwarts in 1345, straight out of Gryffindor. Known hater of the dark arts. Guardian to one Harry James Potter.
"Right," said Quirrel. "The stone is in the third floor corridor. So, should I adjust my plans accordingly?"
"Our plans, Quirrel," Voldemort chided. "Never forget that you are a mere servant, subservient to my whim."
"As you say, master,"
Quirrel did not bow, for bowing to a face at the back of your own head felt decidedly odd. He did, however, moderate his tone.
Should I alert Severus as to your presence?
No! Voldemort barked sharply. I want to see where Snape s loyalties really lie.
As you wish, master.