Chapter Three: Hellebore
"I would rather take hellebore than spend a conversation with a good, little man.
Edward Dahlberg
Harry slept fitfully, curled around Tyr on the vinyl seat cushions of the train. His dreams were short, flitting from thought to thought and scene to scene. People yelling at him, telling him he was a failure, being locked in a cage and poked and prodded like the animals in a Muggle zoo. Tyr stroked his hair softly, trying to coax him into a deeper sleep. Eventually Harry settled down somewhat, but his limbs would twitch every now and then.
Tyr reluctantly woke him as they approached Heath, shaking his arm gently. Harry blinked and yawned, burrowing deeper into Tyr's side and mumbling something about wanting more sleep. Tyr ignored his complaints, waking the boy fully.
"We're almost home, Harry," he announced, pulling the boy with him onto the train platform. "Just a bit longer, wereling."
Twenty minutes later the rambling form of Vanargand came into view, complete with a fuming Fenrir with his back against the single Tudor style wall of the building. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees and his hands dangling between his legs. Harry cowered back at the furious yellow gaze, hiding behind Tyr as much as possible.
"So nice of you to return," he snarled, reaching to the side. He lifted a copy of The Daily Prophet up, dangling it in front of the two. "I would have thought you'd want to stay and make even more of a scene." He flung the paper to the ground, mouth still open in a snarl. Despite his lounging position, Harry shrunk away, barely daring to eye the large, moving picture on the front page.
It depicted Harry dragging Remus away from the stunned crowd, eyes flashing with anger and what appeared to be tears.
Boy-Who-Lived Defends Monsters
The text was humongous, taking up almost as much room as the photograph. Another, much smaller picture of Harry was off to the side, showing him waving a wand about inside Ollivander's, a frown on his face as he shook it again and again in frustration. A line of text below that detailed the specifications of his wand, including speculations as to what each component meant.
Harry groaned and hid his face in Tyr's leather jacket.
"You did want him to change public opinion of werewolves," Tyr reminded the alpha cautiously.
"I also didn't want the boy to draw too much attention to himself. The last thing we need is an investigation into his whereabouts. Or have you forgotten that he's not supposed to be living here? If that blasted Headmaster catches wind of the fact that he's away from those Muggles, if anyone guesses that he's been bitten..."
"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!" Harry babbled, dropping to the ground and rolling onto his back. He arched upwards in the air, head thrown backwards, throat and belly completely exposed in a submissive position that he had never used before. He was crying, and his trainers were digging into the dirt, but he didn't care, because he was a failure and Fenrir would hate him forever, and the Dursleys were right, that he was nothing.
"He's just a boy!" Tyr said, but Harry barely heard him. He collapsed onto the ground, crushing a few yellow carnations that grew among the weeds. He whimpered, not aware of the sticky sap coating his face as he shook his head from side to side, sobbing.
"Get up!" Fenrir commanded, the sharp tone in his voice mostly managing to mask the undercurrents of worry there. "Stop your sniveling!" Harry sniffed a bit more, swallowing loudly, but he obeyed. "Wizards hate us. You know that. I don't want you anywhere near the bastards. But since you've all gone over my head, and the pack's basically mutinied, you're going to Hogwarts. But you listen, and you listen well. You do anything to mess this up, and I will kill you, Dark Lord or no."
"Yes, Fenrir. But I... I failed."
"You didn't fail." Fenrir sounded faintly surprised. "Not yet, anyway. Now scat, before I decide you'd make a better breakfast. And as for you..." Fenrir rounded on Tyr, but Harry knew better than to stay. He ran into the forest.
Yggdrasil seemed even larger than it had the first time he'd seen the tree, and the snakes more numerous. Lord Voldemort had moved to possess yet another serpent, each one larger than the last. Harry privately wondered if there were to be any snakes big enough for him, soon.
"Hogwartsss..." Lord Voldemort hissed, sounding vaguely reminiscent. "You will do well there, Harry Potter." Harry nodded, and hoped he would be able to manage among all the wizards. If Voldemort said he would, it wasn't exactly a fond wish.
"I don't want to go," he admitted, knowing that Lord Voldemort knew this already, but also that he demanded honesty. "I do not like the wizardsss."
"You are a wizard," Voldemort chided, but his tongue flickered out to tickle Harry's cheek. "But ssstill, they are, for the mossst part, idiotsss. I do not blame you. You will be a ssstranger among them, jussst asss I wasss. But you will be ssstronger asss well." The serpent slithered towards him, something wrapped in its tail. "Perhapsss thisss will help you, Harry Potter." A book was deposited in his lap, and Harry fingered the pages reverently. "It isss a journal, nothing more. But I believe that you will find it a mossst sssympathetic friend..."
Tyr stood behind Harry, a scratched hand pushing him towards the brick wall. Fenrir's livid purple bruises had yet to fade, but they were at least pale enough that the Muggles around them didn't stare too badly. Besides, they were too busy gawking at the empty sleeve of the leather jacket that hung at Tyr's side.
"You'll be fine, wereling. You've almost three weeks 'til you need to be worried, and I'm sure that Lupin will help you." Tyr seemed to be making an effort not to insult the professor too badly, for Harry's sake, but the undercurrent of malice was hardly hidden. "You'll be fine," he repeated, and thrust Harry into the brick wall.
He blinked at the scarlet steam engine in front of him. He wanted to turn around, to find Tyr and tell him that this wasn't really necessary, that he could just stay at Vanargand, but the crowd was pushing him forward. Before he knew it he and his trunk had been shoved onto the train and somehow shunted into a compartment. In it was a girl who looked to be about his own age with a bluebell tucked in her red plait of hair.
"Hello," he said nervously, stuffing his hands in his pockets for lack of anything better to do with him. "Mind if I sit here?"
"No, not at all," the girl replied with a smile, gesturing to the seat across from herself. "My name is Susan. What's yours?"
"Harry," he responded, stowing his trunk in the luggage rack without a grunt and sitting down stiffly on the velvet seat.
"Harry Potter?" she asked, voice curious.
"S'right," he muttered.
"It's a pleasure to meet you. I saw what you did, at Diagon Alley. It was in The Daily Prophet, you know." Harry grunted. "I think that was very kind of you, and I quite agree. It's terrible, the way that wizards treat werewolves and giants and such. You'd think that having magic, they'd have more respect for life, in whatever form it comes in."
Harry smiled then. "Thanks. That means a lot." He nearly told her then, but he held his tongue. Tyr had warned him that there were people who said they were all for pro-werewolf legislation and the like... until they were actually introduced to a werewolf.
"Not at all. I'm going to be a First Year, like you are. Are you excited?" Harry nodded; it seemed like the safest thing to do. Really, he felt faintly nauseated, but he didn't think he should start telling Susan that being around Wizards made him want to retch. Susan nodded, her grin widening. "Myself as well."
Neither of them said anything. Susan kept smiling, and Harry was surprised that he couldn't detect any hint of strain in the expression. She seemed genuinely happy, and not at all bothered by the awkward silence that stretched between them.
"You... er... do you... have an owl?"
"No. I don't think it fair to subjugate them like that. They're much happier out in the wild, in their natural habitat. They really are nocturnal, you know." Harry did. He also knew they were delicious. "It's not right to force them to swoop around in daylight. It goes against their natures. Live and let live."
Harry nodded vaguely. What were you supposed to say to that? Susan made him uncomfortable; he had the idea that despite her professions of supporting werewolves, she seemed to like other animals as well. He supposed that she wouldn't quite support his eating habits during the full moon.
"Hello?" The door of the compartment was pushed open to reveal a slightly stout boy with too many freckles and an imperious tilt to his head. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" he asked as he made his way to the seat beside Harry. "Ernie Macmillan, it's a pleasure to meet you." He shook Harry's hand, then Susan's. "I'm ever so excited about Hogwarts, of course. I've heard it's just wonderful, simply wonderful." Harry wondered whether the boy needed to breathe or not. "And who are you?"
Susan introduced herself cheerily. "And he's Harry Potter," she added when Harry didn't speak.
"Are you really? Well, it's an honour to meet you. I've heard all about you of course, and I do hope that we can be friends." Harry just nodded mutely. Were all children like this, effusive and joyful and painfully formal? The two settled into an enthusiastic conversation about Hogwarts that grated on Harry's nerves.
"Thank Merlin I'll be in Slytherin," he muttered under his breath, settling back into the seat cushions. If he had to be bored, he might as well be comfortable.
"Oh, look, there it is!" Susan squealed as the small boat they were in glided underneath an overhang and out once more into the moonlight. The castle was magnificent, with towers that stretched to the stars and lights shining out of the Gothic stained glass windows. It felt odd though, as if it were to big, and too... uniform. An image of Vanargand rushed into his head, it's mixture of architectural styles and large windows filling him with a sudden, sharp pang. He didn't want to live in this cold, imposing castle with windows that were little more than arrow slits.
This wasn't home. It felt wrong, as if he'd stumbled into a story in which he knew nothing about and wanted nothing to do with.
"It's absolutely gorgeous!" Susan gushed as their boat bumped gently against the dock. "Oh, I can't believe that we're going to live here! I do hope I'm in a tower; the view must be wonderful." Ernie offered her a hand as she stepped delicately out of the boat, and the three children followed the huge giant that was leading the small group of first years up a series of stone steps.
"Just a mo'," he assured them, turning away from them to pound a fist the larger than most of the students against a door that was so large three of him could have stood atop one another and still walked through without stooping.
Several of the other kids jumped at the noise, Harry noted with narrowed eyes. Why were they startled? It wasn't as if they couldn't have guessed, after all.
The doors opened of their own accord, revealing a small, strict woman. Every inch of her appearance spoke of self-discipline and order. Her robes were freshly pressed, falling to the ground in precisely arranged folds. Her hair, which was barely visible underneath a neat green velvet hat, was pulled sharply away from her forehead and gathered into what Harry assumed was a bun.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," she greeted them, gesturing for the group to follow her inside. "I will lead you into the Great Hall shortly, where you will each be Sorted into the appropriate House. Each House has their own strength, and I hope that you will be a credit to whichever one chooses you." She spun briskly on one heel, and, without so much as a single glance over her shoulder to insure that all of the First Years were following (they were, tripping nervously over their feet), she strode towards a pair of doors only slightly less impressive than the ones at the entrance had been.
She pushed these doors open, though it seemed to take absolutely no effort on her part, which was surprising given her size. Magic, Harry thought with distaste. Wouldn't it be much simpler to just have a smaller door?
The students followed her, making their way between two of the long, long tables. The older students, already seated, looked at them with a broad range of expressions, bored, disdainful, encouraging. Most of the disdainful glances were aimed at him. A few students held The Daily Prophet in their hands, pointing at him and whispering. Were they still printing that story? Perhaps that had been the cause of Fenrir's anger throughout the month of August. But then why didn't he tell Harry about it, or at the very least scream at him for a bit?
Nervously, Harry moved to the back of the crowd as they reached the teacher's platform. Susan stayed at his side, smiling. Still smiling. Did she ever get mad, annoyed, disappointed? Was she ever human?
"I wonder how they will Sort us? No one will tell. It's a mystery."
But the mystery was soon solved as the professor from earlier placed an old hat down carefully on a rickety stool. Part of the brim opened in what he supposed was a mouth, but it just looked like a gigantic tear to him, and sang. Harry ignored the hat; he didn't like it. And besides, he knew where he would be Sorted anyway.
And if he didn't think about it, he wouldn't have to think of all those eyes staring at him as he sat upon the stool, as 'Abbot, Hannah' was doing now. All those people, more than he'd ever seen in his entire life. More than his primary school, more than he'd seen at one time in Diagon Alley, a hundred times more than were in the pack.
He gulped, his breath coming in short gasps. Everyone was looking at him, even the students who had turned back to their friends and started whispering. They were all looking at him! All those eyes, on his skin, searching, searching... He could feel his heartbeat, erratic and flighty. It pulsed through his wrists, his legs, his ears. Faster, faster, louder, louder, he was going to burst, the blood would come rushing out of his ears, his hands, his arms...
"Potter, Harry." He froze, the blood sounding one last, wailing cry. And then he was moving, stiffly, and sitting upon the stool, and closing his eyes as the Sorting Hat settled upon his head, covering his face down to his chin.
If I can't see them, you can't see me! he thought desperately, gripping the sides of the stool tightly with his fingers so as not to pull the hat down even further.
But I can see you.
It was the Hat. The Sorting Hat. Which was talking in his head.
No! Get out, get out! You can't find out! He could feel the Hat chuckling on his head while it slowly picked through his mind, his memories. Get out you bastard!
Mr. Potter, it is very important that I do the task that I was made for. For hundreds of years I have Sorted students, and you are no different.
Harry tried to move his hands, to throw the Hat off his head and abandon the wizards to their own squabbles. But his fingers wouldn't unclench, his arms refused to move. You can't find out-
That you're a werewolf? That you've spoken with Voldemort and lived under the roof of Fenrir Greyback?
You can't tell. I won't let you, I won't! I'll rip you to pieces before you can get so much as a word out! I'll give you over to Fenrir, I'll toss you to the Dark Lord, I'll-
Do no such thing. My purpose is to Sort you into the right House, nothing more. If I were to tell all the secrets that I find in childrens' minds, I would wear myself threadbare. And not all secrets are as dark as yours, Harry Potter. But there are some that are much, much darker. You would do well to remember that.
Now, as for your House... you've shown plenty of courage, and you learn quickly enough, but that's not what you are. You define yourself according to the roles others have placed before you. Voldemort, Fenrir, and most especially Tyr. You are not a Ravenclaw, nor a Gryffindor. No, no, I do believe that the House for you is-
"Hufflepuff!"
And the hat was ripped away, and the eyes really were all staring at him now. No one clapped, or cheered, as they had for all the other children. Harry sat frozen on the stool, hands still gripping it tightly. He was supposed to be in Slytherin, not Hufflepuff. He was supposed to be cool and cunning, not some dunderhead who didn't fit in anywhere else. Fenrir was going to kill him...
There was a bit of movement, just a flash, and Harry looked up through his fringe to see Susan standing, alone. She brought her hands together. Once. Twice. Thrice. She was still smiling, still clapping. Harry stood, and for a moment it was if only the two of them were there. He walked towards her, sitting down. She took her seat as well, still smiling. He grinned back, a genuine expression of pleasure. At least one person wouldn't hate him for this.
And then the scene broke, like someone smashing through a painting, destroying it utterly, ripping the calm canvas into shredded bits of misery.
"A Hufflepuff? A bloody Hufflepuff! And here I thought the Boy-Who-Lived would actually be worth something." Someone from across the Hall was laughing, and more joined him. He hadn't even been in school a whole day, and already he was a joke, a laughingstock!
Susan reached across the table, leaning forward slightly to do so, and grabbed his hand. "Look around, Harry. Every other House has their trait, their characteristic. And Hufflepuff does too."
"But I'm not supposed to be here," he told her, his voice barely more than a whisper. "They'll be so disappointed."
"Who, the other students, their families, the Ministry of Magic? I've heard what they say, Harry, that Hufflepuff is the House for the failures, the ones that don't have any courage or intelligence or ambition, the ones that don't fit in and aren't worth anything. And if that's what they think of them-of you, of us- then so be it."
"I don't give a flying fuh-" he raged, stopping at the collected expression on Susan's face. "You're a bloody robot or something," he finished. "Doesn't anything ever make you mad?"
Susan's lips never twitched, but her face changed. Suddenly, she looked distant, alone and slightly afraid. "Yes. But not this. Ignorance is something that should be corrected, not reviled." She turned her head towards the Sorting Hat once more, leaving Harry with a wrinkled nose and a furrowed brow.
"Robot," he accused under his breath.
A battered plastic flashlight was in his hand, and he dug through his trunk, hoping that none of the other boys would wake, that he wouldn't have to talk to them, that he could slip into his bed and pull the curtains shut and be alone. He shoved wadded robes and mismatched socks to the sides, searching for that journal that Voldemort had given them. He'd said it would be useful, and Harry could do with a bit of help at the moment. The human boys stank, all three of them, the smell of their sweat hardly even masked under a sickly sweet layer of deodorant.
Finally, with a pile of Muggle comics perched reverentially on the squat nightstand (everything in the dorm was short) he tipped his head to one side in order to keep the flashlight in place, and clicked open his pen.
Dear Diary,
No, it's wasn't a diary, it was a journal. Diaries were for girls. Girls like Susan, except that she wasn't a girl, but rather a robot. Aliens, robots, and superheroes seemed likely enough to him, what with all this strange magic suddenly floating around, like the ghosts that had appeared midway through the feast.
Hello. That was better. My name is Harry Potter. I'm at Hogwarts, and I think wizards are idiots. He paused, debating on whether rereading Captain Dredd would be more useful. His eyes flickered to the stack of comic books longingly. They reminded him of Tyr; surely that would be much more useful than a journal, even if Voldemort had said it was important. He looked at the page once more, ready to cross out his words and toss the book back into the bottom of his trunk. But his words weren't there.
Instead, they had been replaced.
Hello Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle.
Hellebore: Scandal
Yellow Carnation: Disappointment
Bluebell: Constancy
