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Unforgivables

Chapter II: The Sorting

Harry clenched his fist with all his might. His eyes were fixed on the boy who occupied a small wooden stool with the same arrogance of one who has seized a throne and now demands a crown. Professor McGonagall raised the Sorting Hat, high enough for everyone in the Great Hall to see, and placed it gently on her brother's head.

'Not Gryffindor, not Gryffindor' Harry pleaded. 'Anything but Gryffindor!'

"GRYFFINDOR!"

Gerald grinned from ear to ear. He respectfully handed the Hat to Professor McGonagall and walked towards the Gryffindor table amidst a sea of applause, cheers and excited murmurs; all while the giant Gamekeeper gave him a thumbs up and the Headmaster gave him a proud smile.

"Potter, Harry!" called Professor McGonagall.

Harry took one last glance at the red-and-golden table before he started walking towards the stool. He felt a strange sensation on the back of his neck, as if at the same time no one was watching him, but everyone was paying attention to him. As the teacher dropped the Sorting Hat on his head, he noticed how, at the back of the Great Dining Hall, several green-clad students were disinterestedly piling a few coins in the center of their table.

'Bets,' he realized. "They're betting on which House I'll go to."

"Interesting," whispered a little voice directly into his ears. "Good talent and intelligence. Yes, cunning and wit are good too. Where will I send you?"

Harry, like any child raised in a magical family, had heard the rumors surrounding the selection process. This piece of leather over his head, looking so old and decayed, was able to pierce the barrier of the mind and poke through his thoughts, even if it was only the most superficial layer. He could try to resist, of course. Harry was sure that at least half of those selected before him had tried, if only out of curiosity.

"So you know about me. I'm flattered, very flattered. But that just makes it harder to sort you."

Harry closed his eyes tightly and concentrated on his plea, 'In Gryffindor, I want to be in Gryffindor.'

"Oh!" exclaimed the little voice. "Are you sure? Your brother's fame would allow you to have a stay full of comfort and privilege, with plenty of time for both study and leisure. But if what you truly wish is not to be left behind, Gryffindor is not suitable.

'Please,' pleaded Harry.

"It's true," continued the Hat, ignoring her pleas, "I have not yet considered your ambition. Very intense indeed, few children of your age think of their future. Almost none are aware of what happens to the second sons of the great Houses until it is too late. But you are different. You've decided to give up your ambitions for House Potter and focus instead on taking over House Black by hook or by crook," the Hat laughed out loud. "By hook or by crook! I've known many wizards who knew how to accept harsh reality over their deepest desires, but you are the first to make that decision without gaining a shred of humility in the process. That is the nature of a..."

"SLYTHERIN!"

This time there was no applause, no cheering, not even indignant murmurs. The entire hall fell into a deep silence. The only noise in the room came from the Muggle-born, only ones ignorant of why everyone seemed to have witnessed heresy.

Harry stood up with as much dignity as possible, resisting the urge to crush the hat under his foot, and slowly made his way to the Slytherin table. The table where he would be forced to sit for the next seven long years.

"Look everyone. We'll have a Potter too."

The only free seat was next to a pompadoured blond. Although Professor McGonagall had called Lisa Turpin to the front, the girl remained among the unclassified children, as if she knew better than to interrupt the moment.

"I am Draco Malfoy," intoned the boy, extending his hand.

"I know who you are," Harry replied sharply.

The blond's smile barely wavered, but a dangerous light began to shine in his eyes. The whole table was watching them, curious, hungry, eager to see which of the two little boys would break first.

"And I'm sure you also know that we'll spend the next seven years living in the same dungeons."

Harry never believed that he would one day be forced to greet the son of a Death Eater. Much less in public, much less in front of his brother. He shook Malfoy's hand a single time and immediately took a seat, with no intention of prolonging his humiliation.

He turned his back on Malfoy and fixed his gaze on the dais, wanting to forget what he had just done. McGonagall stood alone by the stool, the Sorting Hat dangling uselessly between her fingers. She seemed to have taken a step in the direction of the Slytherin table, as if for a moment she had considered intervening.

"Too late," Harry thought bitterly.

Malfoy tapped him on the shoulder and instructed him to place a fork on his plate, just as everyone at the table had done.

"This way the food is transported directly to our plates," he informed him quietly. His smile was no longer fake, although it was no more sincere. "This way we avoid having to serve ourselves."

Lisa Turpin came to her senses and advanced to the stool. She was sorted into Ravenclaw. Right after that Ron Weasley was called, who was sorted into Gryffindor, following the tradition dictated by his whole family.

The red-haired man took a seat to Gerald's left and commented something in his ear while looking sideways at Harry. Gerald responded with a simple shrug. He didn't even turn to look at him.

Harry was not surprised by his indifference. They had never been close. While he had been educated under the tutelage of his mother or a private teacher; Gerald had been trained in magic by his father, uncle Remus and, very occasionally, Albus Dumbledore himself. He had no doubt that, in Gerald's mind, Harry Potter was just that little boy with the same face, but not burdened with the responsibility of holding the family name high.

"I must send a letter to my mother as soon as I can," he whispered to himself, knowing that for the first time that responsibility had fallen on him, and he had failed.

Blaise Zabini was sorted into Slytherin, he was the last of the first years. A new plate and chair materialized in the spot to Harry's left, and Zabini took that seat with neat apathy. He needed no reminder; he arranged three forks side-by-side on his plate and a spoon on a smaller plate.

Dumbledore stood, arms outstretched, his wine-colored robe shimmering as if sprinkled with a thousand stars.

"Welcome!" he exclaimed. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
"Thank you!"

Harry clapped his hands mechanically.

"My father says that every year the headmaster gets more and more senile," whispered Malfoy. "Anyway, this is Crabbe and Goyle. The one in front of you is Pansy Parkinson."

Harry looked up and greeted the three of them out of politeness. Crabbe and Goyle were unable to capture his attention, their impressive sizes didn't seem to contain anything resembling intelligence. The girl was nothing special either. Her hair was short, perfectly manicured and rather darker than Harry's; but that was the end of her only attractive feature. Her face was square, coarse, caught in a constant expression of disdain. At least she had white, well-shaped teeth, he noticed. She kept giggling in Malfoy's direction.

"I was so nervous," the girl crooned, piercing on the roast chicken that had appeared on her plate. "My older cousin went to Ravenclaw and my family talked about nothing else all week," she giggled, "My mother told me that her brother didn't stop grumbling until my Aunt Almudena put him in line."

"I never doubted it," said Malfoy, "It's a question of lineage. You saw it. The Hat sensed who I was dealing with before it even landed on my head."

Crabbe and Goyle nodded vigorously, their mouths full of mush.

"What about you Harry?" asked Pansy. "What did you and the Hat talk about? You took the longest time on the bench. How did you get into Slytherin?

Harry hadn't finished processing what had happened. The patchwork sack had mentioned ambition, but Harry refused to believe him. He wasn't ambitious. Gerald had enjoyed fame since birth, had received the family's invisibility cloak, and would one day inherit the vineyards and mansion where they lived. Harry only wished for the leftovers. A dilapidated house and the few businesses that had survived his father's profiteering and the neglect of a condemned man of justice.

But now even those scraps seemed like an impossible dream. How would he get his father to grant him the Black properties after being sorted into Slytherin? What was the hat thinking?

"I got in because of my ancestry," Harry replied.

"I thought you were a half-blood."

"And I'm sure that won't be a problem," Malfoy interjected sternly. "Half-bloods have never been a problem in this House."

Pansy Parkinson blushed at her slip. Her friends on either side of her laughed at her and from then on the topic of conversation drifted away from him. Theodore Nott bragged about the silver mines his father owned. Blaise Zabini was encouraged to narrate some anecdotes concerning his vacation in Greece. Daphne Greengrass spoke at length about the new fig-growing technique her grandfather was implementing. And the ghost of the House, an irate baronet with silver blood stained robes, taught them half a dozen new words as he discovered Crabbe trying to cool a biscuit by passing it across his body.

"Finish eating, Potter. We are not allowed to bring food into the dungeons" Malfoy warned quietly, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

Harry hurried through his rice pudding. But near the end, as everyone was getting ready to leave, he ignored Malfoy's warning and hid some bacon in his pocket. His poor owl would have to fly through the night.

"Just a few more words, now that we have all eaten and drunk," said Dumbledore, standing behind the podium. "There are some very important announcements I must make:"
"I am informing the first years that the forests are completely forbidden. And a few of our former students should remember that as well."
Dumbledore's gleaming eyes were fixed on a pair of russet-haired twins.
"Mr. Filch has asked me to remind you that magic is forbidden during breaks and 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 todie a very painful death."

Harry noticed how Dumbledore seemed to say that last thing by staring at Gerald. But he didn't know how to interpret his intentions. After everyone finished singing the school song, the prefects began leading each first year group to their dormitories. The path was winding, with multiple descents and turns. A couple of times they even made it up moving staircases and through secret passageways.

"Snake tongue," said the prefect once they reached their destination: a wall dotted with greenish stains.

A small door appeared in the stone and the long line of first years entered in an orderly fashion.

The sight took Harry by surprise. The Slytherin Common Room was a spacious hall adorned with large windows that looked directly into the depths of the lake. The armchairs, tables, chandeliers, and other things were modern, the oldest of them perhaps a little over two years old since leaving the store. Apparently, the rumor that graduated Slytherins donated large sums to their former House was true.

The Hall was also full of people, all of them crowded around the edges, as if waiting for a show to begin. And, unlike what his father had told, the trunks were not in the bedrooms, but piled up against a wall as if they were anything at all.

"To the right were the men's dormitories. To the left, the women's. Each dormitory has eight rooms, each of these rooms has room for four students and the closer they are to the common room, the more spacious and comfortable they are. I will leave it up to you to decide for yourselves how you will distribute yourselves," announced the prefect as he left them. "See you tomorrow."

The first years looked at each other, then at the crowd watching amusedly from the edges of the Hall, and finally at the huge students guarding the doors of each room.

"I'll try to get you a place," Malfoy whispered. "You just follow Zabini and try to look confident."

Malfoy hurried to catch up with Nott. Once they were evenly matched, they walked without fear, saluted the watcher and entered the first room unhindered. Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson advanced soon after, playing an almost identical scene.

Only then did Blaise Zabini start to move. Harry followed closely behind him, not wanting to know what would happen to those left behind.

"Twenty-three," Zabini declared, handing a leather pouch to the lookout.

The young man estimated the weight of the pouch by catching it a couple of times in the air. He nodded in satisfaction and opened the door for Zabini. His arm continued outstretched, preventing Harry from going after him.

"I'll pay for Potter," announced Malfoy from inside, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Twenty-five galleons!"

"Thirty," replied the lookout.

"Fifty, and Crabbe and Goyle will be in the next room," said Malfoy, tossing him a small bag that was much fatter than Zabini's.

The guard caught it in mid-air and immediately put it up his sleeve. He pulled out his wand, looked at Harry and gestured with his chin for him to come in at once.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Harry stepped back from the doorway just in time to see his and Zabini's trunk float in and land on the two beds on the left side. Malfoy and Nott's belongings needed no such favor, they were laid out on their beds from the very moment they were sorted. Without a doubt, the purebloods of old were the kings of Slytherin House.

"Hey, Malfoy," exclaimed the guard. "Better make it twenty-seven for Potter alone!"

The bag Zabini had paid for flew through the air and crashed into Draco Malfoy's chest. The boy stumbled backwards and ended up lying on his bed. The watcher let out a laugh and slammed the door shut.

'Maybe not exactly kings.'

"Who does he think he is?" grumbled Malfoy, getting to his feet and walking in the direction of the door. He struggled for a while trying to open it, but only succeeded in hurting his fingers, "He'll see when my father finds out."

"It was bound to happen," Nott interjected, pulling a pair of pajamas out of his trunk. "You don't think a guy like that would be able to keep that many galleons, do you? His last name is Tarius, but he's a half-breed on his maternal grandmother's side. Wait until tomorrow and you'll see how he comes to apologize to you."

"Well, I hope that apology comes with some of my galleons," added Malfoy, kicking the door.

Harry wanted no part of the conversation. He went to the long table in the center of the dormitory and was not surprised to find it well-stocked with paper and ink.

"Will you write now?" asked Malfoy.

"I must notify my parents of my sorting."

His three roommates seemed to find his quip amusing.

"Do you really think they don't know?" scoffed Nott, crawling between the sheets.

"They probably found out as soon as we left the dining room. All noble families have connections among the professors," Malfoy added, climbing onto his bed. "As of tonight, you're the closest thing to a blood traitor to them."

Zabini went to the wall and began to turn off the lamps one by one. When only the last one was left, his fingers, so close to the light, drew long shadows on the bedroom walls.

"You're one of us now," was all he said.

Harry hurried to light a candle, just in time to avoid the Slytherin's fingers closing around him. He paid them no heed. He dipped the tip of the quill into the ink bottle and recounted from beginning to end everything that had happened, leaving nothing out. But as he read his own words, he realized that he would not be able to send that message. He burned the parchment in the candle fire and began to write a new letter, shorter, less detailed, in which he made no mention of the conversation with the Sorting Hat. He wrote for almost an hour, but the result was even more pathetic than the previous one.

He held his letter close to the small flame of the candle once more and watched his lies burn away.

The next day, at breakfast, Harry received a reply to the letter he had never sent.

...

Harry, dear. I have heard of your sorting into the great House of Slytherin. My sincerest congratulations. I hope you study hard and enjoy your stay in the same way I did.

Slytherin have a bad reputation, but first-years are just like any other, don't be guided by prejudice. Still, if any of them try to bully you, don't hesitate to give notice to your Head of House. We maintained a close friendship in the past, and I'm sure he won't deny you a helping hand.

I know you may be worried about your father's reaction, but you know how stubborn he is and how much he wanted to have his two beloved sons in the same House, supporting each other. Let me assure you that he will soon get over his tantrum and send you a letter asking you about the subjects you are studying and the many friends you will have made.

I am sending you a packet of carbon paper. I have enchanted them, with just a little pressure you will be able to make copies of some books and speed up your work a lot. Besides, since the copying process is mostly Muggle, none of the teachers will detect the copies you make, I tell you from my own experience.

I bid you farewell.

Love, your mother.

...

Harry carefully stowed the packet of carbon paper in his backpack. If his mother, the most honest woman he knew, sent him an object to cheat with, then things would not go as well as she claimed.

After breakfast the Slytherin first years trooped up to the third floor, excited for their first Charms class. The subject was taught by Professor Flitwick, a diminutive gentleman who had the uncanny ability to get all the students to sit in the front rows. That is, if you wanted to watch him teach without craning your neck.

McGonagall, meanwhile, taught the Transformations course, and she did so using an extremely strict teaching method. She did not tolerate whispering or objects foreign to her subject, which turned every lesson into a portal to an exotic world where the teacher was always the most interesting thing in the room. However, that also made her students afraid to ask questions. Lest they had missed the explanation because they were daydreaming. After all, the most interesting thing in a classroom usually fell far short of matching a child's imagination.

The first Defense Against the Dark Arts class was the next day. Professor Quirrell's lessons were easier to learn with book in hand than by paying attention to his stammering, although it did get a lot better during the practical lessons. The entire class learned the wind creation charm before their third attempt. The strong smell of garlic was a great motivator.

On Friday he finally met his Head of House. It was a rather introductory class, but if he learned anything that day it was that Professor Snape only disliked one person more than him, and that was Gerald. Harry didn't dare speak to him. Such a fellow would never offer a helping hand to anyone...unless, of course, it was literally the severed hand of a friend.

The next few days passed in a blur. The dungeons were far from most of the classrooms and the library, and he hadn't quite gotten the hang of the moving staircases, so it wasn't until mid-September that he realized his father hadn't written.

His roommates had been right.

P.D.: Reviews are appreciated