Harry met Dudley outside the Great Hall, as the rest of the students followed their prefects to their respective dormitories. They stood waiting for Professor McGonagall in silence, Harry still mulling over everything that had happened and been said at the Slytherin table. He looked up when he noticed Dudley was fidgeting with his sleeves, opening and closing his mouth as if he was about to say something, but kept stopping himself.
"What's up, Dudley?"
His cousin hesitated. "Is it true what they say?" he blurted out at last. "Did your parents really get killed by this Who D'You Know guy?"
"You Know Who," corrected Harry, fighting the urge to show his amusement. "His real name is Voldemort, but people are still afraid to say it. And yes, it's true. He killed my parents and tried to kill me, but his curse got deflected somehow and he ended up blasting himself."
Dudley was silent for a moment as he took in this new information.
"So... How come you ended up in Slytherin then? Everyone was sure you were going to be Gryffindor, because you are this hero who saved everyone. They were all really surprised when the Hat called out Slytherin instead."
Not as surprised as I was, I bet, thought Harry wryly. "I don't know about the whole hero thing. I was one year old, how could I have done anything at all? The Hat just said that... that I'd do well in Slytherin." Harry shrugged uncomfortably, and realised the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach was jealousy. How come that Dudley, notorious bully and coward, had ended up in Gryffindor while he was left to rot with the Slytherins?
"They seemed to love you anyway. Cheering and clapping and shouting like that... Everyone wanted to talk to me at the Gryffindor table, but all they wanted to talk about was you," said Dudley, his face sullen.
There was a moment of silence, as each boy reflected on how good the other had it. The silence was broken when Professor McGonagall finally arrived, accompanied by none other than Professor Snape.
"Follow me," said Professor McGonagall curtly, striding past them. Harry and Dudley were swept up in her wake and hurried to keep up, followed by Snape who brought up the rear. Harry dared a glance back at the sour-faced Potions Master, and wondered why he was coming along with them. Then he realised, with a sick jolt of his stomach, that Snape was now his Head of House, and it was only natural for him to be present when one of the Slytherins was called in for a chat with the Deputy Headmistress.
Harry swallowed thickly as they strode through hallways and up staircases, neither of the adults saying a word. He had reckoned on having his first proper meeting with Snape during his first Potions class, not at a meeting over a problematic situation he had caused. Would it make Snape see him as a no-good troublemaker all over again, every inch his father? He'd have to be very careful, not speak out of turn or give any sign of rebellion...
Harry was so lost in his anxious thoughts that he almost bumped into Dudley when they stopped outside of Professor McGonagall's study. They were marched inside, and Snape closed the door behind them with an ominous thud.
"Please sit down," said Professor McGonagall, and Harry and Dudley took a seat in front of the desk that dominated the room. Professor McGonagall sat down behind it, and Snape took up position next to one of the filing cabinets. Professor McGonagall glanced at him, then turned her attention back to Harry and Dudley.
"We received word from the Ministry that there was a... disturbance this morning at King's Cross," said Professor McGonagall, "involving your relatives and several muggle police officers. Thankfully Mr. Weasley, who you met on platform nine and three-quarters, managed to contact the Ministry in time to send reinforcements to King's Cross to modify the memories of those muggles involved. You will be pleased to hear no lasting harm has been done."
Professor McGonagall paused to give them a stern stare, and Harry sagged with relief. He'd been worrying about what had happened after they'd fled to platform nine and three-quarters.
"Mr. and Mrs. Weasley told us that you boys had run away from home because your relatives were unwilling to allow you to attend Hogwarts, and actively tried to prevent this by giving you house arrest," continued Professor McGonagall.
Harry and Dudley both nodded mutely. Harry glanced at Snape, who was leaning against his filing cabinet, his arms crossed, face expressionless.
"Mr. Potter, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you," said Professor McGonagall, pursing her lips in something Harry couldn't decide was disapproval or disappointment. He sat up straight. What kind of bad news could possibly be waiting for him already, on top of everything else that had gone wrong?
"Your aunt and uncle have been in contact, and have withdrawn their guardianship over you. That means you will no longer be able to stay with them."
Harry blinked. He knew the Dursleys would be more angry than ever before, but to kick him out of the house altogether? He hadn't thought it would come to that. If he couldn't call Privet Drive home anymore, that meant the protection of his mother's blood would be broken. He'd be a sitting duck for any witch or wizard that thought it'd be a great idea to have a go at The Boy Who Lived.
"Then... who will I stay with?" he said, licking his lips nervously.
"Your guardian in wizarding society is Professor Dumbledore. He will arrange accommodation for you during any holidays for as long as necessary. I know that Professor Dumbledore hopes that, given time, your aunt and uncle will reconsider their decision and assume guardianship again," said Professor McGonagall. Harry glanced at Snape again, whose expression hadn't changed in the slightest. He didn't have the faintest idea what the man could be thinking about the situation.
"What about me?" said Dudley in a small, terrified voice. Harry had almost forgotten his cousin was there, and jumped when he spoke up.
Professor McGonagall hesitated. "Please rest assured that your parents have expressed no wish to have you leave the house, Mr. Dursley," she said, looking slightly uncomfortable. "However, they have asked that you do not contact them for the moment, until they have come to terms with... the situation."
Dudley sat in his chair mutely, lost for words. Harry grimaced. The Dursleys had put every effort into preventing Dudley from coming to Hogwarts. Now he had succeeded, would they treat him like they always had Harry, and pretend he didn't exist, ashamed of being associated with one of the freaks, even if said freak was their son? Dudley, the ultimate spoiled mother's boy, suddenly cut off from his parents. He knew that was going to be hard on his cousin.
"Sorry, Dudley," he muttered, wanting to pat the large boy on the shoulder but unsure how Dudley would take it.
"Why'd you be sorry, now you don't have to go to back to your cupboard anymore," replied Dudley in a thick voice, sounding resentful and like he was trying to stop himself from crying at the same time.
"Cupboard?"
It was the first time Harry had heard Snape speak up, and he turned around in his seat to watch him. The man had stopped lounging against the filing cabinet and stood up straight, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead. Harry leapt on the chance, his heart racing.
"My aunt and uncle made me live in the cupboard under the stairs," he said, trying to sound timid. "Though they moved me to Dudley's second bedroom when I got my letter."
"I - what?" choked Professor McGonagall, while Snape's frown deepened.
"Is that true?" said Snape, and Harry was about to open his mouth to say that yes, it was, when he realised the question was aimed at Dudley, who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
"He's so small and skinny, he didn't need much space," muttered Dudley. This earned him a disbelieving but furious glare from Professor McGonagall, and he hastily added: "That's what my parents said! They had to take in Harry and we didn't have much money to feed another mouth, and..."
"Did they even feed him at all?" said Snape to Professor McGonagall in a soft voice, quirking an eyebrow. "The boy is skin and bone."
Despite being referred to in third person like he wasn't there, Harry was encouraged by the fact Snape had made the observation at all.
"I could always grab something while I was cooking," he ventured.
This brought forth another exclamation from Professor McGonagall, and with the help of some pointed questions, Harry revealed the entire sordid account of how his aunt and uncle had treated him. He was careful not to overdo it, trying to sound like he thought his homelife at the Dursleys' was more or less normal, mindful of being thought of as whiny by Snape. Dudley was called on to affirm Harry's claims and did so grudgingly, trying to apologise for his parents' actions and minimising his own role in what had happened, but actually telling the truth, which surprised Harry. He had half been expecting Dudley to lie wildly, but maybe the boy felt he owed Harry for having taken him to Hogwarts.
It was oddly liberating to finally tell someone everything that the Dursleys had ever done to him, from starving him and working him as a slave to being bullied and humiliated by Aunt Marge. Harry couldn't remember ever revealing all the details of his time with the Dursleys. When he was done, he felt cleansed, like some of the Dursleys' poison had been purged from the wound that was his childhood.
Professor McGonagall sat in stunned silence for a while after Harry had finished. Snape was looking at him as if mentally seizing him up, and when Harry returned his gaze, he felt the faint tendrils of discrete Legilimency brushing his mind. Harry tried to think of nothing but how the Dursleys used to treat him, wanting Snape to see that what he had told them was the truth, but terrified that the man might pick something up from his previous past. After a few moments, the presence behind his eyes lifted, and Harry stopped himself from shivering. He really didn't like being read like that.
"If that was everything, Minerva, I think I will take Mr. Potter here to the Hospital Wing for a quick check-up," said Snape, breaking the uneasy silence that laid over the office.
"Yes - Of course, that was all," said Professor McGonagall, pulling herself together. "Could you come back after you've escorted Mr. Potter to his dormitory? I think we need to have a word with the Headmaster about this." She turned her attention to Dudley, who looked like he was about to collapse into a miserable little heap. "Mr. Dursley, facing the truth, no matter how ugly, takes courage, especially when one's loved ones are put in a less than favourable light. Five points to Gryffindor for admitting that Mr. Potter was telling the truth, despite the discomfort this must have caused you."
Dudley sat up a little straighter at that, and Harry silently thanked Professor McGonagall for saving at least part of his cousin's dignity. He hoped Dudley wouldn't blame him for everything that had gone wrong.
Professor McGonagall got up to lead Dudley to Gryffindor Tower, and Harry left the study with Professor Snape, who looked as ill-tempered and menacing as ever. What did you expect, sympathy and a cup of tea? thought Harry, as they made their way through the halls and corridors of the castle.
"Professor?" said Harry as they rounded a corner. He had to skip a step every so often to keep up with Snape's long strides. "Why are we going to the Hospital Wing?"
"Mr. Potter, despite your assurances of having managed to sneak the odd bite while preparing food for your relatives, you show signs of malnourishment. This can lead to all sorts of complications, especially - at your age - arrested development. Madam Pomfrey might be able to at least correct some of the damage your aunt and uncle have wrought," said Snape, not bothering to look back at Harry, who had to stop himself from cheering. Snape actually cared about his physical well-being? He'd always tried to keep Harry safe for Lily's sake, of course, but Harry had the impression that 'alive' was the most Snape had ever been aiming for.
Harry ended up having to stay over in the Hospital Wing for the night, as Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let him leave until she'd poured a wide array of potions down his throat, given him a full physical exam, and even then claimed he needed to stay for observation. Snape had shrugged, told Harry the password for the Slytherin common room (Basilisk), and left him with the warning that he'd better be on time for breakfast the next day.
Harry laid uncomfortably beneath the crisp sheets of the hospital bed, pins and needles pricking over his entire body. He'd been told this was a normal reaction to one of the potions which contained SkeleGro to strengthen his bones, which had suffered from lack of nutrients. He also felt extremely hot, and like his entire body was slightly too small for him. The side effects from the potions cocktail were bad enough to keep him from sleep, so Madam Pomfrey had given Harry a dose of Sleeping Potion, which he was now fighting against in order to think things over. So much had happened today, so many things had changed without him having any influence over them. His friends had been scattered across the Houses, and he himself had ended up in the most hated House of all. He thought he'd had a pretty good start with Ron, Hermione and Neville on the train. Had all of that been for nothing? Would they want nothing to do with Harry now that he was a Slytherin? He couldn't let that happen. They were his friends, even if they didn't know it yet, and he wasn't just going to abandon them.
What scared him most was the fact that he'd lost his grip on a predictable future this early on. Being sorted into Slytherin was a huge change from what had happened last time. How far could he trust his memories? Had the ripples from the changes he'd made spread so far already that he couldn't count on the information from his past anymore?
Harry finally lost the fight against the Sleeping Potion, and slid into a dreamless sleep.
Harry was woken up the next morning by Madam Pomfrey, who was jabbing her wand at him as she muttered several diagnostic incantations under her breath.
"Ah, you're awake," she said crisply, when Harry started protesting against the discomfort. "You'd better make your way to the dormitories before breakfast, so you can have a shower and a change of clothes. I'll be expecting you back here tonight Mr. Potter. I've put together a regime of potions you'll have to take daily for a fortnight, before bedtime."
"I have to sleep here for two weeks?" said Harry, putting on his glasses. He wasn't very fond of the Hospital Wing, having spent more time there than he'd liked, but maybe it was preferable to the Slytherin dormitories.
"That won't be necessary. I'm satisfied that with the aid of a Sleeping Potion, you will be fine to sleep in your own bed from now on. Now, off you go, Mr. Potter. Remember what Professor Snape said about not being late for breakfast."
Harry made his way to the Slytherin common room on autopilot. The castle was dark and silent this early in the morning, and he didn't cross paths with anyone. It was only after he arrived at the stretch of wall that hid the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons that he realised he shouldn't know how to get around Hogwarts. He recalled having quite a lot of trouble finding his way around in his first year, unused to things moving around.
"Basilisk," said Harry to the wall, suddenly missing the Fat Lady and her cheerful welcomes. He stepped into the common room, the wall silently gliding shut behind him, and looked around. Leather couches dotted the room, and several armchairs were arranged in front of the large, elaborately carved fireplace, in which a low fire was crackling. The walls of the room were a mixture of rough stone wall and elaborate gothic carvings, giving the place a cavernous feel. The ceilings were simply rough stone, and tall elegant windows that looked out into the depths of the lake lined one of the sides of the room, a blue-green light filtering through them. Harry jumped when a huge shadow suddenly drew in front of the windows and silently glided out of sight again.
"The Giant Squid likes to drop by occasionally," said a voice, and Harry looked around wildly. He'd thought the common room would be empty at this early hour, and he hadn't seen anyone when he came in. He finally spotted a lone figure in one of the armchairs in front of the fire, obscured by its high back. Blaise Zabini sat forward a little, the play of shadow and light from the fireplace making his face look strangely unreal.
"Glad to see they haven't shipped you back to the muggles yet. Where were you last night?"
"Had to go to the Hospital Wing," said Harry, and Blaise raised an eyebrow, but didn't inquire further. "Anyway, I'd better get a shower and get dressed for breakfast. See you."
Blaise turned back to the book he'd been reading, and when Harry hesitated, realising he had no idea where his bedroom was supposed to be, called out: "Staircase on the right. We're the second door from the left."
"Thanks," said Harry, slightly embarrassed.
Harry was greeted by the other first-year boys in various stages of getting dressed as he entered the dormitory, dodging a question about where he had been last night with a vague answer about having to see Madam Pomfrey for some not-further-specified ailment.
"Where's Malfoy? I didn't see him downstairs," asked Harry when he noticed the blond boy's absence.
"Mr. Malfoy doesn't want to sleep with the plebs," snorted a pale, rather skinny boy with a shock of mousey hair. Harry identified him as Theodore Nott with some difficulty, never having had much to do with him. "Mr. Malfoy gets his own suite in the Slytherin dungeons. Doesn't want to catch your fleas, boys."
Crabbe and Goyle glowered at that, but Harry chuckled, surprised that apparently not all Slytherins were eager to lick Malfoy's boots. Theodore Nott smiled at him thinly, and went back to knotting his tie.
Harry set off to the Great Hall after his shower together with the rest of the first years, Blaise and Draco joining them when they left the common room. Breakfast seemed much like a repeat from the Sorting Feast, Harry being the center of everyone's attention. Although - not everyone, he noticed while chewing on a piece of bacon, using his full mouth as an excuse again to stay quiet for most of the time. Some of the Slytherins were acting normally, not giving Harry any more attention than they did anyone else. Simply not impressed by fame, or Junior Death Eaters?he wondered.
Timetables were handed out, and Harry quickly read through his when Blaise passed him his copy.
"Herbology and History of Magic first thing on a Monday? I shouldn't have bothered getting out of bed," protested Draco on Harry's other side.
"Transfiguration in the afternoon though," pointed Harry out. "After Defense Against the Dark Arts."
The single comment awarded him with being flooded with questions about his favourite subjects, whether he had a particular interest in Transfiguration, and what he thought of Professor Quirrell. Harry restricted himself to grunts and shrugs, gulping down his pumpkin juice and silently cursing himself.
It was the strangest feeling, being liked by the Slytherins. Harry was frequently stopped for a chat by older Slytherins when on his way from one class to the other, often only escaping in time with the aid of Draco, Blaise and Theodore, who seemed to have latched themselves onto Harry.
Draco Malfoy acted like he was Harry's best friend, telling everyone who would listen of how he'd known Harry would be a Slytherin from the moment they first met and giving Harry a constant stream of his opinions and stories about his glamorous life at Malfoy Manor, which made it very difficult for Harry to stop himself from thumping him. Theodore Nott, who was thankfully not as vocal as Draco, was a stringy-looking boy with rather large front teeth and a penchant for sarcasm. Harry thought he was a bit irritating at times, but he did enjoy joining Theodore in ribbing Draco occasionally. Theo, as the other Slytherins called him, didn't seem to be easily impressed, whether it was with Draco's or with Harry's status, and had taken to calling Harry 'Lord Potter the Awesome' in his bored voice whenever someone made a fuss over him. Blaise Zabini, on the other hand, simply seemed to be, well, present. He didn't exactly follow Harry and the other first year Slytherins around, he just happened to turn up wherever Harry was most of the time. Harry felt he liked Blaise's company best, as the boy was mostly quiet and didn't put much effort into trying to have conversations with him. The biggest downside from being adored by the Slytherins, aside from feeling like he'd been dropped into some sort of bizarro world, was that their attention effectively herded him away from the people that he actually wanted to talk to: Ron and Hermione. Harry tried numerous times to get away from his fellow Slytherins so he could try to start building up some sort of relationship with his old friends, but they simply wouldn't let him. Harry got through his first week by gritting his teeth and fantasising about cursing his overly friendly fellow Slytherins to smithereens.
Harry's first Defense against the Dark Arts class made him even more uneasy. He wasn't sure how he'd react when confronted with Quirrell again, knowing that somewhere in that purple turban, a part of Voldemort was hiding. He watched Quirrell keenly from the last row, where he'd seated himself (Draco, Theo and Blaise falling in their chairs around him - there really was no getting rid of them), occasionally trying to stop himself from hissing in pain as Quirrell turned around to make a note on the blackboard, putting his turban in Harry's sight.
Harry really didn't know much about Quirrell, just that he'd come back from a holiday in Albania with a bad case of the stutters and an unfortunate hitchhiker. Had Quirrell taken Voldemort as his master and invited him in, mostly acting of his own accord? Or had Voldemort possessed Quirrell before he could defend himself, and controlled him like a puppet? Harry rubbed his scar again, aware more than ever that he, too, was walking around with part of Voldemort's soul in his head.
"D'you know what Quirrell used to do before he became the DADA professor?" said Harry to noone in particular.
"He used to be professor of Muggle Studies," said Draco scathingly. "Father used to talk about him. Useless waste of skin, he called Quirrell. First Class muggle lover. Can't say I disagree, this class is rubbish. The man obviously doesn't even know what he's talking about!"
That didn't sound very much like someone who supported Voldemort, Harry thought. Maybe it was more like when Ginny was possessed by Riddle's diary, and Quirrell didn't really know what Voldemort was making him do, unaware that he was possessed at all? If that was the case, then Harry had more or less murdered an innocent Quirrell in his first year. Not that he'd had a choice at the time, but the thought made him nauseated nonetheless.
Another thing for Harry to worry about had become apparent during their first Transfiguration class. Harry had prepared himself for carefully dosing the amount of power he put into the spell to turn matchsticks into needles, but when making the attempt, found that he was getting nowhere. It took him every bit of effort he could muster to apply the basic Transfiguration principles and turn his matchstick silvery and pointy. He frowned, while Professor McGonagall pointed out to the class that Harry had made some progress, and awarded him a point for Slytherin. Harry had to stop himself from wincing at that. He still wasn't used to being a Slytherin, and earning points for his House made him feel like a traitor.
It became clear during his practical classes that while Harry was far ahead of anyone else in terms of theory, his magical abilities didn't seem remarkably greater than those of his fellow students. His teachers praised him for how quick he was to pick up on spells, but Harry worried about how he wasn't mastering them the way he should. He privately practiced several charms and spells after classes, and found that he couldn't replicate the effects he'd been able to get when he was seventeen no matter how hard he tried. He knew perfectly well how to do magic - but somehow his spells didn't have the power behind them that they used to.
Harry spent most of his History of Magic class on Thursday afternoon wondering if his trip through time had somehow addled his magic. He had no idea what sort of effects the whole event could have had on him, and that evening he set to reading the books on Time Travel he'd bought in Diagon Alley, determined to find out.
To his disgust, Harry discovered that his books didn't actually contain any useful information. One was mostly stories about some wizards hundreds of years ago experimenting with time, and wizarding myths on the subject. One turned out to be a book of what must have been crackpot theories, detailing elaborate conspiracies of some invisible magical race to play with the timeline and turn it to their own advantage. The last book he'd pinned his hopes on he couldn't even properly read, as it was full of mathematical formulas and seemed mostly concerned with the origins of the universe and the start of time.
"What are you reading?" said Blaise, bending over Harry's armchair and fishing the book he had been leafing through out of his hands. "Seriously Potter, I'm starting to wonder why the Sorting Hat didn't put you in Ravenclaw, what with all our teachers fawning over you, and you constantly burying your nose in books like this."
Harry muttered something about background reading and snatched his book out of Blaise's hands, who snorted derisively. He should have known that any really useful information on Time Travel would be highly restricted by the Ministry. He wasn't even sure that what he had done had been Time Travel in the strictest sense of the word. When they'd used Hermione's TimeTurner in his third year, there had been two versions of Harry running around: the original Harry and the one that had gone back. What Harry had somehow done was more like returning to an earlier version of his body instead of the one in the woods. Did that mean he'd replaced his original self, or that he was his original self, but with all of the memories that his future self had lived through?
Harry sighed and rubbed his temples. Breaking his head over what had happened wasn't very productive, he'd be better off spending his time planning on what his next move was going to be. Like how he was going to connect with his friends despite being a Slytherin, or how on earth he was going to get Sirius out of Azkaban so he could replace Dumbledore as his guardian. And how he was going to deal with Quirrell, when he'd be facing him again.