Chapter 3: Laying the foundations

It was dark by the time the train drew up at Hogwarts. Students streamed out of the carriages and flooded the platform, suitcases and cages clattering behind them. As soon as Ron and I alighted we were hailed by a familiar and unwelcome voice:

"'Arry! Over 'ere! It's me!"

I cringed and pretended not to hear Hagrid but he had spotted Ron too:

"'Ey, you the latest Weasley? Over 'ere! All first years, over 'ere!"

We joined the knot of people assembling round the great oaf, while the older students headed to the right where a fleet of (apparently) horseless carriages waited to ferry them away.

"Y'all got everythin'?" asked Hagrid, his uncouth accent grating in my ears, "Follow me!"

We left the platform and filed through a stretch of woodland, Hagrid going ahead holding a lamp. At length we came to the edge of a very large lake. A flotilla of tiny boats was waiting for us, moored in a little bay.

"In yer get! No more 'n four ter a boat!" Hagrid boomed, clambering into one and nearly capsizing it in the process.

I was in no mood to go sailing again after my excursion off Scotland but, as I apparently had no choice, Ron and I palled up with two other first years and tried to make ourselves as comfortable as we could.

As soon as everyone was safely aboard the boats pulled away from the shore, propelled by some invisible force. A short way out the flotilla turned and started to follow the shoreline north, maintaining perfect formation all the while. A rocky headland blocked our way ahead. As the flotilla rounded this point, we caught our first glimpse of Hogwarts. Everyone gasped, and I didn't blame them. It was, and remains, a stunning sight, tall and majestic atop the cliffs: Hogwarts Castle, the Fortress of Unnumbered Towers (that's not poetic guff by the way: the towers will start moving around if they spot somebody trying to count them). The light from her windows seemed to turn the surface of the lake to polished gold, across which we glided towards the cliffs.

At first I thought the flotilla was about to wreck itself on the cliff face and was about to cry "Abandon ship!" when the lead boat promptly slipped through the rock as if it was so much mist. On the far side was a short tunnel, which brought us to an underground jetty. Leaving our cases behind (I didn't trust Hagrid not to rifle through my belongings, or tip them into the water by accident, but I couldn't stay without looking a fool) we climbed a narrow staircase up to a spacious stone chamber lit by flaming torches. Waiting for us there was a tall, black haired witch: Minerva McGonagall, the battleaxe's battleaxe.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said, not cracking a smile. I soon learned that this was normal for McGonagall. Malicious rumour had it that some irate student, displeased with yet another overly harsh essay mark, had found a novel use for the Levitation Charm and literally stuck a poker up her arse. Whether this was true or not I never found out, but I swear the Bloody Baron was better company than that sour-faced old spinster.

"The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses," she explained. I drifted off a bit here, I confess. There had been a house system at Smeltings and only the sporty types had given a damn about it. For everyone else it just determined where you slept and what colour tie you wore.

When she had finished speaking McGonagall left us to fidget and make uneasy small talk for a few minutes, before returning to lead us through the cavernous Entrance Hall and into the even larger Great Hall.

All the first years gawped, most of them at the soaring gothic architecture, the floating candles and the ceiling which mirrored the starry night sky above the castle. For myself, while I was aware of these things, my admiration was confined to one thing alone: the totty. The four long tables seemed to be crammed with beauties of every shade and shape. It was like Hogwarts was drawing its female students from a modelling agency. I later learned why this is. While in the Muggle world most women have to spend a fortune on makeup, hair products, surgery and the like to maintain their looks, witches have magical alternatives. The ravages of puberty are countered with over-the-counter potions and natural beauty is easily enhanced with magical spells. Most Muggle-born girls who attend Hogwarts soon take advantage of these enhancements, with the result that there's hardly a dog in the batch.

I was only distracted from my ogling when McGonagall brought forward an ancient wizard's hat and set it on a stool in front of the whole assembly. A tear in the hat's brim opened and it began to sing. It takes a lot to hold my attention when there are so many exquisite fillies in a room but a singing hat managed it:

"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 top 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 steady 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!"

This put a new complexion on the whole 'house system' issue. It appeared that Malfoy had not just been airing empty-headed prejudices when I met him in Diagon Alley: personality determined your house. I was fortunate to be among the 'P's, so I could scan the room and weigh up the four houses while the other first years were being sorted.

I quickly ruled out Hufflepuff. There were a lot of dull or merely vacant expressions at that table; clearly the house for morons. Ravenclaw went by the board next; a bunch of nerds who rarely saw the outside of a library. That left me with a difficult choice: Gryffindor or Slytherin? I felt an immediate aversion to Gryffindor; too clean cut, too honest and pious-looking. I could see Neville Longbottom becoming their star turn. That left Slytherin, which seemed almost entirely made up of shifty little buggers with clammy hands or toffs with no chins and a permanent sneer on their lips. Malfoy would be right at home and I knew the damned Hat would probably stick me there too, but I also knew I did not want that to happen. I wanted to play the hero card pretty strongly, even at that early stage, and it would be extremely difficult to look the part if I was surrounded by the sneaks and snobs of Slytherin. I needed to be around Gryffindors, to appear to be a Gryffindor, even if my heart was Slytherin through and through.

McGonagall called me forward. There was a tense, expectant silence in the Hall. Everyone was anxious to see where the Boy Who Lived would be sorted to. I sat on the stool and allowed McGonagall to lower the hat onto my head.

"Interesting," said a small, shrewd voice in my ear, "Most interesting… Lots of talent here, oh yes lots of talent, even if it has some… unorthodox expressions, hmm? Cunning, certainly, and ambitious…"

"Not Slytherin," I thought, hoping that the hat could hear me as I heard it. I was relieved to receive the reply:

"Not Slytherin? But you seem a natural fit..."

"Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin!"

"I can't think where else I'd put you. Not much loyalty; no real desire for knowledge; hardly any courage…"

"But I don't want to go to Slytherin."

"What you want is none of my concern," said the hat pompously, "I put people where they belong; not where they want to be."

"But it's an arbitrary distinction, isn't it?" I thought hastily, lest the hat should break off the conversation, "I mean, sorting people into four camps based on those rudimentary categories."

"But it's tradition…" the hat said, sounding less sure of itself now.

"I mean come on, psychiatrists have been exploring and codifying the variations in human personality for over a century now and you expect to be able to divide them up based on such flimsy criteria as 'courage'? How do you define 'courage' in the first place, eh?"

"Alright where do you think you should go, smart arse?" the hat asked peevishly.

"I quite fancy the look of Gryffindor."

"GRYFFINDOR?"

The hat screamed this last word to the whole hall. The Gryffindor table erupted into cheering, whistling and cat calling at the other tables. I glanced over at the Slytherins and saw Draco Malfoy staring at me with obvious disgust. If there was any doubt before, my sorting had made it certain: Malfoy hated me. The feeling was more than mutual. Oily bastard.

After a splendid feast, which was spoiled somewhat by my having to endure Longbottom's gratingly jovial conversation, we retired to our dormitories. I climbed into my soft four poster bed feeling rather pleased with myself. I was young, rich and a celebrity in a school filled with beautiful girls. I thought I could do rather well for myself at Hogwarts.

There was one small problem I had to overcome first, however: I was not very good at magic. I soon discovered that there was an awful lot more to wizardry than waving a stick and saying some mumbo-jumbo Latin. I was far from being a Squib but learning real magic requires two things above all: perseverance and self-discipline. My time at Smeltings had given me neither. By the end of my first week I was near the bottom of every class and that was with the teachers who didn't persecute me at every turn.

Severus Snape had several reasons to hate me. I had good looks, while he had none. I was popular, while he had always been at the bottom of life's pecking order. There was also the history with my father and his friends, which I did not to find out about until I was nearly nineteen. But Snape hated me most of all because, right from that very first lesson, he saw through me. He knew that I was a bastard and a fraud as soon as he clapped eyes on me. I still remember his first words to me during my first Potions lesson of the year:

"Ah, Mr Potter our new celebrity…" he then turned to address the rest of the class, but I was in doubt that he was still speaking directly to me, "You will find that reputation counts for very little in my laboratory. Smooth tongues and winning smiles are no substitute for talent and hard work."

Our relationship went downhill from there.

In fact the only thing at Hogwarts that I seemed to have any aptitude for (besides lying and chasing the girls, neither of which I had had much opportunity to practice yet) was flying a broomstick. Ron had taken me through the basics on a school broom one evening and I took to it very quickly. It was a great rush, zooming through the castle turrets or skimming just above the surface of the lake. Muggle readers can't begin to imagine the buzz one gets from it; driving a fast sports car doesn't even come close.

Needless to say, my talents in the air were soon noted and I was invited down to the Quidditch pitch to try out for the Gryffindor team. Oliver Wood, the captain, was a big, muscle-bound type, fond of a drink and fanatical about his sport. We hit it off immediately and, thanks to my slim build and quick reflexes, I was appointed the new Gryffindor Seeker. And yes, I'm afraid Quidditch is played as I described it in my children's books. You did not think I would make up something that stupid, did you? Lord knows why they have those rules; there's hardly any reason for the Chasers or Keeper to be on the pitch. You get so many points for catching the Snitch that the Seekers almost always decide the game. Not that it stopped Longbottom trying. Yes, Neville made the team too. He flew nearly as well as me but he played Chaser and was the damndest shot with a Quaffle that you ever saw. Sometimes he put us so far ahead that I didn't need to bother catching the Snitch; there was no way the other team could keep up with his scoring.

So, I had found my niche among the Quidditch set. This was not just confined to the Gryffindors; the top Quidditch players formed their own society, above and beyond the house system. Strictly off-pitch of course; on pitch anything went and I do mean anything. You haven't seen dirty tactics until you've seen a Hogwarts cup final. But more of that later.

I was into my third week and struggling like mad with the coursework. I made some half-arsed attempts to actually study but it's just not in my nature; if you haven't developed the habit by the time you're sixteen you're unlikely to develop it in a few weeks. So I fell back on my old tactics: bullying and manipulation. They had served me well at Smeltings but there I had been feared by both staff and pupils. At Hogwarts the only person I had any serious influence over at the moment was Ron and he was about as academic as I was. So, when intimidation failed, I cast around for someone I could manipulate. A particularly hard-up swot whom I could pay to do my work for me, perhaps?

At length my eye fell on one of my fellow Gryffindors, a first year named Hermione Granger. Although at the top of every class since day one, as a Muggle born she had not had access to any magical beauty treatments and, although by no means plain, she looked rather homely when placed alongside her sister students. Her buck teeth and bushy hair were not a good combination and I thought she might be grateful for some male attention.

"Hello Granger!" I said brightly, dropping down beside her in the common room one evening.

"Potter," she said, not looking up from her book.

"Say, Granger, I'm in a spot of bother at the moment," I said, flashing her my most winning smile, which she did not see, "I'm finding all this magical stuff a bit of a headache and I was wondering if you might be able to lend a hand?"

She finally deigned to look up from her book and fix me with an unsympathetic stare.

"Why don't you talk to a teacher?"

"Pah!" I waved my hand dismissively, "Been there, tried that. No, what I need is a bit of out-of-hours assistance. Something that they, perhaps, might not look too kindly on…"

"I'm not helping you cheat, if that's what you're asking."

"Really, Granger?" I said, leaning in close and slipping my hand onto her thigh, "I could make it worth your while."

"Ugh, no thank you!" she said, rapping my wandering hand with her wand. I yelped and drew back my hand, which had turned vivid green, while she flounced off to her dormitory. It took three days for my hand to return to its normal colour.

The weeks passed, me struggling in the classroom and cutting a dash at Quidditch training. I tried to ignore the looming essay deadlines and instead concentrated on exploring the pubs of Hogsmeade with my fellow Quidditch players. They were golden days: me, Wood, McLaggen, the Weasley twins, Davies, Diggory, Malfoy and Flint. Yes, Malfoy and I were part of the same set. We hated each others guts but confined ourselves to sniping at one another, for the most part. Other than that we all had great fun, getting bladdered then tearing through the village streets on our brooms. Great times.

None of this helped me with my classes, of course. Those essay deadlines were drawing closer and I would be lucky to scrape through with a pass. I was starting to wonder if you could be expelled from the college for gross incompetence. At best, news of my abysmal performance would get out and I would be the laughing stock of Hogwarts: the Boy Who Lived could not even cast a simple charm. I resolved to give Hermione another try.

"Granger," I said, cornering her in the common room, "I need help, please."

"Get lost, Potter," she said, gathering her things to leave.

"Wait, listen, please. I'm sorry about before. I really need some help. What do you want? I'll do anything…"

"There's nothing you have that I could possibly want."

She was about to leave when Oliver Wood walked past.

"Hey Potter!" he cried, clapping me on the shoulder, "Great practice last night. The cup's ours this year for sure. See you later!"

As he walked away I noticed that Hermione's gaze lingering on Wood's arse.

"Do you… know him?" she asked me, blushing slightly.

"Might do," I said, sitting back in my chair, "It all depends."

"Could you… introduce me? To him?"

"I could. For a price."

"Alright," she sighed, "One essay for a date with Wood."

"Three essays."

"Three? I haven't got time to do that! One, or nothing."

"Three, or no date."

She bit her lip.

"Two, and I'll proof read the rest."

"Done," I said brightly.

That was the beginning of a long and happy working relationship. Hermione would help me with my coursework and, in return, I would set her up with my Quidditch playing pals. Not that they tended to complain. She might have looked like a chipmunk but she shagged like a dragon in heat. Or so I heard. I pounded the headboard with most of the Hogwarts fillies in my time but never Hermione. I didn't want to piss in the stream I drank from, as it were. We actually ended up becoming friends, after a fashion, although she always seemed to regard me as vaguely contemptible. Can't argue with her there, really. At least I know and accept what I am; that's how I've always looked at it.

From then on Christmas term passed very pleasantly for me, with Hermione handling the majority of my coursework and allowing me to concentrate on Quidditch, skirt chasing and general partying. Everything was going swimmingly for Harry Potter, until the first Quidditch match of the season: Gryffindor against Slytherin…

Editors' note: Although we are confident that these documents are entirely genuine, we felt it would be sensible to acknowledge that the Sorting Hat's song is identical to that found in 'Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone' by J.K. Rowling.