Two – Not Slytherin
"… Dad?" I stare at the piece of parchment, willing the ink to warp itself into different letters. A different name. "They-they got my name wrong. It says Harry Potter here. Must be a, a mistake, right?"
I look up with dumb hope, but what I see in Father's gleaming red eyes chills me to the bones.
"They made a mistake, right?" I ask again, still holding on to a glimmer of the illusion that everything's all right.
Father shakes his head minutely and my world comes crashing down.
I am Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the vanquisher of the Dark Lord. The man I call Father murdered my real parents.
"My parents were killed in a car crash. A muggle car crash." I repeat this over and over, trying to convince myself. "Aunt Petunia said my parents died in a car crash." But of course she lied about that and everything else.
Salazar is not a last name and Harry Salazar doesn't exist. . The man I call Father murdered my real parents. And I killed him.
"I thought you knew." Father says very, very quietly. For the first time in my life, I see him uncertain. Father's always been a hundred percent sure of everything.
"Of course I didn't know! My relatives called me nothing but 'boy' or 'freak' for as long as I can remember! They told me magic doesn't exist! Did you think they'd tell me I'm the hero of the entire wizarding kind?" I've read about the boy who survived the Killing Curse, but none of the papers said he had black hair and green eyes. None of them said he had a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. How was I to know?
I cringe as I realize I've just yelled at Father at the top of my lungs. I've never lost my temper with him before because I know he can hurt me; I've seen what he does with people that disrespect him. Not waiting for an answer, I bolt out of my room, making a beeline for the living room fireplace. Clamping down with my Occlumency shields and grabbing a handful of powder, I shout out "Malfoy Manor!"
I need to get out of here. Anywhere but here.
I don't remember making it to Draco's room, my feet carrying me mechanically over the path I've walked a thousand times before. The house elf that is supposed to greet me takes one look at my face and pops out of my sight. I'm certainly glad that it's not Dobby; that blasted elf would have the nerve to stop me and ask me what's wrong. What's wrong? I've just found out my whole life I've lived on a lie.
"Harry?" Draco is sitting up in his bed, looking at me through bleary but concerned eyes. I flop down on the bed beside him and start to cry.
Father doesn't allow me to cry. He thinks that crying, along with all open demonstrations of uncontrolled emotions, is weak, and he doesn't tolerate weakness. But now I don't care about what he thinks anymore. In fact, I'd do about anything just to spite him.
Draco is startled out of his wits, the poor boy. After a good minute, he jumps out of bed and runs to fetch his father. Some time later, he pads back into his bedroom alone.
"Dad says you can stay; he's reported to your father already." Draco informs me cautiously. I don't answer, tears still streaming down my cheeks silently.
"Harry…" Draco tries again. "They told me what happened. I – Harry, why is this such a big deal?"
Why is this such – is he out of his mind? I whirl around to face the blond-haired boy, shaking with fury. Draco looks so scared right now that I wonder how I must look. Then something clicks in my mind.
"You knew all along?" I ask quietly. "You too, Draco?" Et tu, Brute?
"It doesn't change anything." Draco pleads. I drop down on the bed again with my back to him, resolutely burrowing into the duvet and shutting out the world. I end up falling asleep at some point.
The next day I don't wake up until close to noon. I don't run into Draco or Uncle Lucius anywhere in the manor. Aunt Narcissa takes lunch with me. She gives me those sad smiles but doesn't press me into conversation, and I'm eternally grateful for that. I spend most of the afternoon flying laps around the vast grounds of Malfoy manor, tracing the limit of the wards that surround the estate.
The Malfoys have really nice gardens; flying over them on my Nimbus 2000, I feel like the king of the world. At home in Little Hangleton we just have a patch of very angry-looking forest; I'm not allowed in there unless I'm with Nagini. The Malfoy estate is much more pleasant to the eye.
One lap doesn't take very long, but I go around over and over again. I don't come down until my hands are frozen solid and my face hurts; at least when the wind howls in my ears, I don't have to think. Nonetheless, I've made up my mind when I'm up in the clouds. Whether I'm Harry Potter or Harry Salazar is a moot point. People will always expect me to act a certain way, either as the Boy-Who-Lived or as the dark heir; it doesn't matter. I'm still me, just Harry, and I make my own name.
It doesn't mean I've come to terms with the most important person in my life though. Throughout the day, I've checked my Occlumency shields diligently – up and secure, all good. A few times, I can sense a familiar presence at the edge of the shields, hovering at the end of the mind link and making the mental equivalence of a polite knock. If Father wanted in, I'd have no chance in fighting him off, but as I refuse to answer, the presence disappears. My heart warms a little at that.
By dinner, Draco and Uncle Lucius have returned and we enjoy a last family meal together. My new purchases take up a small corner of the living room, along with several items my father has sent by floo. I'm a little embarrassed at the fact that I had my parent pack for me when I finally leave for boarding school. Regardless, I laugh and joke and talk about anything and everything I can think of. All three Malfoys still regard me closely as if I was a bomb waiting to go off. They don't realize it, but I might explode yet – from giddy happiness. I'm still really, really excited to go to Hogwarts.
On September 1st, we arrive at King's Cross Station early. Muggle commuters file all around us, but most of them are in too much of a hurry to spare us a second glance. Once we step foot onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters, however, everyone around us starts to whisper. They whisper about me, the Boy-Who-Lived, but they also wonder about what Harry Potter is doing with the Malfoys, traditionally Dark and suspected of supporting the Dark Lord. They'd never guess the truth in a million years.
My scar is a dead giveaway. Last night, I pleaded with Uncle Lucius to conceal it for me, but he immediately replied that it's not possible – you can't glamour a curse scar. So I have to wear it proudly on my forehead, proof that I'm the only one in history to survive Avada Kadevra. The one Father fired at me when I was one year old.
The scarlet steam engine is as impressive as I imagined it would be – an epic union of magic and muggle technology. But as more people pile onto the platform and more eyes bear holes into my back, I find myself not in the mood to enjoy the sight anymore. I can't wait to get onto the train and hence enjoy some relative privacy.
Draco and his father share a proper pureblood goodbye – a terse one, that is; I've always found the proper way rather awkward. Aunt Narcissa, on the other hand, pulls us both into warm hugs. I find myself wishing, briefly, that Father was here to share this moment, even though the most he'll do is give me a nod in farewell – until I remember I should hate him by all means.
Draco and I are among the earliest kids onboard and we find an empty compartment with no trouble. I settle down by the window, intent on losing myself in this new muggle mystery novel I got by owl post the other day. Draco leaves to say hello to his other friends, all the other baby Death Eaters. (I'm still trying to figure out what Father was high on when he made up that name for his followers.) When Draco returns, his face is another shade of white.
"Harry, do you think – is it possible that the Dark Lord doesn't trust me?"
I snort. "Father doesn't trust you? Why, you are all of eleven years old and several hundred spells away from becoming a Body Snatcher."
"Death Eater." Draco corrects me very seriously.
"Same difference." I wave it off. "Now, what's got your knickers in a twist?"
Draco sighs dramatically. "Greg and Vince just came to me and pledged their undying loyalty. They're going to follow me everywhere at Hogwarts."
I laugh manically. "Oh-oh Draco, that's definitely more your father's doing than mine. Little dragon needs big bad bodyguards at school, yeah? Coz he's never been out of the nest before…"
Draco's cheeks are now a bright red. The blush looks good on him; gives him some much-needed colour. Quite abruptly, I change the topic to a more serious one.
"Do you reckon they know? Your other friends?"
"That you're Harry Potter? Probably. Pansy and Blaise definitely have the wits to have figured it out." Yet they don't know who my father is, so we're safe for now. "You know, not everyone has lived in an ivory tower their whole life like you have…"
"Oh shut up, Drakey-poo." That's Pansy's nickname for Draco, who hates it with a passion.
Before he can retaliate, our compartment door suddenly slams open, and a frantic, round-faced boy pokes his head in.
"Trevor? Trevor, are you here?" He looks up at us and blushes. "Oh, I'm looking for Trevor, my toad. Have you seen him?" Draco and I shake our heads, amused. The boy lets out a strangled cry and disappears. We can hear him bound up and down the hallway, still calling for his toad as if toads actually had ears.
"Should I Accio Trevor for him? He doesn't seem quite right in the head."
"Nah, don't bother, Harry. Unless you summon the toad and Crucio it in front of him right after." Draco drawls lazily. "That's Neville Longbottom. His parents were bloodtraitors - Aurors and members of Dumbledore's Order. Aunt Bella did a number on them, though; they had it coming."
I can't help but shudder. Aunt Bella … is a crazy woman and I try to stay as far away from her as possible. She's been residing at Malfoy Manor since the Azkaban breakout three years ago – she's not quite right in the head either, and her poor sister, Aunt Narcissa, has to take care of her. Aunt Bella seems to have a crush on Father, which I find very disturbing.
Determined to do anything Aunt Bella would not do, I whip out my wand and step into the hallway with a smirk. "Accio Trevor!" In a moment, two living objects fly towards me: an ugly, ugly toad and a skinny, very pissed-off boy. I carefully levitate the toad a good feet away from my body while attempting to apologize to the boy. He walks off with a huff.
"Trevor!" Longbottom catches his toad with such grace and vigour that he can probably try out for Seeker. Then he stumbles and I wince. Ouch.
"Thank you so much! I'm Neville Longbottom, and –" His eyes grow comically wide. "And you are …!"
"I am …?" I raise an eyebrow.
"You're Harry Potter!"
I smack myself on the forehead. But of course! "Oh him. I mean, yes, I suppose I am." I mutter impassively. How in Salazar's name does everyone know what Harry Potter looks like but I didn't? The detective novel part of me screams conspiracy. "Nice to meet you, Neville. You should put a leash on that toad." Then I half step back into our compartment and declare loudly.
"I – I'm going to find my female friend, Draco." I traverse the length of the train twice until I locate the bushy-haired girl at one of the entrances. Along with a brown-haired man with glasses that must be her dentist father, she's having the struggle of a lifetime getting her giant trunk on the train. I quickly shrink it and put on a feather-light charm. The two jump back with a shriek, not used to such casual magic.
"Harry!" Hermione exclaims with a huge smile on her face. Her teeth are a bit funny, like a rabbit's, but I find them kind of cute. "Thank God you're here; we wouldn't know how to get this monster of a trunk on to the train!"
"My pleasure, Miss Granger." I mock a little bow. Merlin, why do I act like such a snobbish pureblood? But Hermione blushes a beautiful red and her father laughs heartily, so all is good. I shake hands with Mr. Granger, watch them hug goodbye, and lead Hermione back to our compartment. All along the way, the little witch talks about one thing or another she's read in Hogwarts: A History. I wonder if she's heard of the Chamber of Secrets.
Draco seethes at my bringing a muggleborn witch into our circle, but is politely enough to just ignore her. As a responsible guide to the magical world, I sit Hermione down and begin to explain to her the most ancient and noble game of Exploding Snap.
A few minutes later, our door slides open again and a redheaded boy with too big robes peers in carefully. He's dragging a rather run-down trunk behind him. "All the other compartments are full. If you fellows don't mind …?"
"Oh of course I mind, Weasley." Draco snarls, biting on the last name as if it was a cuss word. Then I recall from one of Draco's many blood purity rants that the Weasleys are a family of poor, Light purebloods who have no sense of shame and way too many children. Like rabbits, Draco's told me.
"Nonsense, Draco." I smile at the boy. "Come on in, we have one more seat left."
The redhead moves to settle on the seat next to Draco, and the Malfoy heir bounds up as if scorched. "I am not sitting in the same compartment as a mudblood and a bloodtraitor!" He puffs out his chest and draws to his full height – which is not nearly as intimidating as he likes to think.
"Door's right there, Draco. Do you miss Vince and Greg already?" I said sweetly, and Draco starts to blanch. "Oh, wait, you'd prefer the company of the lovely Miss Parkinson!"
Draco hastens to sit down by the window. Neither of us has ever enjoyed the company of Miss Pansy Parkinson. We've surmised that her greatest goals in life are to marry Draco right out of school and eat me alive.
The redhead is looking at Draco and me as if we're crazy. "Oh, how rude of us." I hold out my hand, determined to get this over with. "My name is Harry Potter, and you've probably heard of me as the Boy-Who-Lived. I know you're a Weasley, but which one are you and how many siblings do you have?"
"Uh…" The boy stares at me. "I'm Ronald. No, Ron – no one calls me Ronald. I have five brothers and a sister." Wow, that many? Draco mutters something about rodents.
Some light returns to the redhead's eyes. "And you're Harry Potter!"
Salazar! Was I not being clear enough?
Ron stands up and disposes of his trunk. "Do you play Quidditch?" is the first thing he asks me.
"Yes! Draco and I are both Seekers. Do you?"
"Of course! Quidditch is life, mate! I usually play Keeper at home, but I bet I'd do as good a job as Beater. Speaking of, did you see Roger's last goal for the Canons last Sunday?"
"You bet! That's only the very best fake and V-pass since –"
"- the 1968 World Cup semi-finals!" Ron and I finish together, grinning hugely at each other. Bloodtraitor or not, there may be some hope for Ron Weasley yet. Even Draco glances at him with appreciation; Merlin knows Draco follows Quidditch scores the way teenage witches follow Witch Weekly.
"Exploding Snap?" I ask Ron as the train leaves the bustling city behind.
"Why not?" He reaches for a card in my proffered deck. It explodes promptly in his face.
The rest of the train journey passes in relative peace. Even Draco has come out of his sulking and joined in our games, and I'm in a particularly good mood – until the Sorting, that is.
Standing before the doors to the Great Hall with all the nervous first years, I suddenly want to be sick. I deeply regret having so much candy on the train. At Ron's unbridled envy and Hermione's admonishment – dentists' daughter, go figure – Draco and I bought off half of the trolley and demolished a good portion of the loot. It's a part of Hermione's magical education, after all, but now I want to hurl. The witch who called herself Professor McGonagall looks like she eats misbehaving first years for a living. The children go in for their sentencing one by one, until there is only about a dozen left.
"Potter, Harry." The stern old witch calls out, and the hall explodes in chatter. That is not my name, I hiss in pure instinct. All the eyes are on me, and I feel like I might simultaneously combust from the intensity. Gritting my teeth, I walk towards the centre of the room, attempting to emulate the way Father would walk into a crowded ballroom and everybody would stop talking all at once. No luck; they see me and the chatter becomes twice as loud. I climb onto the stool, my feet dangling, and McGonagall places the raggedy old hat on my head.
"Ah, a difficult one, Mr. Pott-"
"Not. My. Name." I hiss out. "Salazar. Harry Salazar."
"Fine then, Mr. Salazar. With that kind of name, I would assume you want to be in S-"
"Not Slytherin." I state vehemently.
"Not Slytherin? But why not, my boy? You are a Speaker, and your father –"
"My father," I interrupt the Sorting Hat for the third time. "Is a murderer, a bastard, a lying git, and I will not be placed in his slimy house of snakes. So no, not Slytherin."
"All right. You sure are smart enough, but you're also brave enough to stand up for yourself. You've rejected your destiny, but I believe you'll still find greatness in –" Before I realize what is happening, the Hat screams out "- Gryffindor!" I gape with unconcealed horror as a sea of red and gold rise up, roaring and cheering to welcome the bloody Boy-Who-Lived into the pride. As I walk down the isle to join the House of my nightmare, the full weight of what I've done crashes down like a tsunami and I vow I will burn that cursed Hat at some point in my school career. Draco, unhelpful little prick that he is, gives me an amused look that says "you're dead when your father finds out." As if I needed him to remind me.
"Harry!" Ron shoots up from his seat among the first years. "Welcome to Gryffindor!" He pulls me to the table and gives me a bear hug – a bear hug, and I've only known him for half a day! These lions, unbelievable. Eyes shining, Ron presents me to a string of redheads, Fred, George, and Percy, who's wearing a Prefect's badge. Neville and Hermione are on the other side of the table, grinning at me widely. Then everyone else introduces themselves and I am lost in a sea of new names and faces. I've never talked to this many people in my life! Everyone wants to speak to me. One of their first questions throws me off.
"… defeated You-Know-Who?"
"You-Know-Who?" And who's that?
"Well, you probably don't remember, but still … " The boy – Dean? – says uncertainly. Then it clicks for me – of course that's the only thing they're interested in; Vanquisher of the Dark Lord right here.
"I don't remember, sorry." I smile apologetically. "Also I've never heard anyone call him You-Know-Who."
"Really? What do you call him then?" Ron asks in equal parts incredulity and apprehension.
Dad. Or Father when I'm reminded of pureblood etiquette. 'Sir' when I've done something wrong and 'the Dark Lord' when I'm feeling sarcastic. "Lord Voldemort." I reply simply, taking pleasure in their collective gasps and flinches.
"Don't say his name!" Neville calls out. I shrug. Where is that Gryffindor courage now?
But they recover quickly, and begin shooting off all kinds of questions again. The feast thus goes by in a blur, and by the end of it, I'm confident I'll never slip up and forget I'm Harry Bloody Potter ever again.
As we all file out of the Great Hall, following the Gryffindor Prefect like little lemmings, I sense someone staring at my back. Turning around, I meet a pair of sapphire blues that seem to … twinkle. I register a faint brush of Legilimency in my mind; the old man isn't trying at all and I shake off his probe easily, making a mental note not to meet the Headmaster's eyes in the near future. I haven't succeeded in completely repelling Father's Legilimens yet, and odds are Dumbledore is as much of a master in the mind arts.