A/N: Here it is, first Harry-Severus contact (and what a contact!). Sorry for the delay, but it's another very long chapter and it took me a while to get back into Harry's character after the long Snape/Grant detour. I also had difficulty disengaging, ending the chapter somewhere instead of continuing writing indefinitely from Harry's POV. But I feel Severus calling for attention, demanding a look to his inner thoughts and feelings, so I think we will be attending the rest of the Welcoming Feast from his perspective.

I hope you enjoy this chapter. Reviews are as always welcomed and much appreciated!

Chapter 17

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Potter," said the Headmaster with amused solemnity. "Perhaps we can continue this discussion after the feast? I believe the food is getting cold."

Harry stared at the chuckling wizard, not knowing what to say, or do, or think. The old man knew who he was, had known all along, and yet he didn't look disgusted, nor angry, nor even mildly disapproving. Could he not know anything about what he had done? It had been Harry's original hope, to be welcomed in Hogwarts by a Headmaster who didn't know about Uncle Vernon, but that couldn't be, could it? The conversation he had overheard in the train had made clear that his murderer status was public knowledge, common gossip even amongst children, and the horrified looks of everyone around him confirmed it. They all knew that he had killed his uncle, thought him dangerous and dark, and yet the Headmaster kept chuckling and twinkling, saying he was welcomed to stay and learn magic here, where he was 'safe'.

Could it be that the old man knew what he had done to Uncle Vernon and Dudley, and he just didn't care because they were Muggles? Harry had heard several comments on the train that suggested wizards in general didn't give a damn about normal people and scorned everything about them, from their clothes, to their money, to their very blood. He couldn't imagine anyone decent approving of murder or torture, but maybe the Headmaster knew what sort of people the Dursleys were (Harry's letter had been addressed to his cupboard, so they knew at least that about his home life) and he felt inclined to shrug it off. Harry certainly would understand and support any magical kid who hurt his family because they starved him, locked him up, punished him for doing magic, or stopped him from going to school.

Even if that was the case, though, if his original crimes had been forgiven and he was truly welcomed as Harry Potter, he doubted the old man would be half as forgiving of his more recent crimes, which had been committed against magical people under his protection. Even if he were forgiving, it might not be up to the Headmaster to decide what happened to a murderous student. Hermione had told him that there was a magical government, and some sort of magical police that worked enforcing the law and guarding a special prison for wizards somewhere in the North Sea. Harry could hope to only be expelled and delivered back to Aunt Petunia, who would try to lock him up in St. Brutus or some other institution easy to escape from, but he knew that was wishful thinking. Especially if the Malfoy prat was truly as important as he seemed to think he was, Harry would most likely end up in that prison, or they would take away his magic as punishment before sending him back to the Dursleys.

That, assuming he wasn't dead before morning, murdered in his cell overnight or simply poisoned during the feast by the bully's godfather.

So no, the Headmaster's warm welcoming and familiar address didn't change anything. Harry still had to escape, urgently, but to his ever-rising anxiety he didn't see a way out of this. He was trapped and surrounded, tired and outnumbered, not strong enough to break the giant's grip if he caught him again, nor powerful enough to stand a chance against the combined magical knowledge of the illustrious Albus Dumbledore and his stern Deputy Headmistress.

And any moment now, someone might run out of the castle in a haste to inform the Headmaster that Evan Roberts was the true responsible for a student's near death. Any moment now the giant might speak up, accusing him of extortion and attempted murder by lightning, or Neville might blurt out the rest of his betrayal. Any moment now, he might be required to empty his pockets or open his bag for inspection, and he would have to answer for everything he had stolen.

"You're not in trouble, Harry," said the Headmaster when his hesitation had dragged on for too long. "And you have my word that you will be completely safe here. If you wish to be transferred to another school, of course we can discuss it with your guardians, but I think you should give Hogwarts a chance first."

Harry looked the old wizard in in eye, trying to see if he really meant what he said. He seemed sincere, but he must know that Harry didn't have 'guardians' anymore. It was only Aunt Petunia now, and she had made clear that Harry wasn't welcomed anymore in her home so any remaining guardianship would be only in paper. Was this a veiled reference to that fact, a reminder that there was no one to discuss Harry's future with, no one who would make a fuss if they forced him to stay against his will? Or did this mean that the Headmaster didn't know about Uncle Vernon? Had he used the plural deliberately, or was it just a figure of speech?

Whichever the case, Harry definitely didn't want any of these people to contact Aunt Petunia. She would say awful things about him, and would give them permission to do whatever they wanted with him, so better not to give them reason to contact her.

"All right," he finally said, figuring that his best option at least for the moment was to play along and wait for an opportunity to slip away. "I'll stay."

"Excellent!" beamed the old man. "Let us go inside, then, shall we? Hagrid, perhaps you could carry Harry's schoolbag for him? It looks dreadfully heavy."

And here comes the first term of surrender.

"I can carry my own bag," he argued. "It's not heavy."

"Nevertheless, you will need someone to hold it for you during the ceremony. Hagrid will make sure it is delivered to your dormitory after the feast."

Harry gritted his teeth. He didn't plan to stay long enough to see a dormitory, so surrendering his bag now meant he would have to leave it behind when he tried to escape, and after all the trouble he had gone through stealing each valuable item inside that didn't sit well with him. He had more money and clothes stashed back in London, though, and he could steal or buy anew anything he lost —even the books of magic, now that he knew where that stuff was sold—, so it wasn't really a big deal. There was the problem that his rucksack was a collection of evidence that could add pickpocketing, burglary and even grand theft to his extensive list of crimes, but he supposed being discovered as a thief wouldn't change much his sentence if it came to that.

What really annoyed him was to have to surrender his bag to the giant, with that stupid redhead there to bear witness and pass along the tale. After the confrontation in the underground harbour, his compliance would be seen as defeat, and Harry couldn't stand the thought of them mocking him or smirking vindictively like Dudley —Uncle Vernon had always forced him to give up anything he was attached to, even if it was just a funny-shaped rock he had found in the park.

Glancing sideways, however, he saw to his shock that instead of looking smug the big oaf was silently crying, his brutish features distorted by grief, while the red-haired prat was still gaping stupidly at him. Neville was also still staring with mouth open, his wide eyes brimming with horror, fear, guilt, confusion and something else that might be awe. The other boy looked oddly fascinated, maybe even excited, his previously mistrustful eyes now watching Harry as if he were a cool animal in a zoo.

Disconcerted by that myriad of perplexing reactions, Harry pulled off his rucksack and wordlessly handed it over to the weeping giant, levelling the oaf with a warning look as he did so. The response was a loud yowl and a new cascade of tears that made Harry feel uncomfortably guilty. It annoyed him to have his emotions thus manipulated by the brute responsible for all his bruises, though, so he angrily pushed the guilt away and gave him a final glare before turning his attention back to the Headmaster.

Next thing he knew, Harry was following the Deputy Headmistress across the lawn, up a flight of stone steps, and into the castle proper. He walked past Hermione when they went through the cluster of students waiting outside the doors, and felt another surge of guilt and remorse at the hurt and tears he saw in her eyes. He tried to squash these weak emotions too, knowing that he couldn't access his strongest magic while feeling pathetic, but it was harder than with the giant. Hermione was bossy, and a bit annoying, but she was a good person, kind and well-intentioned. She didn't deserve to be lied to, stolen from, yelled at.

Harry allowed himself to feel awful for a moment, wishing almost painfully he could be still in the train discussing magical theories with her, and then locked all his regret away for good.

He had known before meeting Hermione or Neville that he couldn't afford to make friends with anyone here. In his loneliness he had forgotten that, and his weakness had made him careless, trustful, vulnerable to betrayal and loss.

Not ever again.

His first thought when he stepped over the threshold was that the whole of the Dursleys' house could probably fit in the Entrance Hall of this colossal castle. Harry pitied whoever was in charge of removing the cobwebs from the ceiling, which was too high to make out, and shuddered at the thought of giant spiders living up there with no one the wiser.

The ambiguous magic of the place felt even stronger inside, more pervasive, so he wasn't surprized at all when he saw flaming torches lighting the walls —he was certain that nothing electric would ever work around this powerful building; planes might even fall off the sky flying through, never to be seen again like in the Bermuda Triangle.

Scanning the hall for possible exits, his eyes were drawn first to a doorway to the right, behind which must be waiting the rest of the school judging by the muffled drone of hundreds of voices. There was a doorway to the left as well, but it seemed to lead somewhere underground so Harry assumed it would be another dead end. The magnificent marble staircase at the end of the hall held promise, though, since it led to the upper floors and might provide him with an opportunity to jump from some tower —flying out of reach of giants, spiders and octopuses seemed like the best way out of this magical trap, worth trying even if instead of flying he ended up bouncing off the ground like Neville.

While part of his mind was busy identifying viable escape routes, another part was looking out for threats, keenly aware that there was a least one teacher inside this castle who would want to hurt him because of what he had done to the blond bully. With any luck the blond was recovering somewhere, unconscious or too sore to speak, but it was possible the minions had already talked, in which case that Snape bloke might be looking for him.

The Entrance Hall was almost empty when they walked in, but there were a few people scattered around, one of them a nervous-looking wizard standing by the right side doorway. He was wearing a purple turban that made him look rather ridiculous, and he seemed harmless enough, although Harry noticed his eyes were scanning the passing group of first years as if searching for someone in particular. Just in case the man was looking for him, Harry turned his head away and lagged behind a bit so Neville's larger frame would shield him from sight. As he executed this manoeuvre, his eyes fell on a small cluster of people huddled by another doorway on the left, and he froze.

There, standing together mere feet away, were the two minions and their self-important friend, all looking perfectly healthy and alert, and all staring straight at him with wide eyes full of fear.

"Don't," whispered Neville urgently, pulling at his sleeve. "Please, Eva- I mean Har-" the boy hesitated, not seeming to know how to call him. "Please, just leave them. You'll get in trouble!"

Harry glared at him and tried to shake him off, but Neville continued pulling on his sleeve, his eyes anxious and pleading. The other students were also urging them to keep moving, some stepping around them while others tried to shove them out of the way, so Harry reluctantly let himself be dragged along. He looked again at the bullies as he walked, though, this time noticing that they weren't alone. The angry Prefect that had resuscitated the blond, Grant, was standing behind the minions, and as Harry watched he reached for the closest one and grabbed his shoulder as if to keep him in place, his eyes watching him cautiously.

He knows.

The Prefect knowing wasn't Harry's biggest problem, though. There was another wizard standing next to him, one taller and older, with long black hair and high-necked flowing robes that, together with the unnaturally pale skin and dark circles under terribly dark eyes, made him look like a very hungry vampire. Everything about him screamed danger, and the fact that the blond bully was clinging to his robes like a frightened child to his parent strongly suggested this was the powerful godfather the boy had threatened Harry with.

Crap.

If Neville hadn't been pulling him along, Harry would have frozen again on the spot when he met the vampire's dark gaze. There was recognition in those knowing eyes, and warning, a silent promise of grave consequences to come.

Harry wrenched his eyes away and struggled to think through his panic. They knew. The blond prat and the minions had all talked, so now the dangerous Professor Snape knew everything. Did that mean that the Headmaster also knew? It didn't seem like it, but Grant the Prefect had said back in the forest that the Headmaster would be informed of the incident so it was just a matter of time, they were probably just waiting for an opportunity to talk to the old wizard. And with three witnesses ready to testify against him, plus his rucksack and everything they could find in his pockets as evidence, it would be pointless to even try to deny the accusations. Harry would be locked up in some magic-proof dungeon before he could say 'unfair'.

It would be unfair, though. All of this was unfair. And the thought of starving in a cold dungeon while the blond prat gorged himself and went to sleep in a warm dormitory made Harry angry.

They had almost reached the other end of the hall when Harry came to a halt and turned to look at the vampire again. He heard Neville squeak when his gathering magic crackled around him, forcing the boy to release him, saw the man's dark eyes widen in realization of what was about to happen, noticed the slightest shake of the head as the dangerous wizard warned him against it... and then his magic was falling over the lot of them like a mantle, taking over their minds, tying their wills to his power and their lives to his will.

By the time Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a small, empty chamber off the hall, Harry was the proud owner of five new puppets. It had been a risky move, but it had worked, and if he could just keep them all under control... It was proving mentally challenging to handle so many wills at the same time, though, and also extremely draining in his already exhausted state. He could feel the castle pressing in as his concentration weakened, the magical intrusion making even more difficult to focus, and there was also some problem with one of the power lines, an annoying resistance that pulled at his mind in defiance...

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said the Deputy Headmistress when they had all crowded in the small chamber. "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..."

There was definitely one puppet that refused to comply, and Harry knew which one must be. Could the man be truly a vampire, magical-resistant like the giant? Or perhaps he knew some magic trick to counter the mind control? Someone had broken free the minions, after all, and the man had shaken his head as if warning him that that would not work on him...

"The Four Houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each House as its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you're at Hogwarts..."

Harry could still feel the five wills firmly under his grasp, though, they weren't trying to break free. But he was pretty sure that the vampire was ignoring his orders, and the disturbance such defiance was causing inside his mind made hard to pay attention to the other puppets. He had a feeling that there was more than one rebelling against him, but he couldn't even discern which one, it was all a mental jumble, a tangle of wills...

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourself-"

Harry gasped and doubled over, clawing at his temples with both hands. All five power lines had snapped at the same time, leaving his magic reeling and an awful power vacuum inside him. They were all gone, he had lost control, his mind a painful mess-

"Mr. Potter? Are you feeling dizzy again? Longbottom, help him sit down. Is it your head, Mr. Potter? Does it hurt?"

"I'm fine," grumbled Harry, ignoring the chair that had just materialized behind him. Neville tried to make him sit, but he shoved him off. "I just need some air."

He needed to get out of here, now. Harry hurriedly pushed his way towards the door, hoping the witch would not stop him and praying the dark teacher had least walked some distance before breaking free of the mind control and turning around.

Any hope of escaping was extinguished the moment he opened the door, however, since the man was standing right outside, looming over him in all his imposing height. That's one large nose, thought Harry wildly, backing away as much as he could while his heart beat like crazy in such proximity to a possible vampire. Admittedly, from up close the man looked human enough, and Harry could tell that he was a wizard, but there was something dangerous and... hungry about him, his black eyes seeming to drink him in as if he were a starved vampire contemplating his first meal in a century.

And he certainly had reasons to want to reduce Harry to a bloodless corpse.

"Ah, Professor Snape," said the Deputy Headmistress behind him. "Mr. Potter is feeling unwell, would you mind taking a look at him? He collapsed of magical exhaustion earlier, and the movement of the boats made him sick. Now he seems to have a headache, and he looks pale."

"I see," said the so-confirmed Professor Snape, surveying Harry head to feet in a clinical way. "Well, we can't have Harry Potter succumbing to illness, can we? Our new celebrity should receive the best care available, so I would advise an immediate trip to the Infirmary."

"Can't it wait until after the feast?" asked the witch. "It is really late, if we keep putting off the Sorting Ceremony the children will fall asleep on their plates."

"You can proceed with the Ceremony while I escort Mr. Potter to the Infirmary," suggested the dark Professor. "He will miss the sorting, but that is better than risking his health." The man looked at Harry again, a serious warning in his dangerous eyes, "He might not survive another collapse."

Harry had never felt so on edge in his life. Professor Snape sounded like the voice of concern, but each word that came out of his mouth was a threat, each look belying his professed intentions. The vampire didn't care one bit about his health, on the contrary, so he was more likely to escort him to a torture chamber than to the Infirmary, and to Harry's dismay the Deputy Headmistress was completely falling for his act. She was going to let the man take him, he could see that, and the man was warning him not to fight it, threatening him with mortal collapse if he lashed out with his magic again.

"Is everything all right here, Professor McGonagall?" asked a calm voice coming from the hall. The shady Professor respectfully stepped aside for the Headmaster, who had approached followed by the turban man. "Ah, Mr. Potter. We really should get on with the Ceremony, Harry, we can discuss any concerns you might have later."

"The concern for Mr. Potter's health is rather pressing, Headmaster," said the vampire. "He should not be up and about after having collapsed from magical exhaustion mere hours ago. Apparently he is experiencing nausea, headaches, probably fatigue and lapses of concentration as well, all after-effects that predict another collapse if left unattended."

"I'm fine," snapped Harry, narrowing his eyes at him. "I don't need to go to the Infirmary, and I won't go anywhere with you. If you want to kill me, you'll have to do it right here. Or try to, anyway."

There were several gasps behind him. The dark Professor glanced at the room full of students and pursed his lips in displeasure, clearly not happy to have his murderous intentions exposed in front of so many witnesses.

"I-It seems the boy has the m-measure of you, Severus," stutter the turban man with a nervous chuckle. "And he has his father's p-pluck as well."

The glare the vampire threw at the stammering wizard could have curdled blood. Harry barely registered the danger, though, transfixed as he was by what the turban man had just said. He has his father's pluck. These people knew Harry's father, and that could only mean he had been a wizard like them. Was the reference to Evan Rosier, or to his official father? And what about his mother? Did they knew her too? Could she have been secretly a witch?

"No one is going to harm you here, Harry," said the Headmaster firmly. "Professor Snape is only concerned about your health. I agree with you, however, in that you don't seem to require urgent medical attention. So if there are no further objections, I would like us to proceed with the Sorting Ceremony."

The tone was final, with an authoritative edge that broke no arguments. Harry expected the Snape Professor to object, to expose everything he knew and accuse him of murder, theft and will subjugation, but the man didn't say anything, instead he looked him straight in the eye, his black gaze boring into him as if he were trying to see his very soul. Harry suddenly remembered that vampires could read minds, supposedly, and realized with dread that that's what was happening; he could feel the man reaching out to him, trying to get into his head, his invasive magic pressing against his thoughts just like the castle...

He gasped when sharp, hot pain suddenly shot across his forehead, as if he had been stabbed with a burning knife right through his scar. He clapped a hand to his head and desperately called on his magic to make it stop, fearing his scar might burst open at any-

"Severus," said the Headmaster sharply. "Enough!"

The pain was gone as quickly as it had come. Blinking away tears, Harry looked up to see the dark Professor frowning worriedly at him, feigning concern as if he hadn't just tried to melt his brain. Bastard. Fear and pain were forgotten as rage flared inside him, and next thing Harry was lunging back, striking with his magic right into the eyes of his foe...

... only to hit a solid wall that sent him ricocheting back into his own mind.

Damn.

It wasn't over, though. Harry quickly collected his wits and regathered his exhausted magic, but to his frustration the vampire had swirled around and stalked away before he could strike again, quickly striding out of his range of sight.

"Coward," muttered Harry, half-hoping the man would hear the insult and come back. He noticed that the turban man was looking at him speculatively, and felt his scar prickle again as if in warning, but there was no hostility coming from that front so he shrugged it off. The Headmaster, meanwhile, had watched the dark teacher walk away with a grave expression on his face, but he smiled reassuringly at Harry before departing too. The turban teacher went with him, and the Deputy Headmistress only stayed behind long enough to suggest the students to 'smarten themselves' as much as they could —an instruction that seemed directed especially at Harry, judging by the way her disapproving eyes lingered on his hair— before following them out.

And then there was silence.

When he turned to face the room, Harry found everyone staring at him with mouths open. Hermione looked particularly shocked, probably because she had just found out Harry had lied about his name —or perhaps because he had been rude to a teacher, and the teacher had attacked him in response. Feeling uncomfortable under so much attention, Harry glared at them all until they looked away and then withdrew to an empty corner of the chamber, where he did his best to ignore the murmurs around him while he considered his situation.

Our new celebrity, the dark Professor had said. Yes, that sounded about right. Harry had already been known as the Boy-Who-Had-Murdered-His-Uncle when he had boarded the train, now he was also the Boy-Who-Faked-His-Name, the Boy-Who-Collapsed, and the Boy-Who-Delayed-The-Feast. And people didn't even know the worst.

Not that he cared what they said, of course. He didn't intend to stay long enough to be judged, and if he was forced to stay he'd probably be dead before morning so he would not care for long either. To his anguish, however, Harry suddenly wanted to stay. He wanted to find out more about his father —whoever his real father might have been—, and about his mother too if she had been a witch. His need to know was so desperate that it almost seemed worth the risk of staying in this prison of a castle, even if there was a vengeful vampire out for his blood lurking about.

And speaking of vengeful vampires... Harry wondered about the dark Professor. Not about his evil intentions —there could be no doubt about that— but about the way he had chosen to go about it. He had tried to separate Harry from the group, get him alone so he could ensure his permanent collapse, but he had done it under pretence of escorting him to the Infirmary, claiming concern about his headache when he knew perfectly well that he had caused it by breaking the mind control. And then he had tried to read his mind, or something of the sort, and he had made his scar burn, and through all that he had kept to himself everything he knew about Harry's crimes. He could have given the Headmaster ten different reasons why Harry ought to be locked up instead of welcomed in with a smile, but he hadn't. And while it was kind of a relief that the man wanted to deal with him privately, without involving the Headmaster nor the magical police, Harry didn't exactly relish the prospect of being caught by people who wanted revenge rather than justice. Turning himself in to lawful authorities might be better than risking a painful death at the hands of an unscrupulous-

His reverie was suddenly interrupted by a cacophony of screams, and as if Harry hadn't had enough shocks today he felt his blood run cold when about twenty ghosts suddenly streamed through the wall and glided across the room.

Ghosts.

Harry couldn't even begin to process the significance of this, what it meant for his future death, for his parents, for Uncle Vernon and the blond bully who had almost died. He was gripped by terror, and he felt suddenly uneasy, because those transparent Beings looked too incorporeal to be susceptible to harm, and at the same time too substantial to be completely harmless. What if they attacked him? How could Harry defend himself against ghosts?

His paranormal fears were put on hold, however, when the door opened again and a more solid threat walked in. Harry recognized one of his rebellious puppets, Grant, the angry Prefect who could resurrect people with a kiss.

The Prefect quickly scanned the room when he entered, his fierce eyes flying straight to Harry and daring him to mess with him again. That Grant bloke really was scary, and obviously powerful, capable of doing magic both with his wand and without it. And he was clearly expecting to be attacked.

Harry didn't see the point of doing anything to him, however. The mind control had proved to be unreliable, causing more problems than it solved, and for death to be a solution he would have to kill as well at least four other people who were out of his reach at the moment. Even if they were all within his reach, not having managed to successfully murder anyone on purpose so far Harry didn't feel very confident in his murdering skills. Uncle Vernon had been an accident, the giant had survived a freaking lightning, the blond boy had come back from the dead, the vampire had easily fended him off... Harry was starting to think he should refrain from attempting to kill anyone else until he had found a failproof way to do it.

So he just watched as the angry Prefect walked into the room and went around searching for someone, and was surprized —and immediately suspicious— when the person Grant was looking for turned out to be Neville. A group of pearly-white ghosts had just stopped to chat directly into his line of sight, so Harry couldn't see exactly what transpired on the other side of the chamber, but it looked like the Prefect had pulled Neville aside and was whispering something in his ear.

Harry felt his angry magic boil inside him. Was Neville confirming the blond's story? Were they conspiring against him? Or did they plan to hurt Neville too? The Malfoy prat had threatened to ruin them all, and after the way Harry had defended the toad boy they might think he could be hurt that way. Or they might use Neville as bait, threatening to hurt him so Harry would go rescuing him again and fall in some trap.

He was trying to convince himself that he didn't care what they did to that traitor —even as he got ready to fight the Prefect if he tried to take Neville away— when the door opened again and the Deputy Headmistress strolled back in.

"Move along," she said sharply, frowning disapprovingly at Harry's still dishevelled appearance. "The Sorting Ceremony's about to start."

One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall, and Grant seemed to whisper one last thing to Neville before moving to stand by the door. The first years had been ordered to form a line, so Harry took the opportunity to approach the traitorous boy.

"What did he tell you?" he demanded in a whisper while the others lined up.

"He- He gave me a message for you," stammered Neville nervously, shakily handing over a small scroll of paper. "He said not let anyone see you read it. And he- he said to tell you not to hurt me. I won't say anything, I swear!"

Harry looked the boy in the eye, and saw that he meant it. Why would they care about Neville, though, completely confused him. He glanced at the Prefect, who was looking at him from across the room in very much the same way the dark Professor had, a dead-serious warning in his eyes and a slight shake of his head that seemed to say 'don't do anything stupid'.

Perplexed, and annoyed at the realization that the Prefect must have used Neville as an intermediary to make sure Harry stopped to listen instead of directly attacking, he looked around to check no one could see what he was doing and unfurled the mysterious message —which seemed to have been written in a hurry judging by the blotches of ink and the almost illegible hand.

Don't run.

Don't kill anyone.

Don't torture, injure, disable nor try to control anyone else. The Headmaster doesn't know anything, don't give yourself away.

Don't attack the castle.

Don't show off your power.

Don't steal anything else.

Don't go anywhere with Professor Quirrell (purple turban).

Don't meet with the Headmaster alone. Don't look him in the eye. Don't attack him.

You can trust Grant. Listen to him.

I am not your enemy. I'm trying to help you, let me.

P. Snape

Harry's overwhelmed mind swirled as he followed the other students out of the chamber and back across the hall. He was still a confused mess when his eyes stumbled again upon the dark Professor, who was standing like a sentinel by the front doors —no doubt to keep him from running away. There was a horrible ghost floating next to him, its blank staring eyes also fixed on Harry, and a bit further away stood the blond prat and the minions, all of them looking nervous and afraid. Harry watched the vampire say something to the ghost before turning to the bullies and prodding them forward, encouraging them to join the stream of first years trickling into the Great Hall. The blond boy seemed reluctant to go, clinging to the robes of his powerful protector until some whispered reassurance gently pushed him forward.

How could that man not be his enemy? He was the bully's godfather, a friend of the family, and Harry had nearly killed the boy, had threatened him and mocked him, brought him down fifty pegs and then some. That Snape bloke would be a very poor friend and godfather if he tried to help Harry after what he had done. And why would he do it? It didn't make sense.

So no. The message must be a trick, a scheme to win his trust and get him to lower his guard, an alternative plan devised after the man's first attempt to lure him away had failed.

And yet...

And yet, when he walked past the dark Professor and met his piercing eyes again, Harry didn't see an enemy. He knew he must be, but it didn't feel that way, and if he looked beyond the vampiresque appearance he had to admit that, while obviously dangerous, the man didn't look threatening. He hadn't shown any anger towards him either, even though Harry had nearly killed his godson and had attacked him too. Of course he could be play-acting, but after having seen his reaction to the turban teacher Harry didn't think such a man could completely hide his anger if he were truly angry.

Even his magic had felt sort of friendly when he had reached out to him... right until he had set his scar on fire. That definitely wasn't a friendly thing to do. The pain had felt like a warning, but now he wondered, a warning against what? Against who? The dark Professor had been sending him warnings from the very first time they had locked eyes, so perhaps it had been a painful attempt at communication? Perhaps the warning had been about the Headmaster and the turban teacher? The man clearly didn't trust either, but that didn't mean they were the bad ones.

Harry didn't know what to think.

Figuring out the vampire's true intentions seem crucial, but Harry was still easily distracted from his troubled speculations when he walked into the Great Hall and his eyes took in the splendour before him. The place was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over four long tables laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. Hundreds of students stared at them as they marched along the aisle, their faces looking like pale lanterns in the flickering candle-light, while here and there silvery ghosts shone around the hall.

The most striking feature of the cavernous room, though, was the ceiling, which seemed non-existent. Harry had seen the castle from outside, so he knew there was a roof up there, but looking upwards it was hard to believe the Great Hall didn't open directly to the starry sky. Was it a magical illusion? An invisibility spell? Some sort of projection?

So caught he was by the heavenly sight above that he stumbled into Neville when the boy suddenly stopped at a sign from the Deputy Headmistress. She had led them to the top of the hall, where there was another long table occupied by teachers, and made them stand in a line over the raised dais facing the other students. Harry didn't like this arrangement at all, since it meant all the teachers were behind him, and at least some of the teachers were clearly a lot more dangerous than all the rest of the students combined.

His uneasiness only increased when he saw the dark Professor close —and probably lock— the doors from the inside before making his way to the High Table, where he took his place next to the turban man. The macabre ghost had glided into the Great Hall too, but unlike all the other ghosts that had scattered amongst the students the one colluding with the vampire stayed floating by the doors.

Don't run.

Harry was trapped. He felt as if he had spent hours struggling to get off a giant chess board, and not only he had failed to escape, they had managed to checkmate him on the exact square they had been trying to lead him to all along. The atmosphere of the Great Hall certainly made him feel as if he were about to be sacrificed to some demonic deity. What had the Deputy Headmistress said about the Sorting Ceremony? Harry hadn't been paying attention when she had explained, but he thought he had heard the redhead say something about a test. Would they draw blood from them? Blood seemed to be mightly important for these people, so it would make sense if they tested all the students before admitting them. Would they sort them by blood type? By amount of power in the blood?

Or maybe it was a skill test? The witch had placed a pointed wizard's hat over a stool, maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it? That shouldn't be so hard. Harry had never tried such silly trick, but he was confident he could do it —or at least cheat his way around it.

He absolutely didn't expect the hat to suddenly come to life and start singing.

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.

...

There's nothing in your head The Sorting Hat can't see

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

...

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!"

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

Harry heard the redhead breathe in relief at finding out that they just had to try on the hat, but on his part he felt all the opposite to relief. For starters, the patched, frayed hat looked dirty, as if it had never been washed, and Harry felt his skin crawl at the thought of putting on his head something that had been worn by thousands of students before him. It had always disgusted him to have to wear Dudley's discarded clothes, and he had vowed never to wore anything he didn't feel comfortable wearing ever again.

That was a minor objection, though. What really worried him was that it was a thinking, talking hat that claimed to be able to see everything inside his head. What if it yelled all his crimes for everyone to hear? Feeling his anxiety rise, Harry stole a glance at the teachers' table, wondering why the vampire hadn't mentioned the Hat in the message. Whatever the dark Professor was plotting clearly involved keeping the Headmaster in the dark about Harry's more recent crimes, so shouldn't he have warned him not to wear an object that could compromise him? To his frustration, though, the man wasn't looking in his direction, so he couldn't see any forgotten warnings in his eyes.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," said the Deputy Headmistress, who had stepped forward and was holding a long roll of parchment. "Abbot, Hannah!"

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment's pause-

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.

Students cheered and clapped as the girl went to sit down at what must be the Huffle Puff table. Just like that, quick and apparently simple. Could it be that the Hat would not mess with his mind nor betray his secrets?

As Harry watched another girl being sorted into Huffle Puff, followed by a boy that went to Raven Claw, another fear began to take shape inside him. What if he wasn't sorted anywhere? The song had briefly described the sort of people that belonged to each table, and Harry was certain that he didn't belong to any. If only the Hat had mentioned a House for murderous freaks, that would have been the one for him, but as usual he was doomed to be left out.

Not that he cared if he wasn't sorted into any House, of course. He would rather skip this whole Ceremony entirely. But if he tried on that Hat and the thing refused to place him anywhere, they would suspect he was abnormal. They might interrogate the hat, ask it what it had seen inside Harry's head that was so terrible, and then they would all know.

"Crabbe, Vincent!" called the Deputy Headmistress.

One of the minions stepped forward and went to sit on the stool.

"SLYTHERIN!" shouted the Hat after a moment. The minion walked past Harry on his way to Slithering table, his eyes meeting for an instant before the boy hastily looked down. When a few names later the other minion (Goyle, Gregory) was sorted into the same House, also lowering his head in submission as he walked past him, Harry began to suspect the minions might be smarter than they looked. Perhaps if he had simply shown them his power and given them a choice they would have turned against the blond on their own free will.

He also began to consider the Sorting issue in a different way. Maybe it wasn't so much a matter of where he belonged to (which was nowhere), as a matter of where he wanted to be. It didn't seem as though the students had any say on where the Hat sent them, but perhaps Harry could demand a say. Anything that could think and talk could be negotiated with, after all, and perhaps once the Hat saw inside his head it would realize it was in its best interest to obey.

"Granger, Hermione!" Hermione almost ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head. She sat there for about a minute before it shouted, "GRYFFINDOR!"

Was that the House for clever people the Hat had mentioned in the song? Harry couldn't remember, but he assumed it must be. He watched Hermione rush to join her new House mates at the farthest table of the Great Hall, and felt a pang of jealously when he saw the warm welcoming they gave her. Everyone was smiling and cheering, leaning over to shake her hand, making room for her in the benches, Hermione looking pleased and happy at the friendly reception.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

Swallowing his bitterness, Harry turned his attention back to the Ceremony, just in time to see Neville fall over on his way to the stool. He was surprized when the Hat screamed "GRYFFINDOOR!" before it had fully landed on the boy's head, not seeming to take even a second to make its decision. All the others so far had sat at least for a few moments on the stool while the Hat pondered, but apparently no pondering was necessary in Neville's case.

The boy seemed surprized himself at how quickly his sorting went, so much so that he ran off with the Hat still on his head, and Harry watched with a mixture of pity, anger, envy and longing as Neville jogged back to return it amid gales of laughter. He hated everyone for laughing at the boy, felt sorry for him, resented him for his better fortune, and he so wished he could go sit by his side with no crimes nor betrayals hanging between them.

Despite the initial laughter and jeering, everyone in the Griffin Door table welcomed Neville just as warmly as they had welcomed Hermione, and Harry felt a more violent rush of jealously when he saw the two of them sitting side by side, whispering to each other like friends. He also felt annoyed and worried when he noticed three different redheads —two of them identical— engaging them in conversation. What were they saying? Would Neville be able to fend off their questions? Harry didn't trust those twins, and he already knew he couldn't rely on Neville's ability or willingness to keep secrets.

"Malfoy, Draco!"

Harry again wrenched his eyes from the merry Griffin Door table and watched as the blond bully stepped forward. Most students sorted so far had seemed sickly nervous when their turn to sit under the hat had come, but the all-important Malfoy looked decidedly terrified. Harry wondered if it was a residual effect of his close encounter with Death, and felt uncomfortably guilty for having put such fear into a person —even as he felt unrepentantly pleased that he had managed to make a lasting impression on the boy.

"SLYTHERIN!" shouted the Hat after a particularly long pause.

There was no question of which House the bully had wanted to be sorted into. The relief on his face was palpable, and for a moment he seemed to recover his normal swaggering attitude... until he met Harry's eyes on his way to the Slithering table. The boy didn't lower his gaze like the minions had, but he did visibly gulp, and he instantly lost all the confidence he had just regained. Harry couldn't help smirking at him, and he almost wished the prat would challenge him so he could force him to his knees again. His recent experience had taught him there was nothing more satisfying than bringing a bully crashing down to Humiliation Land, and knowing that the blond would pick up his nasty habits the moment Harry went away made him want to squash him in front of the entire school.

Don't torture, injure, disable nor try to control anyone else.

The cautionary message hadn't said anything about humiliation, though. And there were many ways to humiliate people that didn't entail causing physical pain. He could simply vanish all his clothes, or turn his hair pink...

Don't show off your power.

What was the point of having power if one couldn't use it to intimidate bullies?

Something of his vindictive struggle must have shown on his face, because the blond scurried away as fast as if Harry were Death himself. Harry's gaze followed him to his new table, and he observed with satisfaction that the boy eyed his former friends with apprehension before taking a seat several places away from them.

And now they were all there. Malfoy the Important, both minions, even Grant the Prefect, who was giving him another 'don't do anything stupid' sort of look. It seemed like that was the table to avoid... or the table to choose.

"Potter, Harry!" finally called the Deputy Headmistress.

Whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

"Potter, did she say?"

"The Harry Potter?"

As he stepped forward and calmly approached the stool, Harry wondered again why the Headmaster would admit a student who was universally known for murdering his uncle and torturing his cousin. Surely the parents of all the other students would disapprove and complain? Even if they didn't care about what happened to ordinary people like the Dursleys, they would care about their children sharing a dormitory with someone who had tortured a boy their own age. They would want him gone, and Harry couldn't blame them. Why would the Headmaster risk a public scandal welcoming him to stay?

His thoughts and steps came to a stop next to the stool, but he didn't immediately sit, eyeing the filthy hat with mistrust. He could feel the magic radiating from it, and he resisted to touch such an unpredictable object, never mind wear it. What if the Hogwarts Sorting Hat was connected to the magic of Hogwarts? It certainly was sentient, like the castle, and Harry had attacked the building.

"Mr. Potter," said the Deputy Headmistress impatiently. "You must sit on the stool now. The procedure is completely harmless, you need not fear."

Unconvinced, Harry raised his eyes to the High Table again, hoping for some signal or warning. He saw the Headmaster nod encouragingly at him, but he avoided the old gaze just in case and looked for the dark Professor instead. The man's focus was on him, now, so it was easy to lock eyes with him, and to he reach for his mind with his magic just like he had felt the vampire do before. He wasn't at all sure about this, but he suspected the man had been trying to communicate telepathically then, and Harry would welcome some mental advise right now even if it came with pain attached.

The response to his telepathic prodding was instantaneous, and mercifully painless. From outside probably it looked as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, the exchange too quick and subtle to be apparent, but Harry felt the rush of magic reaching back to him, gently brushing against his thoughts, reading questions on the surface of his mind and projecting back answers in an orderly fashion.

And then it was over. He saw the dark Professor scowling at him, his black eyes hard and unwelcoming, but Harry knew that was just a facade, a pretence of hostility to mask their secret communication.

And now he knew what he needed to know about the Hat.

It can't hurt you. It can't reveal your secrets. It can't refuse to sort you.

He also knew that he had to let the Hat in, not block it, since unlike the vampire who had just brushed the surface of his mind the Hat would need to see everything inside him. So as he took his place on the stool Harry made a careful effort to relax the mental walls he had erected to keep the castle out, and prayed trusting the advice of a possible enemy would not turn out to be a terrible mistake.

The last thing he saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning their necks to have a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat, hating his blindness and spreading his magic around him like a shield in case someone tried to attack him while he was vulnerable.

At first nothing happened, so Harry tried to relax his mind a bit more.

"Hmm," said then a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's-"

Put me in Slithering, interrupted Harry mentally. I won't be staying, so it shouldn't matter where I sit for an hour or so.

"Not staying, eh? I see... Hogwarts will always welcome those who seek refuge, you know. You need not go."

That's my own business.

"So it is. Whether you stay or you go, however, it's my job to sort you properly, so let me have a look... Hmm... I see talent, oh my goodness, so much talent, and a thirst to prove yourself... Slytherin would be a good fit for you, yes, and it would help you on the way to greatness, but I wonder... Your mind asks for Slytherin, but your heart sings a different song. Gryffindor would be a good fit for you too, you know."

That table is too far from the door, objected Harry. There was actually another, smaller door closer to the Griffin Door table, but he didn't know where it led, and the giant was sitting right next to it so Harry would not try to escape that way. Then there was the door behind the teachers' table, but Harry would have to get past all the teachers including the Headmaster to go through it so it was also out of the question. That only left the main doors, located in the far end of the hall, which were being guarded only by the bloody ghost. Harry didn't know what ghosts could do nor how to fight against them, but knowing for sure that he couldn't win against the giant or the Headmaster he would rather take his chances with the ethereal Being, especially since he knew for certain that those double doors led to the Entrance Hall and from there to freedom. Potisioning himself at the Slithering table he would be closer to that exit, and might be able to reach it and even seal it behind him before the teachers caught up with him.

It also made strategic sense to sit close to the people he most needed to keep an eye on. In the Griffin Door table there was Neville and possibly the redhead twins that could give him trouble, but those were minor threats compared to the blond bully and his minions, who were nastier people and had more reasons to hate him. Harry would much rather sit with Hermione, but there was no future there anyway so he should just forget about her and focus on survival.

There was also the chance that the dark Professor was genuinely trying to help him, in which case staying close to Grant the Prefect seemed like the best way to benefit from that help.

Harry heard a small chuckle in his ear.

"I see. Yes, you would do great in Slytherin, no doubt about that. But I still think Gryffindor might be better for you. I can see it in your heart, all that righteousness-"

I said Slithering, snapped Harry inside his head. Put me in that table or I'll burn you to ashes.

The Hat chuckled again.

"So determined. Well, if you're sure..."