CHAPTER ONE
The Sorting Hat
The Great Hall buzzed with the usual excitement. Candles floated serenely above, casting a warm glow over four tables where eyes sparkled with anticipation. The Sorting Hat, old and frayed, sat atop a stool that commanded the attention of every new student.
Harry Potter stood in line, nerves tingling in his fingertips. He could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes; whispers about "The Boy Who Lived" darted through the crowd. As the line moved forward, Harry glanced up at the staff table. Dumbledore's gaze, kind but unreadable, met his. His stomach churned.
Finally, it was his turn. The hat was placed on his head, slipping over his scar, covering his vision. Harry held his breath.
"Hmm... tricky, very tricky," a voice murmured in his ear. "Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my yes—and a thirst to prove yourself. But where to put you?"
Harry swallowed. Not Slytherin, not Slytherin, he thought, heart pounding.
"Not Slytherin?" the hat echoed. "But why not? You could be great, you know. It's all here in your head. Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness... no? Well, if you're sure—"
Harry's pulse raced as he hesitated. What did greatness mean? Did it mean power? He thought of the stories, of being just Harry, and yet...
"SLYTHERIN!" the hat shouted.
The hall fell silent for a moment before a ripple of whispers spread. At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy smirked in surprise. At the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley's jaw dropped. Hermione Granger looked on, wide-eyed, books momentarily forgotten.
Harry removed the hat, feeling its weight echoing in his mind. The choice had been made
Harry stood up from the stool, the echoes of the Sorting Hat's declaration still bouncing around the Great Hall. As he began his walk toward the Slytherin table, the whispers grew louder, a sea of disbelief and curiosity. The Gryffindors, their red and gold ties vivid under the candlelight, were the most vocal. Harry's gaze met Ron's, and the look of betrayal on his new friend's face was a hard blow. Hermione sat stiff, eyes wide and mouth open as if she couldn't comprehend what had just happened.
Reaching the Slytherin table, Harry felt a mix of cold stares and sly smiles. He sat down next to a blonde girl with sharp blue eyes who regarded him with mild interest. "You're Harry Potter," she said, her voice poised and calm. "I'm Daphne Greengrass."
"Pleased to meet you," Harry muttered, suddenly conscious of the murmurs surrounding him.
Daphne's expression softened into something that might have been friendliness. "Slytherin, huh? I wouldn't have minded Ravenclaw, but I guess this will do." She gestured to the emerald banners overhead, the silver snake coiled proudly.
Before Harry could reply, a shift in the air drew his attention. Across the table, Draco Malfoy, pale and sharp-featured, was glowering at him, eyes narrowed with a mix of surprise and irritation. Harry felt the weight of that stare but pretended not to notice, focusing instead on Dumbledore's address.
When the food appeared, Harry's tension eased slightly. Platters of roast chicken, Savory pies, and steaming potatoes filled the long table. He picked at his plate, though his appetite wavered under the curious glances of the Slytherin students. One by one, they came to introduce themselves—Nott, Zabini, and others whose names blurred together.
Harry cast a quick glance at the staff table and met the eyes of a professor he hadn't noticed before. The man had sallow skin, deep-set eyes, and a large, hooked nose. The way he looked at Harry was unsettling, a mixture of Hatred and something sharper, almost possessive. It made Harry's stomach twist with a sensation he couldn't quite place.
After the feast, the Slytherin prefects stood and motioned for the first years to follow. They wound through the shadowed corridors of the dungeons, the torches casting flickering, distorted shadows on the damp stone walls. At last, they halted in front of an arched doorway carved with serpentine figures.
"This is the entrance to our common room," the prefect said. "The password is 'Pure Ambition.' Remember it well."
The stone door swung open to reveal a spacious room adorned with green and silver hangings, dark leather sofas, and high-backed chairs facing a roaring fireplace. The windows, set deep in the castle's foundations, peered into the dark, murky depths of the Black Lake.
Harry stepped inside, surrounded by his new housemates, and felt the chill of the underground settle into his bones. This was Slytherin. His new home.
Days after the Sorting Ceremony, Harry found himself increasingly isolated within the shadowy halls of Slytherin. Draco Malfoy, with his platinum hair and air of entitlement, had taken it upon himself to ensure that Harry remained an outcast. Whispers trailed Harry wherever he went, fuelled by Malfoy's sneering accusations and jeers.
The term "Mud blood lover" echoed down the corridors more often than not, a cruel taunt after Harry had been seen speaking with Hermione Granger. The older Slytherins cast disapproving glances or outright ignored him, while most of the first years kept their distance, wary of incurring the wrath of the upper years.
Only Daphne Greengrass remained a friend. She rolled her eyes at Malfoy's antics and told Harry to let the insults roll off him like water. Yet, her advice was easier said than done. Harry felt trapped between worlds—rejected by Gryffindor and under fire in Slytherin. Ron Weasley, once a hopeful ally, now treated him with cold disdain, declaring loudly to anyone who'd listen that he wouldn't mix with "slimy snakes."
Hermione, however, sought Harry out in the library and whispered encouragements during class breaks. Yet, their secret conversations did little to stave off the loneliness gnawing at Harry's heart. It was in these moments of solitude that Harry began to notice a whisper at the edges of his thoughts. At first, it was subtle, a soft murmur like wind through the trees. But the more he felt alone, the stronger it became.
It was during Potions that the voice made itself known. The dark, damp dungeon seemed to close in around Harry as Professor Snape's icy gaze swept the room. The man's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Potter," he drawled, a smirk playing at his thin lips, "not paying attention, are we, think being a celebrity puts you above listening during lessons, eh?"
Harry's face flushed with embarrassment. Some of the Slytherins, including Draco, laughed. Before he could stammer a reply, Snape continued. "Tell me, Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Panic clawed at Harry's chest. He was about to admit defeat when the voice whispered to him, low and urgent. 'Draught of Living Death, a powerful sleeping potion.'
"Th-That would make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death, Professor," Harry said, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them.
A heavy silence fell over the room. Even the scratching of quills ceased. Snape's eyebrows arched in a flicker of surprise before his expression hardened into one of irritation. "Correct," he said, drawing out the word as if it pained him. "Beginner's luck, no doubt."
Around the room, students exchanged wide-eyed glances. Daphne turned to Harry, a glimmer of admiration in her usually reserved gaze. But Harry barely registered it, his mind spinning. The voice was back, stronger now, and it spoke again, a promise wrapped in shadow.
'See, you are more than they think. With me in your mind, you are destined for greatness, Harry Potter.'
Harry swallowed, the chill of the dungeon seeping deeper into his bones. The power the voice offered both frightened and thrilled him. For the first time in days, he didn't feel alone. But at what cost?
"Where would you find me a bezoar, Potter?" The silence that followed Snape's second question was suffocating. Harry felt the weight of the room's collective gaze on him, every eye expecting him to falter. But the whisper in his mind was there again, steady and calm, guiding him. Without hesitation, Harry answered, "A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and it will save you from most poisons."
A ripple of astonishment passed through the dungeon. Hermione's eyes widened in disbelief, her hand still in the air as she stared at Harry. Across the room, Draco Malfoy's smirk had vanished, replaced by an uneasy scowl. For a moment, the only sound was the low hiss of the cauldron fires.
Snape's dark eyes narrowed as he set down his book with a deliberate thud and approached Harry's desk. The professor loomed over him, close enough that Harry could smell the faint scent of potions and parchment.
"And what," Snape said, his voice low and dangerous, "is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?" He leaned closer, the sneer stretching across his thin lips, his yellowed teeth on display.
Harry's heart drummed wildly, but the whisper—an almost reassuring presence now—provided the answer. His voice was steady as he said, "Monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant, Professor; they also go by the name of aconite."
The room erupted in murmurs, the incredulous looks turning into open astonishment. A few of the Slytherins in the back exchanged whispers with each other, while Daphne shot Harry an approving glance, a hint of a smile curving her lips. Hermione looked torn between awe and suspicion.
Snape's lips pressed into a thin line as he scrutinized Harry, his eyes glinting with something unreadable—frustration, perhaps, or curiosity. Finally, he straightened, his robes sweeping around him like dark wings.
"It seems you might not be a lost cause after all, Potter," he said with a flicker of annoyance, as if the admission pained him. The tension in the room crackled until he turned his back on Harry and resumed the lesson, breaking the spell.
Harry's pulse slowed, the adrenaline ebbing away. He clenched his quill so tightly his knuckles turned white. The voice hummed faintly in the back of his mind, proud and coaxing.
'Well done, Harry. This is only the beginning.'
As the lesson continued, Harry's mind spun. Who—or what—was speaking to him? And why did it know so much? The question lingered as the dungeon air grew colder, wrapping around him like a promise and a warning.
As the final clang of the bell echoed through the dungeon, signaling the end of the lesson, Harry's mind buzzed with questions. The voice had given him the answers he needed, but at what cost? He packed his books and parchment with shaking hands, barely registering the murmur of students leaving.
"Harry!" Daphne's clear voice cut through the noise, and Harry looked up to see her approaching with Hermione at her side. The two girls were an odd pair, bound by their shared curiosity.
Hermione's brown eyes were sharp with suspicion as she glanced from Daphne to Harry. "How did you know those answers?" she asked. "Even I had to read Advanced Potions Theory to know some of that."
Harry's stomach tightened. The truth—that a mysterious voice had whispered the answers to him—was something he couldn't reveal. He mustered a small, casual smile. "I read about them in the school textbooks before class," he said, trying to keep his voice even.
Hermione's brows knitted together, clearly unconvinced. "The standard textbooks don't go into that level of detail, Harry. You're telling me you just memorized advanced potion facts for fun?"
Daphne's gaze was more measured, but her silence spoke volumes. She crossed her arms, the emerald-green lining of her robes shimmering faintly. "Even if you did, it was impressive," she said, not quite letting her own doubt slip away.
Harry shifted on his feet, the weight of their scrutiny pressing down on him. "I just… I wanted to be prepared," he said, forcing a shrug. "Professor Snape's not exactly known for going easy on anyone."
Hermione's expression softened slightly at that. It was true; everyone knew Snape's disdain for most students. Daphne's eyes, however, lingered on him a moment longer, assessing.
"Fair enough," Daphne finally said, though a flicker of something unreadable passed over her face. "Still, impressive or not, you should be careful. The wrong people will notice."
The warning struck a chord in Harry. He nodded, trying to suppress the chill that ran down his spine. The voice in his head was silent now, but the feeling of being watched remained.
"Thanks," he murmured, glancing between the two girls. "I'll keep that in mind."
Hermione nodded reluctantly, then turned to leave for her next class. Daphne gave him a final look before walking away, her blonde hair swaying as she disappeared down the corridor with the other Slytherins. Alone, Harry exhaled, the stone walls of the dungeon seeming to press in closer around him.
As he gathered his things and left, a whisper brushed the edge of his consciousness once more.
'With me, you are stronger than they could imagine, Harry. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.'
Harry shivered, unable to tell if it was a promise, a warning, or both.
The chill of early October seeped through the stone walls of the Slytherin dormitory as Harry dressed for the day. The faint green glow from the underwater windows cast eerie patterns across the floor. He tugged on his robes, grabbed his scarf, and stepped out into the common room. Daphne Greengrass was already waiting, her blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, her expression one of mild curiosity as she studied the notice pinned to the common room board.
"Good morning," Harry said, still shaking off the remnants of sleep. Daphne turned to him, her eyes brightening at the sight of her friend.
"Morning, Harry. Have you seen this?" She pointed to the parchment, a school notice scrawled in dark ink. It announced the first Quidditch flying lesson for the first-year students, scheduled for after lunch.
Harry's heart skipped a beat. He'd heard stories of flying, imagined soaring above the grounds of Hogwarts, the wind biting at his face. He hadn't dared hope that they'd get the chance so soon.
"I can't wait," Harry said, a spark of excitement cutting through the gloom that had surrounded him since the Sorting. Daphne smiled, her cool composure giving way to shared anticipation.
"Come on, we should grab breakfast before the rush," she said, leading the way out of the common room. The two made their way through the maze of dungeons, joining the throng of students heading to the Great Hall. Harry couldn't help but notice the glances that followed him; the whispers had not subsided, but he had grown more adept at ignoring them.
The crisp morning air was laced with excitement as Harry, Daphne, and Hermione made their way to the Quidditch field. The early autumn sun bathed the castle grounds in a golden glow, and Harry's nerves buzzed with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity.
Since hearing Tom's voice in his mind, life at Hogwarts had shifted. The whispers had transformed into full conversations and the voice had finally introduced itself as Tom, although Harry sensed a hate for the name coming from the voice, and though Harry felt uneasy about their source, he couldn't deny the help it provided. Tom's advice had sharpened Harry's mind, giving him an edge in every class. Yet, as much as Harry appreciated the newfound confidence, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something deeply unsettling about the voice.
After lunch, the first-year students gathered around Madame Hooch, who stood with her sharp eyes and brisk demeanor. "Right then! Everyone, step up to the left side of your broomstick," she instructed. "Stick out your right hand and say, 'Up!'"
Harry's broom sprang into his hand the moment he gave the command, as if it recognized him. A murmur of admiration ran through the group, and Harry caught Daphne's approving nod. Hermione struggled for a moment but managed to summon hers with a look of relief. Malfoy's broom obeyed just as quickly, and he shot Harry a glare, as if challenging him to prove himself unworthy of Slytherin.
Once everyone had managed to grasp their broomsticks, Madame Hooch directed them to mount and prepare for flight. "Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, then come straight back down. On my mark—"
But before the whistle sounded, Neville, looking pale and jittery, accidentally pushed off too hard. He rocketed into the sky, his terrified yelp piercing the air before he toppled and crashed to the ground. The sound of bones hitting earth made several students gasp. Madame Hooch rushed to his side, her face tense. "Everyone stay where you are!" she ordered before escorting a whimpering Neville to the hospital wing.
The students exchanged glances, unsure what to do next. The moment the teacher disappeared into the castle; Malfoy's smirk turned wicked. He picked up Neville's fallen Remembrall, holding it up for everyone to see. "Look what Longbottom's gone and left behind," he drawled. "Think I'll hide it where he won't find it."
Harry's jaw clenched, a surge of anger rising in his chest. He stepped forward. "Give it here, Malfoy," he said, his voice steady but brimming with challenge.
Malfoy's sneer deepened. "Come and get it, Potter." Without waiting, he mounted his broom and kicked off, shooting into the sky.
"Harry, don't!" Hermione's voice trembled with concern, while Daphne grabbed his arm. "Be careful," she whispered, her usual composure cracking just slightly.
Harry Nodded at Daphney, before he mounted his broom and pushed off, the ground falling away as he soared up to meet Malfoy. The wind whipped through his hair, and for a moment, exhilaration replaced all other thoughts. Tom's voice intruded, cold and amused. 'Flying is fine, but imagine doing it without a broom, Harry. Better yet, why don't you stun him off his broom, watch him fall like the Longbottom boy? I'll show you how.'
"No," Harry muttered under his breath, shaking his head to clear the suggestion. He forced Tom's voice out and focused on Malfoy, who hovered above, tossing the Remembrall from hand to hand with a mocking smile.
"Come on, Potter, show me what the famous Harry Potter can do!" Malfoy taunted, throwing the glass sphere high into the air.
Time seemed to slow as Harry leaned forward, his broom responding as if it were part of him. He dived, the wind whistling past his ears, eyes locked on the falling Remembrall. Below, the students craned their necks, breath held. With a swift move, Harry's fingers closed around the glass orb just inches above the ground. He pulled up, landing gracefully amidst gasps of awe.
"Potter!" Professor McGonagall's sharp voice cut through the air. She stood at the entrance of the field, her eyes narrowed, lips thin with anger and something else—admiration? "Follow me. Now."
Harry's heart sank as he met Daphne's worried gaze. Tom's voice purred in the back of his mind, 'very good, now they know you are above them.'
And for the first time, Harry wasn't sure if that was a good thing.