4,434A/N: A huge thank you to Gwendolyn for discussing and proofreading the fic and for putting up with me while I was writing! This story wouldn't exist if not for you. One day, your kindness will be repaid. Maybe even by me...
On a different note, this is an AU (obviously) about a canon Harry being Sorted differently. So please assume that the first few chapters of The Philosopher's Stone stand unchanged up until the point when Harry puts on the Sorting Hat—at which point the Hat does not listen to Harry's demands and off to Slytherin he goes, having just fought with Malfoy and befriended Ron.
This is the first part of a project that spans all seven books; the plan is to have the number of chapters correspond to the year, i.e. one chapter for first year, two for second, three for third, etc. As a final note, it's worth saying that Harry spends pretty much all of this fic being an unreliable narrator; reality is filtered through the lens of his understanding of any given situation. His understanding isn't always accurate, and his views will shift over time.
"You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness…"
(The Sorting Hat, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone)
I.
Slytherin. He was a bloody Slytherin. Head bowed, eyes fixed on an empty plate, Harry tried to comprehend the enormity of the hat's decision. Hagrid had said that all wizards who went to Slytherin ended up bad, hadn't he? What did it mean for Harry—surely he wasn't bad already?
("Always spoil everything… ungrateful… freakish… strange... abnormal...")
He wasn't.
Harry's stomach swooped unpleasantly. Everyone was staring at him. They'd been staring before the Sorting too, but the hush that had fallen over the hall at the hat's choice had been impossible to mistake. This wasn't… this wasn't how his first day at Hogwarts was meant to go.
"Weasley, Ronald!"
Oh god. What would Ron think of Harry now?
The hat's decisive "GRYFFINDOR!" dashed all hopes of Harry and Ron ending up in the same house. Harry tried to calm his breathing. Nothing for it. He raised his eyes.
From the Gryffindor table, Ron was staring at him with an expression of utter betrayal.
("I don't suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in Slytherin.")
Well. That answered that question. Harry didn't dare look at Hagrid; one disappointed gaze was all he could take in an evening.
Zabini, Blaise seated himself next to Harry; with that, the Sorting came to an end and the Headmaster got up to say a few words. Harry jumped when a rich food spread appeared on the table out of nowhere.
"It's called magic, Potter," Draco Malfoy said acerbically, drawing the laughs of the two huge boys next to him.
Harry fixed him with a glare.
"Wow. Thanks. I never would've worked that out."
Why did the hat have to put Harry in Slytherin with Draco bloody Malfoy and away from all kids who seemed nice?
Harry's new housemates kept a close eye on his exchange with Malfoy—some with open interest, some with suspicion, some with smiles so sharp they made him inwardly shudder.
"Do you two already know each other?" asked a thin-faced boy sitting opposite.
"Unfortunately." Malfoy raised his chin. "I think you'll find that Potter's quite inclined to the wrong sort, Theo. He was making friends with Mudbloods and blood traitors on the train."
A ripple of whispers swept through the table. Harry set his jaw. Whatever those words meant, they had to be bad, coming from Malfoy.
"You're just saying that because I didn't want to be friends with you," he said, and set off a wave of quiet ohhhs.
"So what do you want to be—enemies?" The thin-faced boy narrowed his eyes. "That confident you can take Draco on, are you?"
He looked Harry up and down, as if appraising his scrawny frame, messy hair and crooked glasses. An impressive sight Harry did not make. Harry hid his hands under the table so that the other boys wouldn't notice how they shook.
"Yeah, Potter, what do you want?" Malfoy leaned forward.
Harry steeled himself. Now was not the time to show weakness—bullies would pounce on that at once.
"From you? Nothing," he said. "Except the potatoes. Do you mind passing them along?"
Zabini stifled a snicker next to Harry. Malfoy sputtered, and then his face contorted with anger.
"Hilarious, Potter. I'll be the one laughing when you can't last a month in Slytherin. You think we'll fall over ourselves for the Boy-Who-Lived? Think again."
Yeah. Harry was getting the picture.
("While you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts...")
Funny thing—Harry's family didn't want him either.
He hated knowing that things would be the same here as they'd been in the Muggle world.
He'd probably been foolish to hope for anything different.
xXxXx
After dinner, Prefects led everyone to the dormitories. The Slytherin common room was apparently located in the dungeons, which sounded rather sinister and remote to Harry. The decor doubled down on the image, what with the snakes and the skulls, but all the green was actually kind of soothing. Chairs, tables and couches formed little islands in the spacious room, and a fire crackled under an imposing mantelpiece.
"The common room is where you'll spend a lot of your free time," Prefect Gemma Farley told them. "Now, the boys' dormitories are up through there, and the girls' over that way."
The dorm followed the green theme—that was the colour of the velvet hangings on the grand four-poster beds, the plush carpet and the tapestries on the walls, shot through with silver thread. The place looked like a posh hotel room, but for six people—and the most striking feature was a window looking out on… a giant aquarium?
"I don't like this bed," Malfoy announced. "Crabbe, change with me."
"Uh-huh." Crabbe nodded without looking at Malfoy. His attention, like Harry's, seemed drawn to the window where a school of fish had just darted past.
"Of course, my father told me beforehand that the dormitories are under the lake." Malfoy gestured to the window dismissively. "Crabbe, Goyle, stop gawking and come here."
Their dormitories were under the lake? Magic was so cool.
Malfoy proceeded to take out sweets his mother had sent along with him and pointedly share them with everyone except Harry. Harry couldn't have eaten another bite anyway, too full from dinner, but—
Whatever. He retreated to the four-poster bed which had his trunk near it and unpacked his pyjamas. The other boys kept sending him curious looks, but they didn't try to talk to him. Harry shut the curtains, blocking out the sight of them altogether.
For a moment he sat there, hugging his knees, listening to everyone else chatting beyond his little island of green.
("I'll be the one laughing when you can't last a month in Slytherin…")
Harry was here now, at Hogwarts, in this world of magic. He was going to last here, Slytherin or not. No Malfoy was going to chase him away.
Harry changed into his pyjamas and determinedly lay down to sleep.
xXxXx
Over the next few days, Harry discovered that there were rules to living in Slytherin—unspoken little rules, invisible ties connecting certain members of his house, dark secrets and closets full of skeletons. Harry knew quite a bit about secrets and he was an expert on closets; there had to be a way for him to make it through.
The most obvious principle ruling Slytherin was power. If you had power, you could thrive. If you had no power, you tried to gain it. If you had no power and no idea how to gain it, you kept a low profile and did your best to navigate the people who held the threads of power in their grasp.
Ignorance was weakness; knowledge was power.
Harry started going to the library in his first week of school.
He wasn't after power, exactly; he didn't want to be a bully like Malfoy. But he wanted to be safe from the Malfoys of Hogwarts—and Malfoy was a lot less scary than the older Slytherins, whose eyes felt heavy on Harry in the common room. Harry tried to avoid them and spent a lot of his time in the library, hoping that bullying was less likely to happen there anyway.
He had loads to learn. His housemates kept making references to things he had no idea about—people, and places, and events. Some of those things seemed to be part of the wizarding day-to-day, but Harry had an inkling that others involved him directly—him, and his family, and whatever had happened with Voldemort. He knew next to nothing about any of that, or about how Hogwarts worked, or what the war with Voldemort had even been about.
If he was to carve out a place for himself in the wizarding world, this had to change.
xXxXx
Harry dragged himself towards the Potions classroom. The later he got there, the later he'd have to face his Head of House. This was a beautiful plan—except he couldn't afford to be tardy, either…
Given Harry's chilly welcome in Slytherin, it shouldn't have come as a surprise that his Head of House hated him too; Professor Snape had cornered him on his first morning in the castle and given a threatening speech.
("Misbehaviour—pampered prince—prancing around—expelled faster that you can say Potions—flaunting your fame—keeping an eye on you, boy.")
Harry had been half-furious, half-terrified, so he couldn't really recall what Professor Snape had said, but the man had immediately become Harry's least favourite teacher. Harry's schedule had allowed him to avoid his horrid Head of House for almost a week, but the time for the first-ever Potions lesson was finally upon him.
By the time Harry arrived, the joint Slytherin-Gryffindor class had already gathered outside the classroom door, the houses separated by an invisible dividing line. In the middle of that stood Ron and Malfoy. The sight of Ron sent Harry's stomach flipping over. They hadn't spoken since the Sorting…
"Weasel, I'm still surprised to see you at Hogwarts," Malfoy drawled. "I wouldn't have thought your family could afford to send so many of you here."
Why did Malfoy have to be such a jerk?
"Shut up," Harry hissed into Malfoy's ear, sidling up to him. He'd rather snap at the boy at full volume, but the main Slytherin rule was to present a united front to the other houses at all times. "Just leave Ron alone!"
Without Malfoy messing everything up, maybe there was still a chance for Harry and Ron to—
"Figures that the two of you are plotting together," Ron said, tone disgusted.
Harry flinched away from Malfoy. Did Ron think..?
"Didn't take you long to make friends with Malfoy, did it, Potter? I guess you Slytherins are all the same in the end."
Dead silence followed the words. Harry flushed hot, and then so cold it felt like something inside him froze.
("There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin.")
Did people even—did Ron have any idea of what being in Slytherin was like?
Ron clearly thought he knew it all. He'd seen Harry rejecting Malfoy's handshake on the train, but believed they were friends now just because they were both Slytherins. Because Slytherins were all the same in the end—bad, somehow. And Harry was one of them, just the same as the rest.
Was he? Suddenly seeing himself from aside, Harry realised that he was standing with the Slytherin half of the divided crowd. He couldn't go back; he couldn't undo the Sorting, un-convince the hat.
("You could be great, you know…")
It wasn't fair. Worse, it wasn't as if Slytherins were actual monsters. Even in his dorm, Malfoy was a jerk, Nott was stuck up, Crabbe and Goyle were scary and Zabini distant, but they weren't villainous masterminds. Harry hadn't made friends in Slytherin, but he'd thought he was friends with a Gryffindor—and how quickly had that changed?
It hurt to think, so Harry opened his mouth to talk instead.
"Well, seeing the kind of friends Gryffindors are, I'll take my chances with Slytherin, thanks."
There. He'd stood up for Slytherin. The world was slowly tilting off its axis.
His classmates gave him cautious, assessing glances. With a sinking feeling, Harry realised that Malfoy approved.
"Yes, Weasley, why don't you crawl back into that hole you came out of?" Malfoy interjected.
"Shut up, you stupid—"
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Weasley," Professor Snape said, appearing soundlessly out of the classroom.
Harry ignored Ron's protests and Malfoy's smirk, and marched into the room ahead of everybody else.
All through the Potions master's introductory speech, Harry tried to calm his racing pulse. Professor Snape's glare landed on Harry, and Harry braced himself for another confrontation. Right now, a part of him would even welcome it… But then the teacher turned away to scold the Gryffindors, venting his anger on the bushy-haired know-it-all and a boy with a toad.
Millicent Bulstrode sent Harry thoughtful glances as they worked together. By the end of the class, their boil-curing potion actually resembled the desired result. Obviously, nothing could compare to Malfoy's concoction—not according to Professor Snape, anyway—but Harry counted it as a job well done. He gave Bulstrode a tentative smile, and received a stony look in response.
The professor's scowl followed Harry out the door, but not a single comment accompanied it. Snape hadn't said anything about Harry at all, despite his dislike—and he'd uttered no word of criticism against any of the other Slytherins, either; not when the others could see. He'd berated the Gryffindors at length, but a protective cocoon seemed to envelop the Slytherins inside the Potions classroom, and it evidently covered Harry, too.
The Slytherins stood publicly united. Harry was one of them. That was… something.
xXxXx
A week later, the novelty of Hogwarts—and of studying magic—was starting to settle into a new routine. Harry had worked out how to navigate at least some of the moving staircases, and to avoid the trick steps. He'd got lost in the dungeons twice, but discovered a couple of unused classrooms he could hole up in, away from his housemates. He'd figured out that a number of the castle's tapestries were actually doors, and that the portraits could and would talk—sometimes about him, but then so did everyone.
"Psst! That's Harry Potter!"
"Shh, he'll hear you!"
"Do you see his scar?"
Harry pretended not to notice the whispers as he walked out the castle doors onto the grounds, heading towards the large lawn where the Flying lesson would take place.
"Loving the fame, are you, Potter?" Malfoy sneered, catching up to him. "Little do they know you're about to make a fool of yourself. Never been on a broom, have you?"
Harry ignored him. Malfoy kept pace with him, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind.
"This is what you get for being raised by Muggles." Malfoy sniffed.
"Yeah, because that was totally my idea," Harry couldn't help sniping back. He'd have traded the Dursleys for the first wizarding family who'd want to have him…
Well, okay, maybe not the Malfoys, what with Draco basically being a posh, magical Dudley. Also, by now Harry had the notion that Malfoy's family had been on the wrong side of the war against Voldemort. Probably. There were… undercurrents in Slytherin. And a lot of talk about blood purity—which was a whole other thing Harry was still wrapping his head around.
"First-years, listen up!" barked Madam Hooch, their hawk-eyed instructor, as soon as they reached the lawn. "Everyone stand by a broomstick." She gestured at the rows of brooms lying in orderly lines on the ground, and frowned at a couple of Gryffindor stragglers—since this was a joint Slytherin-Gryffindor class.
Ron Weasley would be there for Harry's first-ever attempts at flying. Joy.
Harry chose a broom at random. Malfoy stayed doggedly by his side, evidently looking forward to the show.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom and say, Up!"
"UP!"
And the most delightful thing happened: the broom jumped eagerly into Harry's hand. Malfoy's eyes widened, but he schooled his expression quickly.
"So what, Potter," he hissed. "You haven't tried flying yet."
"We'll see," Harry said, spirits rising.
Unfortunately, another thing that rose was Neville Longbottom's broom, without any apparent input from him. The boy fell from a height and broke his wrist, at which point Madam Hooch halted the lesson to take him to the hospital wing.
"Did you see his face, the great lump?" Malfoy laughed, as soon as the teacher was out of earshot.
This, naturally, set off an argument with the Gryffindors, and then it took all of two minutes for Malfoy to bait Ron Weasley into a broom race.
"You'll get in trouble! Get down at once!" the bushy-haired Gryffindor girl shouted.
She was right, of course, but Harry kind of wished he were up there too. Flying looked fun.
Malfoy managed to land in his place near Harry and look like the picture of innocence by the time Madam Hooch returned, but the teacher caught Ron still in the air and promptly assigned him detention. This left Ron glaring at Malfoy and Harry, as if Harry had egged Malfoy on somehow.
"Be ready on my whistle!" Madam Hooch said. "Three… two…"
Harry kicked off on one, and then he was finally, marvellously flying. Wind rushed past his ears, and all his troubles seemed to fade as the broom soared in the air. Somehow, flying was easy—he knew just what to do without thinking about it, and the broom obeyed his every nudge…
"Well, now I have tried flying," Harry told Malfoy, braking sharply near him. "I think it's going pretty great—don't you?"
Malfoy fumed all the way back to the castle, afterwards. The other classmates—even some Gryffindors—shot Harry impressed glances.
For the first time since he'd started Hogwarts, Harry had been properly good at something.
("You think we'll fall over ourselves for the Boy-Who-Lived?")
Harry didn't need people singling him out for something he didn't remember doing and had no control over. This, though… this felt like showing others that he belonged.
Harry basked in the feeling. He hoped he'd get to fly again.
xXxXx
While Professor Snape never chewed Harry out during class, he did find a way to punish him for existing: having established that Longbottom was atrocious at Potions by the third week of school, he made the clumsy Gryffindor Harry's permanent partner. Harry had been doing okay in Potions up until that point; he and Millicent Bulstrode had coexisted in a state of cool civility that had suited him just fine. Longbottom, however, seemed to explode everything he touched. A potion that was meant to be, for all intents and purposes, non-toxic managed to go berserk and eat through a desk under Longbottom's care. And it didn't help that Longbottom kept giving Harry wary looks, like he was expecting him to do something mean and underhanded at any moment.
Harry's new partner was a menace. Harry would have to study so hard if he wanted to keep his head above water in Potions.
Harry slumped over One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. Cramming books for ages on end had never been his cup of tea; he'd already been doing more reading since coming to Hogwarts than ever before, what with trying to learn about the wizarding world. But what choice did he have, if he wanted to make it in Slytherin? And now he'd have to forget everything else and urgently focus on Potions, or Professor Snape would surely love any excuse to fail him and throw him out of school…
"Excuse me, is it okay if I sit here?"
Harry raised his head. Nobody had ever asked to share a desk with him in the library before. Granger, the bushy-haired Gryffindor, stood near him looking anxious and balancing three heavy tomes, her school bag, quills and parchment in her arms.
"Er… Sure."
Harry took a look around. The library was full at this hour; there was nowhere else for the girl to sit, so that was probably why she'd chosen him. She threw a nervous glance at the green crest on his robes, but muttered her thanks and sat down with a resolute air. All right, then.
They worked in silence for an hour and then Harry got up and left.
The next day he was back and so was she.
The day after, she exasperatedly told him that he was using the wrong reference book for his Potions essay, saving him an hour of wasted work. Through the resulting discussion, Harry learned that her first name was Hermione; she'd told him that on the train, but he'd forgotten since. She, of course, had read all about him in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. The girl was a bit much—she spoke like she was the only smart person in the room—but she seemed really bright and ready to trade studying tips. Harry could definitely use the help to stay afloat in Potions.
His fellow Slytherins took a much less rosy view of the matter.
"Potter, what do you think you're doing with that Granger creature?" Nott asked in the common room, lip curled in disgust.
Harry glanced up from his homework to find that Malfoy, his goons and Parkinson were hovering by as well. Harry braced himself.
"She's smart," he said. "I'm using it to my advantage and being very sneaky and Slytherin that way."
For a moment, everyone stared at him and he almost hoped his reasoning would work.
"Potter, she's a Mudblood," Malfoy said slowly, as if addressing a two-year-old.
"I know," Harry answered with the same air of exaggerated patience. "Strangely, that doesn't make her any less clever and therefore useful."
"Are you that desperate for friends?" Parkinson laughed.
Harry rolled his eyes, hoping he looked a lot braver than he felt.
He'd kind of given up on finding friends, but having at least a study partner would be nice—as long as it didn't rock the boat in Slytherin too much. His housemates did know where he slept, and he hadn't yet worked out the charms to booby-trap his bed.
xXxXx
Hermione Granger nodded at Harry when they passed each other in the corridors, now. Today, though, the gesture was extra tense, and her eyes trailed the Slytherins next to Harry.
"Move along, Granger, unless you want trouble," Malfoy said with a sneer.
Harry elbowed him discreetly.
"Have you been bothering her?" he demanded.
"Just letting her know she's pretty bold for trying to worm her way into befriending a Slytherin."
Harry's heart skipped a beat. Oh no.
"Leave her alone," he said. "She's just helping me with my essay."
"And it says all we need to know about you that you need help from a Mudblood," Malfoy scoffed, and then they were walking into the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom.
The garlic smell in the room hit Harry immediately upon entering; he took his usual solitary seat in the back. The earlier conversation replayed in Harry's mind as Professor Quirrell stuttered out his greetings to the class. Harry had never meant to drag a bystander into his problems with his house… No Potions help was worth that.
"T-Today we will learn about b-b-banshees," Professor Quirrell announced, attracting Harry's attention.
Ow. A sharp pain in his scar had Harry wincing and rubbing his forehead, hoping his classmates wouldn't notice.
Sometimes his scar hurt at Hogwarts. He'd be sitting in the Great Hall, or in walking down a corridor, and feel an odd piercing pain. It had never happened back in the Muggle world; maybe being around magic was setting it off. But did it have to act up mid-lesson?
"P-Please open your t-t-textbooks on page 54…"
Thankfully, the pain went away as quickly as it had come, and Harry spent the rest of the lesson diligently taking notes. Still, Professor Quirrell must've noticed something; his voice rang out while Harry was packing his bag:
"P-Potter? I'd like a quick word."
Malfoy flashed a gloating grin at Harry, probably assuming that Harry was in trouble. Harry fought to keep his expression even.
"Yes, sir."
With the room empty of anyone but him and Harry, Professor Quirrell shuffled where he stood, fiddling awkwardly with his papers. When his eyes met Harry's, they darted away at once.
"Your last essay was quite g-good… but I noticed you—your head… p-perhaps—a headache?"
Was he really worried, or curious about the famous scar?
"I'm all right, Professor."
"I'm g-g-glad… the world owes a lot to you, P-Potter… T-Today on all days…"
Harry frowned, but then understanding dawned.
("All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. He came ter yer house an'– an'–")
Today was Halloween—the tenth anniversary of his parents' deaths.
Harry hadn't even thought about it, he realised with a sinking heart… He'd almost forgotten the date Hagrid had mentioned to him all those weeks ago.
Did that make him a bad son?
"P-P-Perhaps people didn't expect t-to see you… in S-Slytherin…"
Harry flinched, wondering if his parents would've thought so too.
Several professors had looked at Harry oddly the first time they'd had him in their class. Maybe Quirrell felt the same. Maybe this wasn't what he'd expected of Harry when they'd first met in Diagon Alley—maybe he'd expected him to become a popular boy, a Gryffindor like his parents… Not a Slytherin loner it was dangerous to be around.
Quirrell tilted his head. "One does think back to other students like you… certain parallels… distorted mirrors of each other…"
The teacher blinked at Harry, looking at him directly for once, and for a moment something shifted behind his eyes—something sharper. But then he coughed, and adjusted his turban in that timid, cringing way of his, and Harry gave him a strained smile.
"Run along, then, P-Potter. Enjoy the feast."
xXxXx
The feast had been going swimmingly—all floating pumpkins, live bats, and festive golden plates—until Professor Quirrell burst in through the doors.
"Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know."
Harry froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. Most people did the opposite and leapt to their feet, screaming, as the professor fainted.
"Quiet, please!" the Headmaster demanded, firecrackers exploding from his wand. "Prefects, lead your houses back to the dormitories immediately!"
"Into the dormitories?" Malfoy repeated, hysterical. "Our dormitories are in the dungeons! Where the troll is!"
A swell of voices rose up in agreement.
The Bloody Baron phased through the wall, making Harry jump.
"The troll has left the dungeons. It's bound for the upper floors," he announced in a grave voice.
"Everyone, line up!" Prefect Gemma Farley ordered. Her face was very pale.
Harry fell in step behind Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode. His heart was beating fast, and he clutched his wand in his hand. Not that he'd be able to fight a troll, but it felt good to hold on to the reminder that he was no longer entirely helpless. All around him, students were rushing towards the doors, noise rising again as everyone speculated about what would happen and how the troll had got into the castle.
The chatter continued once the Slytherins reached their common room.
"Dumbledore is letting the school go to pot!" Malfoy was saying furiously. "How did he let a troll walk in? What's next, werewolves?"
Harry went up to the dormitory and took out his books on magical creatures, hoping to find something about trolls.
Up until now, he'd been so focused on how to survive in Slytherin, he hadn't really thought about what else might be out to get him. Sure, at the start of the year Professor Dumbledore had announced something about deadly peril in some third floor corridor, but Harry hadn't been sure how seriously to take that, given that his housemates tended to scoff at anything the Headmaster said. In the meanwhile, Harry's fellow Slytherins had remained his biggest concern, since it seemed like a lot of people's parents—not just Malfoy's—had supported the Dark Lord in the last war. Nobody was saying it openly, because that wasn't the done thing, but his housemates' conversations would take a certain slant sometimes, and Harry had caught pointed comments about the Boy-Who-Lived… But at least the war was over now, and Voldemort was dead. Back in the summer, Hagrid had mentioned that the Dark Lord was only mostly dead, but he was dead enough that nobody was rushing to murder the Boy-Who-Lived in his name, which was what counted for Harry.
The wizarding world was complicated. The Slytherin house was still more so. Today of all days, with the anniversary of his parents' death hanging over him, Harry thought he had quite enough to handle without adding trolls into the mix.
xXxXx
It soon came to light that not everyone had got safely away from the troll: Hermione Granger had run afoul of the creature.
Rumours reached Harry about how the troll had cornered her in a bathroom and only Professor McGonagall's intervention had allowed her to escape with her life. She ended up in the hospital wing, and spent several weeks recuperating; this all sounded pretty rough and put a natural end to Harry's meetings with her. Granger didn't seem keen to reach out anymore, withdrawing into herself and her books after the attack. The times of friendly nods in school corridors was behind them.
Understandable. Still, this left Harry fighting through dry Potions texts entirely on his own in the hopes of making up for Longbottom's staggering ineptitude.
Harry braced himself as Snape stopped by his and Longbottom's station. Today's potion was—well, Harry wasn't sure what to call it, but certainly not what it was meant to be. The disgusting goo he and Longbottom had concocted sat in their cauldron and didn't look like it would ever be scraped out again.
"Do you have eyes, Longbottom?" the Potions master asked silkily. "Yes? In that case, why did you not bother to read the instructions?"
The Slytherin half of the class sniggered. Longbottom looked down, shrinking into himself. Harry set his jaw. The words had been aimed at Longbottom, but Snape's dark gaze bored straight into Harry.
"Class, please note the depths of incompetence to which a student might sink," the professor announced, making a broad gesture at their cauldron. "There is only one mark I can give. Evanesco."
The congealed goo vanished, along with Harry's chance for a passing grade.
Damn it. Snape knew this wasn't Harry's fault —Longbottom had messed up the potion, as always, and Harry needed eight eyes and three hands at the very least to keep up with the bloody Gryffindor. Being the laughingstock of the class did no favours for Harry's shaky standing in Slytherin, and for all he knew Snape was tallying all the failures for the moment when he'd get to triumphantly kick Harry out of Hogwarts.
("Expelled faster that you can say Potions—flaunting your fame—keeping an eye on you, boy.")
Sometimes Harry thought the easiest option would be just to throttle Longbottom and eliminate the problem altogether.
"Um, Potter?" Longbottom asked uncertainly, once the bell rang.
Harry refrained from rolling his eyes through a supreme effort of will.
"Yes?"
The other boy seemed to be gathering the famed Gryffindor courage to speak.
"Look, Longbottom, just don't bother," Harry snapped.
Longbottom went pale.
"Uh, I'm sorry, but… I've tried! I've tried and tried! But I really don't get it, I just can't do it when P-P-Professor Sn-nape is looking at me and I just forget everything and—"
Harry closed his bag and threw it over his shoulder. Seeing that he was about to leave, Longbottom hurried after him.
"Can I make it up to you? I mean, you know I'm sorry but—I can—I can do Herbology! I can help you in Herbology if… if you would like that."
Harry stopped in the corridor to look at the other boy incredulously.
"You're good at Herbology? Then why do you mess up so badly in Potions?"
"I don't know!" Longbottom wailed.
Harry wrinkled his nose. One way or another, this situation couldn't go on. Longbottom hadn't improved all semester; if things stayed the same after the winter holidays, they would both fail the year.
"Okay. How about… you ask Granger for help?" Harry suggested.
"Hermione?" Longbottom asked, confused.
"Yes." This time Harry did roll his eyes. "I used to study with her, trade notes on Potions. Now, after everything, we don't… Never mind. But it would make sense for you ask her for help. Just try it."
Longbottom looked worried.
"But why would she help me?"
Because you both seem like outsiders in your house, Harry didn't say. Because I think she hasn't had a great time with my housemates or yours, and then there was also the troll. Because you seem pretty non-threatening, and maybe she'd be up for helping you and saving all of us from your Potions disasters.
"Just ask her," he said with confidence, instead.
xXxXx
Harry was one of the few Slytherins staying for the Christmas holidays: with him were third year Adrian Pucey and a rather stressed sixth year girl.
("Solstice, Potter, it's the winter solstice we're celebrating. Did you think we cared about Santa Bloody Claus? You're such a Mudblood sometimes…")
The best thing about the break was having the dormitory to himself. Harry had rarely slept well with Malfoy and the other boys around, and back at Privet Drive he'd always needed to be on guard as well; not looking over his shoulder all the time made for a really nice change. He read in bed with his curtains open, and practiced spells without hiding out in unused classrooms, and spent some time just watching fish swimming past the window. Some weird-looking underwater creatures drifted by too, on occasion, and Harry wondered what they were, and whether the Giant Squid would ever come by…
On Christmas morning, Harry stretched and yawned comfortably before sitting up in his four-poster, looking forward to another quiet day. But then his mouth fell open in shock: there were actual gifts on his bed. Who would send him presents? He'd never received any; Dudley got lots and Harry got none—that was how things worked in the Dursley household. That someone would think highly enough of Harry to get him presents—Harry found himself smiling in pure joy.
His gifts were amazing, too. Longbottom, of all people, gave him Chocolate Frogs, and Hagrid got him a flute, which delighted Harry even though he had no intention to ever play it. There was also a mysterious package on his bed; that one turned out to be an Invisibility Cloak that used to belong to his father.
This Christmas holiday was the most wonderful thing ever.
xXxXx
The Christmas holiday might have tempted Harry on one adventure too many.
Harry scowled at himself. That had been close: Professor Snape and Filch the caretaker had walked past his hiding place not a minute after he'd sequestered himself in an unfamiliar room. This was what happened when he gave in to stupid Gryffindorish impulses and threw caution to the wind to try out his Invisibility Cloak! Why go exploring the castle when he knew Professor Snape would take great pleasure in catching him?
Anyway, where was he? Harry turned around. Apparently, he'd ended up in an unused classroom: desks and chairs lined the walls, and dust curled in the corners. One peculiarity attracted his attention at once: a huge ornate mirror stood in the middle of the room. Curious, Harry approached the reflective surface, but he could see nothing there. He blinked and then realised he was still wearing the cloak. With a furtive glance to all sides, Harry took the cloak off and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he looked up—and froze.
Reflected next to him were at least ten other people.
Harry tried closing his eyes and opening them again, but the people were still there. He extended a hand until it should've come into contact with the woman standing next to him, but felt only air. He was alone in the room, but—what was this?
The woman he'd tried to touch had auburn hair and a kind smile, and her eyes were bright green. Exactly like Harry's. The man standing on the other side had messy black hair, bespectacled hazel eyes and—and he had Harry's nose, the same cheekbones, the same chin, and his hair stood up at the back of his head just like Harry's did.
Harry's heart stuttered.
"Mum?"
The redhead nodded, tears in her eyes. Harry felt his own prickling too.
"Dad?"
The man just smiled sadly and put a hand on Harry's shoulder. Reflective Harry's shoulder, because Harry didn't feel anything, but he could almost convince himself that he did. He stood, transfixed, in front of them, hungrily memorising their faces. He hadn't known he looked so like his dad, or that his mum had been so beautiful. Looking over the rest of the crowd, Harry spotted rebellious hair just like his, knobbly knees, eyes of similar green… He tried to take in everybody's faces at once, all of them smiling at him encouragingly, all of them accepting…
"I'm sorry." Harry hiccupped, wiping his tears away. "I might not be… what you wanted…"
But his parents only looked concerned, and reached out to mirror-Harry with a hug. They—they didn't judge him and they weren't disappointed… They looked at him like they loved him.
In this cold, abandoned classroom Harry found a dream come true: he had parents, and they were wonderful. All his troubles and fears about making it in the school faded before the sight of their smiles.
He wasn't leaving anytime soon.
xXxXx
Harry had had to depart from the room in order to catch some sleep and turn up at meals, so that nobody would wonder where he'd gone, but he spent as much time with the mirror as possible. Yet he must not have been cunning enough, because Dumbledore found him on the third evening since the initial discovery of the mirror.
"So—back again, Harry?"
Harry flinched away from the reflection and turned around only to see the Headmaster sitting on one of the desks.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said. He couldn't resist sending one last longing look at his parents even as he tried to calculate how much trouble he was in.
This was his first encounter with the Headmaster outside of seeing him at meals in the Great Hall. He had no real idea what the man was like. Hagrid had only had good things to say, but the Slytherins were a lot less complimentary…
Professor Dumbledore smiled at Harry, apparently not angry at him for trespassing.
"Not to worry, my boy. Wizards older and wiser than you have been lured by the delights of the Mirror of Erised; many have gone insane before it, forgetting to eat and sleep in their determination to catch a glimpse of what it showed them…"
Harry's heart stuttered. He would've asked just what the mirror showed them, but wasn't sure that such boldness was allowed. Dumbledore peered at him and Harry got the distinct impression that he'd just been x-rayed.
"The happiest man on earth standing before this mirror would see himself and only himself reflected in it, just as he is. Can you guess what it does, Harry?"
Harry blinked. The fact that the happiest man on earth would see just himself and Harry saw what seemed like his entire extended family showed, if nothing else, that Harry was not as happy, but he didn't need the mirror to tell him that.
"Um, I see my family…" he said, hoping that it would distract Dumbledore from the riddle.
"Yes, and somebody else would see themselves receiving the Order of Merlin, First Class." The Headmaster nodded congenially.
Harry frowned.
"It shows us something we do not have, but really want?"
"Yes and no. The Mirror of Erised shows us nothing more and nothing less than the deepest and most desperate desire of our hearts, Harry. At times, that desire is unattainable, as it most unfortunately is for you."
Harry swallowed painfully. Knowing that he'd just been gazing at his most desperate impossible desire somehow didn't diminish the allure of the mirror or make the desire any less desperate. Seeing his parents was almost like having them again—like having a family where he belonged. While Harry was with them, it didn't matter if he had trouble fitting in in his house, or what the rest of the school thought of him…
"The mirror gives us neither knowledge, nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad by its promises. It will be moved to a new location tomorrow, Harry, and I must ask you not to go looking for it again."
There was a sterner look to Dumbledore's eyes, now, and Harry nodded.
"I understand, sir," he said quietly.
"Very good. Now, off you trot; it's almost curfew. I shall take no points for finding the mirror; and you will be prepared if you are ever faced with it again. Good night, my boy."
"Good night, sir," Harry replied and, with a heart-wrenching glance towards the traitorous mirror, left the room.
xXxXx
Harry's thoughts kept straying back to the Mirror of Erised no matter what he tried to do over the next few days, but he did his best to pay attention to the real world again. Thankfully, day-to-day survival in Slytherin was easy over the holidays, with neither Adrian Pucey nor the harried sixth-year paying him any attention; and with so few people in the castle in general, Harry ventured out exploring more—during the day, this time, and not risking his Invisibility Cloak.
He also took Hagrid up on his invitation to visit. Harry hadn't seen Hagrid much since the summer, and had wondered how he'd taken Harry's Sorting, but the Christmas gift and the invite indicated that the man hadn't minded it too much. Indeed, upon arrival Harry found Hagrid as friendly as ever. The giant plied him with tea and rock-hard scones and asked how his year was going so far. Harry didn't go into his problems, and instead, with the mirror still fresh on his mind, found himself asking about his parents.
"You knew them, right? What were they like?"
"They got married quick outta school. Didn' wan' ter wait, with the war an' all…" Hagrid sighed. "Yer mum was a right one. Always nice ter me, and clever with Charms…"
"And my dad?"
"Good man, yer dad, a Gryffindor through an' through—not that… yeh know… Slytherin's not… they wouldn' have minded, yer parents…"
Right.
Although Harry had agreed not to go looking for the mirror, upon his return to the castle his steps took him to the classroom where he'd initially found it. As promised, the mirror was gone. For all Harry knew, it was now somewhere in Professor Dumbledore's office…
New Year's Day brought a pleasant surprise: Pucey invited Harry to team up against the Weasley twins in a snowball fight.
"It'll be us against them." Pucey squinted at Harry's small frame, evidently dubious about Harry's capability but not having many other options. "Are you up for it, Potter?"
"Count me in," Harry said. He'd never talked to Pucey before and wasn't sure how the snowball fight would go, given that Weasleys were involved, but he wasn't about to say no to his first positive interaction with an older housemate.
Luckily, the Weasley twins didn't seem to have their brother's hangups about Harry's house.
"The Harriest of Potters!" one of them cried upon seeing him come out with Pucey. "We tremble in our boots!"
"But you shall know our snow prowess," the other one finished, and then both of them were rolling up snowballs faster than Harry could blink.
The twins proceeded to pelt Harry and Pucey with snowballs merrily but not maliciously, and Harry had to stifle snickers at their quips.
"Come on, Potter! Let's show them!" Pucey said, throwing a large ball directly at one of the twins' faces.
Harry ducked from an incoming projectile and did his best to retaliate, even if his throw wasn't as good as Pucey's.
The match ended very clearly in the twins' favour.
"A noble battle," either Fred or George said. "Perhaps we shall meet again."
Harry chanced a look at Pucey, wondering if he'd be mad about the loss, but Pucey only shook his head, resigned.
"Mad in sync, is what those two are," he muttered. "Shows when they play Quidditch, too."
"It does seem like it, yeah," Harry said, just to keep the conversation going, and unleashed a whole spiel about Quidditch on Pucey's part as they trudged back inside the castle.
Pucey turned out to be crazy about the sport; he was a Chaser for the Slytherin team and chattered on delightedly about the victory against Gryffindor the previous term. The Gryffindors had a really appalling Seeker, which in Harry's opinion had helped the Slytherins, but it was hard not to be drawn into a feeling of at least some patriotism for the house team when Pucey waxed poetic about it. Pucey bemoaned the fact that Terrence Higgs, the Slytherin Seeker, was graduating next year.
Given how much Harry had loved flying…
"I might try out, then," he said, once they'd made it inside the common room. "If there is a position opening."
Pucey squinted at him, an assessing look on his face. He seemed to become suddenly more aware of who he was chatting with.
"Well, you're a Potter; your father was supposed to be really good, so you might as well have a go. Just make sure to tell Flint it was I who recruited you, if you get in."
With that, Pucey nodded at him and walked off, presumably to get changed. Harry stood rooted in place, and blew out a long breath.
He'd just had a good interaction with a Slytherin housemate, and had even learnt something new about his dad. The Weasley twins didn't hate him, Hagrid seemed to actively like him, and Neville Longbottom had sent him a Christmas gift. Professor Snape had ignored him and hadn't glared at him much the entire holiday.
Maybe in the new year, things would be… better.
xXxXx
Harry hadn't known what to expect from his first meeting with Neville Longbottom after the break. Waiting outside the greenhouses for the first Herbology lesson, the boy gazed at Harry with hopeful eyes.
"Thanks for the Christmas gift," Harry said, clutching the strap of his school bag. "Um. Sorry for… not getting you anything? I didn't think—"
"Oh, no!" Neville said hastily. "It's fine! I mean, you've done so much in Potions—it's all very—it's all right!"
They looked at each other for a moment, then away. Neville tugged at the sleeves of his uniform.
"So, er... Do you want to partner up today? In Herbology?"
"Sure." Harry gave him a tentative smile.
When Professor Sprout arrived, Harry ignored Malfoy and Weasley's glares and followed Neville into the greenhouse, his steps lighter than before.
xXxXx
For the first time, Harry didn't dread seeing Neville Longbottom at his Potions desk. Somehow it made a huge difference when they greeted each other with smiles and actually talked while working; Neville became a lot more responsive to Harry's corrections now that he didn't think Harry was going to bite his head off.
"I have also asked Hermione," he told Harry quietly, throwing a glance at Granger, over at her station with Dean Thomas. "She's agreed to help. She's kind of scary smart," he added, sounding awed.
"Yeah, that's cool," Harry said, hurriedly adding fluxweed to their cauldron.
Their potion still didn't quite reach the acceptable mark, as Snape rejoiced in informing them, but they walked together to the Great Hall for lunch, chatting on the way, and it felt like maybe what having a friend was like.
"Longbottom, Potter? Really? I knew you were pathetic, but you couldn't find better company?" Malfoy demanded a week later.
"Like you've got room to talk," Harry said.
His speaking glance at Crabbe and Goyle—busy stuffing themselves with cauldron cakes in a really appalling display of manners—drew smothered snickers from Zabini, Bulstrode and a few other bystanders. Pucey and his friends looked momentarily amused as well, for all that Pucey had gone back to ignoring Harry after the holidays.
"I surround myself with those who are useful," Malfoy snapped, drawing himself up. "Longbottom's practically a Squib."
"No, he isn't!"
Everyone thought Neville was useless, including Neville—but over the past week Harry had found that the boy was good-natured, and honest, and great at Herbology. Maybe he struggled with school, but at least he wasn't mean.
"You may as well leave Potter be, Draco," Nott said, looking up from his book. "At least Longbottom's a Pureblood. Potter's scraping the bottom of the barrel, but he could do worse."
It did help that Neville came from an old Pureblood family; the Slytherins still jeered at him and needled Harry, but without the kind of vicious edge they'd level at a Muggleborn. Eventually, they grew bored even with that. And if the Gryffindors were pestering Neville about befriending a slimy Slytherin, Neville never brought it up.
"It doesn't matter to me what people say," Neville told him, when Harry cautiously probed him on the subject. "They're always laughing at me anyway for being so bad at magic. It's nicer now, when I have a friend."
Harry beamed, and then corrected: "You're not bad at magic."
"See, that's what I mean," Neville said, and grinned back.
xXxXx
The comment about Malfoy's friends apparently got under his skin, because he took to setting Crabbe and Goyle on Harry in the dungeons. It was a good thing that, growing up with the Dursleys, Harry had become fast and agile; otherwise, he probably would've got on the wrong side of Crabbe's or Goyle's fists more than once by now.
Harry snorted quietly, slipping into an unused classroom. There. Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't have the brains to consider that Harry might've hidden somewhere instead of continuing to run in straight lines. He was relatively safe now; perhaps he could practice the Body-Bind Curse. It sounded pretty useful…
"A-ha! Who's come to pay us a visit?"
Harry whipped around, wand at the ready, to see redheaded twins grinning him in their uncanny identical way. Harry relaxed, but only marginally; he and these particular Weasleys might be on non-belligerent terms, snow fights aside, but he never quite knew what to expect of them.
"Oh," he said, for lack of anything better. "I didn't realise there was anyone here. I'll just go, then."
"Go?" One of the twins—he thought it was Fred—raised his eyebrows. "But you only just got here!"
"And what Slytherin sneakiness brings you to this humble retreat?" the other one, probably George, added.
Their brown eyes were bright with mischief; evidently, they weren't upset at Harry's interruption.
Two weeks ago, when the twins had witnessed a minor squabble between Ron and Harry in the library, Harry had asked them—not in so many words—why they didn't mind him if he was in Ron's black books. Both of them had looked at him as if he was the batty one and said that they'd never shun someone who managed to get not one, but two of their brothers riled up until steam was coming out of their ears. Apparently, Percy was having near-apoplectic fits each time Ron got into trouble because of his conflict with Slytherin in general and Harry in particular. Since driving Percy bonkers was one of the twins' goals in life, they had no problem with Harry being on the outs with their brother.
Privately, Harry thought that would change immediately should he actually harm Ron; the Weasleys' family loyalty was legendary, after all.
("Blood-traitors, the lot of them. Father says they are a disgrace to all Purebloods. Poor as dirt and about as powerful—disgusting, really…")
Harry shook his head. The whole family might be dressed in shabby hand-me-downs, but so had Harry been for most of his life. And Ron might be a pillock, and Percy a bore, but the twins were okay. They seemed to have quite the sneaky Slytherin streak themselves. It was certainly better to be on good terms with them than not.
"I'm just exploring the castle," he answered in the meanwhile. "I'm sure you know what I mean."
The twins beamed at him.
"There's a good lad!"
"So what were you doing here, in the dungeons?" he asked.
"Oh, same as you." Fred waved a careless hand.
"Not plotting any pranks, then," Harry checked.
"Oh no, no pranks, we wouldn't ever," George protested.
"Honestly, Harry, who do you take us for?" Fred was all offended innocence.
Harry observed them critically.
"Right," he said. "I don't want to know. But in case you were having a pranker's block, I should tell you that Malfoy is majorly scared of mice."
xXxXx
"I heard Hagrid's hut caught on fire yesterday," Neville confided, pruning the soil around their plant with sure hands.
Harry blinked at the non sequitur.
"How come?" he asked. He hadn't been to see Hagrid in quite a while, caught up in his studies as he was. April had flown by, and May had rolled in with sunny days and the dark promise of exams only a month away…
"Oh, I don't know what happened." Neville shrugged. "Someone was saying Hagrid had a dragon in there, but how likely is that? No, Harry, careful with that thorn—you'll sneeze non-stop if it grazes you."
Harry carefully extracted his hand from the vines.
"That's… interesting," he muttered. He recalled Hagrid telling him that he dearly wanted a dragon, but what was the likelihood of him actually getting one?
Hopefully, zero.
"That oaf might just be stupid enough to try and raise a dragon in that wooden hovel of his," Malfoy scoffed. He was working at the next table, and it was obviously too much to expect that he'd keep his mouth shut.
Harry sighed.
"Yes, thank you, Malfoy. Your opinion is priceless and has been duly noted," he said blandly.
Malfoy glared at him but didn't say anything since Harry hadn't actually been rude. Zabini and Bulstrode smirked, amused by the byplay; Harry congratulated himself on having scored a point.
Neville smiled timidly. He was wary of Draco, but seemed to feel that Harry provided some protection from the blond Slytherin. A ridiculous notion; Malfoy had power on his side and Harry didn't. It wasn't really smart of Harry to keep antagonising Malfoy—not that Malfoy knew that Harry had been partially behind the mice-in-the-book-bag incident—but he couldn't help it. Besides, they'd lived this way for almost a year and for all his cheek, Harry had yet to be beaten into a pulp.
It was all about the little victories in life.
xXxXx
"Potter?"
"Yeah?"
Harry squinted at Blaise Zabini. Blaise Zabini squinted at him.
"I'll help your revise for History of Magic if you give me a hand with Potions."
Harry did his best not to stare. Staring was very uncool and therefore unSlytherin. But no Slytherin had ever approached Harry like this before, or offered assistance. This was something they might do between themselves, but not with Harry. Besides:
"You're asking me for help with Potions? Why?"
Zabini's expression remained stony.
"Anyone who can survive a year of Longbottom and get passable grades is going to breeze through the exam."
Fair enough, if Zabini put it like that. Harry had devoted an absurd amount of time to studying Potions this year.
"All right. Potions in exchange for History of Magic. You're on," Harry said airily, as if this was no big deal.
This was a huge deal. By offering to trade favours with Harry—to learn from him, and to help him succeed right back—Zabini was extending recognition to Harry beyond just his Potions skills. Zabini was treating Harry like a social equal, and it was new to say the least.
Not that Zabini, specifically, had ever been out to get Harry. He'd picked no conflicts and chosen no sides; like Bulstrode, he'd never interfered in Harry's fights with Malfoy. Greengrass and Davis didn't get involved either, but Harry had the impression that, if push came to shove, they might choose Draco. Zabini and Bulstrode, on the other hand, were harder to read.
Now, Zabini let himself be seen studying with Harry in the library. It boggled Harry's mind, and sent whispers through the Slytherin first-years.
Bulstrode was the first to react. Later the very same day, she too approached Harry for his Potions wisdom.
"I'm no good at any subject," she said bluntly, "but you can use my Astronomy chart. My grandmother made it. It's good."
Who knew; at this rate, Harry might do okay on exams and raise his social standing.
This got all the more true once Nott heard about the arrangement and wanted to benefit from Harry's Potions knowledge as well.
"I can help you with Transfiguration in return," Nott suggested stiffly.
Harry would've told Nott where he could stick his ideas, since he had been on Harry's case all year—all the comments about decorum and purging your inner Muggle came to mind—but the other boy was good at Transfiguration and Harry was not. Besides, being on speaking terms with more people in his house couldn't hurt.
"Fine," Harry said. "Let's do it."
And Nott acknowledging Harry's ability at all was a triumph unthinkable just a few months ago.
("I'll be the one laughing when you can't last a month in Slytherin.")
Harry had lasted so much more than a month. Harry had made it all this way, and here he was, acknowledged by others even though Malfoy had declared him an outcast at the start of the year. Who was laughing now?
Malfoy, predictably, threw a fit.
He said that Harry was a fraud at Potions. Harry said he was wounded. Draco told him not to be sarcastic to his betters. Harry promised to not be sarcastic to the next better he came across. Malfoy threw the first hex. Harry retaliated. The others just leaned back and watched the sparks fly.
And none of them interfered, not even Nott.
Harry hadn't survived a year in his house for nothing.
xXxXx
Harry put his quill down just as Professor Binns called out:
"Stop writing! The time is up! Roll up your parchments now."
A cheer went through the class: History of Magic was the last exam on their schedule. They were now gloriously, blessedly free.
"Thanks for telling me to read up on Ulfric the Ugly," Harry said to Blaise Zabini. That had come in handy for the last question.
"The pleasure is all Ulfric's, I'm sure," Zabini said. "Later, Potter."
Exams off his plate, and another week before the results; Harry was looking at an unprecedentedly leisurely stretch of days ahead. He could finally sleep in—his scar had been hurting again lately, giving him headaches, and he had a feeling that stress had been the culprit. He could meet up with Neville to relax and play Exploding Snap… And maybe it was time to look up Hagrid and ask what had happened with that rumoured dragon.
The next day, Harry found Hagrid sitting outside his house, resting in the sun with Fang the dog dozing by his feet.
"Harry!" Hagrid exclaimed delightedly. "Done with yer exams? Sit down, sit down. It does me good ter see yer face, 'specially now…"
"How come?" Harry asked. "I mean, I'm glad to see you too. Are you all right? I've heard something about a fire, and a dragon…"
"Blimey, Harry, fancy yeh askin' me about Norbert. Brings it all right back." Hagrid sighed and took a hearty swig from his tea mug. "I raised him from an egg. A lovely baby, he was."
"A lovely baby… dragon?"
"Wish yeh coulda seen him." Hagrid sniffed.
"What happened?" Harry asked, fascinated even though he could already see where it was going, given the fire-breathing creature in a wooden house. Malfoy hadn't been wrong about that.
"Well, I had ter leave 'im alone, didn' I? What with the unicorns dyin' in the forest, I had ter go an'—"
"I'm sorry, did you say there are unicorns in the Forbidden Forest?" Harry asked. "And they are dying?"
Was there a dull moment in this school? First a troll, then a dragon, now unicorns in peril?
Hagrid's expression darkened, bushy eyebrows drawing together.
"They was bein' killed," he said. "A horrid thing, ter slay a unicorn… If yeh murder a creature that pure, yer soul never comes clean again. But he's beyond tha', o' course…"
"So you know who did it?"
"A wraith… a shadow—the darkest one yeh can imagine." Hagrid looked at Harry, eyes suddenly misty. "He's gone now. Tried ter get past Dumbledore's defences jus' yesterday, but Dumbledore stopped 'im."
"Wow." And to think, exams had seemed like the biggest thing going on at the school.
"Great man, Dumbledore. Helped me with Norbert, too. After Norbert had a bit o' a turn an' set the house on fire, Dumbledore sent 'im ter be happy with other dragons. While Dumbledore's at Hogwarts, don' yeh worry about nothing, Harry."
Harry had had plenty to worry about this year; still, clearly the Headmaster wasn't nearly as inept as the Slytherins liked to claim. That was actually nice to know.
xXxXx
Harry walked into the Great Hall for the Leaving Feast alongside Zabini to see the place decked out in Slytherin colours. Green and silver banners hung from the ceiling, and the house emblem decorated the wall behind the High Table. Harry sat down between Nott and Bulstrode and eagerly waited for the feast to start.
Harry had made it to the end of his first year. He hadn't been expelled by Snape or killed by the troll, hadn't run into a creepy wraith, and most importantly—he'd survived in Slytherin.
So much to celebrate!
Harry sent a small wave to Neville, who sat at the Gryffindor table talking to Hermione Granger. Neville waved shyly back.
"Another year done!" Dumbledore said, standing up from his seat. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast."
Harry looked at the teachers, wondering…
"Where is Quirrell?" he asked in a whisper.
"Do I look like I know?" Nott sneered, but there was no malice in it.
"I heard he's had an accident of some sort," Malfoy informed them.
Harry raised his eyebrows.
"Rumour has it that he's snuffed it," Draco continued.
Nott didn't look impressed.
"What, tripped over his own feet and fell to death?"
Malfoy shrugged, somehow managing to imply that he knew the details but wasn't going to share them. The ploy only worked on Grabbe, Goyle and Parkinson; the rest saw through Malfoy too well to fall for his charade. Harry's mind went to the conversation with Hagrid… A teacher disappearing just now felt like too big of a coincidence. Quirrell had taught Defence Against the Dark Arts; what if Malfoy was right and he had died—fighting evil? But surely the Headmaster would've said something. And Hagrid hadn't mentioned anyone except Dumbledore… Maybe Quirrell had fled in the face of danger, like he had with the troll. It made sense that the Headmaster wouldn't want to announce that.
"I won't miss Quirrell, anyway," Malfoy said, and damningly for the man's teaching skills, no one disagreed.
"He's about to announce the points!" Parkinson said. "Listen, everyone!"
"…Ravenclaw have four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two," Dumbledore said, smiling. "The points standings mean that Slytherin wins the House Cup for the seventh year running. Congratulations, Slytherin!"
Malfoy, Nott, Zabini, Greengrass, Parkinson, the older students—everyone at the Slytherin table burst out cheering and stamping, and Harry joined in. The Gryffindors groaned while the other two houses clapped politely. Professor Snape looked as smug as his sour disposition allowed.
Sitting with the Slytherins and revelling in the shared victory, Harry felt, for the first time, that maybe he really belonged here, too.
-End of year one-