Harry listened to Dumbledore’s story about Voldemort rather skeptically. Oh, he believed it about the evil wizard—hadn’t Snape shown him that it wasn’t difficult for all that magic to be abused? But he didn’t know if he believed in Dumbledore’s version of events. When the man finished and looked at Harry expectantly, Harry merely nodded in a serious fashion.

“Do you understand now, Harry, why you must attend Hogwarts this year?”

Harry didn’t. “I suppose.”

“And why it was really all a misunderstanding?”

Harry didn’t believe that for a second. He shrugged.

“And that Professor Snape did have your best interests at heart?”

Harry snorted. “Fat chance he did.”

Dumbledore frowned and opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it.

“I still want to go back to the Dursleys. I mean, I understand that you’re—“ Harry wondered the right word and settled for “—worried about me, but don’t be. I can take care of myself.”

Any trace of twinkling good humor had vanished from Dumbledore’s eyes, and he said, rather firmly, “I am afraid it is not a request, Harry. You are to attend Hogwarts this year, and for the next several years until your education is complete.”

Harry’s mouth sealed in an angry line. “You can’t make me stay here.”

“I understand you will miss your relatives—“

Harry snorted again and Dumbledore looked bewildered, but continued. “I know you will miss your relatives, my boy, and you will be able to write, and perhaps go home for breaks. But you will be attending this school come September 1st.”

“It’s a school—you can’t make me stay here.”

“And where,” Dumbledore asked pointedly, “Would you go? We are in Scotland, far from any Muggle town, surrounded by magical wards. Do you believe your guardians shall object?”

Harry shook his head. The Dursleys would probably be dancing.

“Then here you shall remain, my boy.”

Harry felt his energy seep out of him. “What about him?” he asked, pointing his still splinted hand at Snape, who was sitting dourly in a corner.

“He is a professor, Harry. Professor Snape. And you will treat him with respect.”

“Respect? He kidnapped me!”

“That was all a—“

“It wasn’t a misunderstanding! You’re wrong, you weren’t there!” Harry leapt to his feet, holding his splinted hand close to his body. “Why don’t you believe me?” Something was rising in his throat, and he felt the need again to laugh hysterically or cry uncontrollably. He did neither, just started to blink very quickly and take quick, shallow breaths.

“Harry.” Dumbledore looked firm. “You must accept that it was a misunderstanding and get along with Professor Snape.”

Harry felt the hysteria bubble up in him, and he barely restrained a laugh. “He—what? I’ll never get along with him, not ever! He drugged me!”

“He sedated you,” Albus corrected. “He was worried about you giving him the slip in Diagon Alley and running into danger.”

“He tackled me! He broke my wrist!”

“He snapped—he has been reprimanded, and I will do so again, if it should please you. I am sure he is apologetic.”

“He isn’t,” Harry said fiercely.

“Harry, I must ask you to trust Professor Snape, and to trust me. We are on your side.”

“Nobody’s on my side,” Harry said angrily. “And I’ll never trust any of you.”

He sat down, folded his arms, and refused to look at Dumbledore or answer any questions. He was doing all he could to keep calm.

He would survive. That was all he could do. Survive, wait, watch. And when the opportunity came—

Well. Dumbledore’s wand would be the one flying about the room in bits.

Yes. He would survive. As he always did.

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Snape listened to Dumbledore’s tale about Potter rather skeptically. Oh, he believed the boy had said all that—hadn’t Potter shown him how arrogant and foolish the boy was? But he didn’t know how Dumbledore couldn’t see it. When the man finished, Snape let his skepticism shine through.

“Are you going to let the boy stay, then?” Snape asked.

“Severus, the boy needs educating. We cannot leave him alone in the world to fend for himself—“

“Of course we could,” Snape muttered.

“Severus.”

Snape frowned. “Headmaster, he is disturbed. He has kicked, bit, punched and scratched me beyond any form of sanity. He’s unhinged and should not be accepted to Howarts.”

“It was all a misunderstanding. After you apologize to him, I expect there to be no further problems.”

Ssnape looked incredulous. “Are you mad? I’m not apologizing to the little wretch. He broke my wand!”

“He was frightened.”

“He jumped me!”

“You deliberately provoked him. Now, come Severus—surely you can forgive the boy and move on?”

“For—Headmaster! He’s attacked me viciously every chance he could! Forgive—“

“Severus, we are all on the same side here. Or have you forgotten?”

Severus wanted to yell no, they weren’t on the same side, because there was the side of good and bad, yes, but there was also him against them, Snape against Potter, a battle of blood that would last until the earth ended. He snarled. “He has broken my wand and my nose, how can I forgive that?”

“You must, Severus.”

“I must do nothing,” Snape snarled.

“No, You must do this, Severus. Forgive a frightened eleven year old. Is that really so far beyond your capabilities?”

Severus knew it was. Knew he could never forgive the boy, no matter what the headmaster tried to do, because he knew who Potter was. He knew what Potter was, his father three times worse was what Potter was, and there would be no forgiveness for this Potter or any other. Not ever.

“I suppose not, Headmaster.”

The old man beamed at Severus and, with a flick of his wand, released the two from their corners. There was a moment when Severus nearly leapt onto the boy, but he restrained himself. He had lost enough control that day. He would keep control, now, keep calm. He would plan his revenge, watch, and wait, and when Dumbledore was out of the way and Potter didn’t expect it—

Well. They’d see who exploded into pieces then.

Yes. He would plot and remain in control. As he always did.

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Harry found himself put into a room with a beautiful bed and window hangings and a soft, plush carpet. Snape had avoided his eyes and apologized, and Harry had done the same. He knew it wasn’t over, though. He wondered if it ever would be.

“This is where we put up visiting teachers. I’m afraid that it may not be the wisest idea to let you outside of the wards so quickly, Harry,” Dumbledore had said solemnly, and then left the boy to his own devices.

The first thing Harry did was comb over the room for anything useful. Then he sat down and, staring out the window, tried to figure out an escape route. Perhaps through the forest…

Snape found himself back in his chambers, the Christie novel resting on his coffee table and his potions annuals stacked neatly upon the shelves. He felt ill from apologizing to the arrogant brat, and unclean from the fight and a tiny thought of guilt. He went to his bathroom and ran the tap for the tub, filling it to the brim with scalding water—just the way he liked his baths.

He went to fetch the Christie novel and found that Dumbledore had sent a request for him to come to have the boy’s things delivered to Dumbledore’s office later. Until then, he was to be left to his own devices.

The first thing Snape did was sink into the tub like it could remove the aches and pains and the subtle covering of filth that came from his interactions with Potter. Then he opened the Christie and tried to read, but something was bothering him too much to concentrate. Something was off about the situation with Potter. With a sigh, Snape closed the book and his eyes and submerged himself fully in the water and let the back of his mind start pondering the Potter puzzle. He let the front of his mind focus on the wonderful bath and how the aches were floating away.

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The days up until the Sorting were very long for Harry. He spent all his time in the room, staring out the window and trying to map out ways to run. He was visited four times a day by a house elf named Wippy, who brought him breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner.

He never touched any of the food. He didn’t think it was safe. He’d been left to his own devices in the cupboard without food for much water. At least here he had a bathroom, and he filled his stomach with water until he could hear it slosh.

Four days in, Dumbledore visited and looked at the boy through his spectacles.

“Harry, my boy, why won’t you eat?”

Harry shrugged. The man knew about how Snape drugged him—he probably thought Harry was lying.

“Do you not care for the food? Shall I have the elves prepare you something else?”

“I’d rather,” Harry said softly, “prepare my own things. Sir.”

Dumbledore frowned. “Students aren’t allowed in the kitchens, I’m afraid, my boy. Perhaps if you left directions—“

“I’m not hungry, then.”

“Harry—“

“I’m not hungry.”

Dumbledore soon had Wippy coming in every hour with plates and plates of the most delicious smelling food imaginable. Harry stood firm and just kept filling his stomach with the tap in the bathroom.

Finally, ten days without food took its toll and Harry woke up one morning to find himself in a long, white room, far from any windows. A disapproving woman was pouring potions into phials and tutting at him.

“Really, this is no way to behave. Throwing a tantrum like this is serious business, Mr. Potter. You’re far to underweight already to pull stunts like this!”

“It isn’t a stunt,” Harry said weakly. “I’m not touching any of that.”

The woman pursed her lips. “Mr. Potter,” she started, but he shook his head.

“No. I won’t.”

“They’re only nutrition potions and a mild sedative—“

That’s what Dumbledore had called whatever Snape had put in his food. Harry shook his head. “No. I’m not taking anymore of those things.”

The woman stopped on that, and seemed to scruntinize him a bit. “What do you mean, any more? I wasn’t informed you’d been prescribed a potion already.”

“I wasn’t prescribed anything,” Harry said. “He slipped it in food and made me eat it.”

The woman looked worried and put a cool hand to his forehead. “I think you may be experiencing a halluncination, Mr. Potter.”

“No! It’s not a halluncination! It’s real, even though nobody believes me! He really did!”

“Who, Mr. Potter?” the woman said in an attempt to soothe him.

“That professor! Snipe, or whatever! He drugged me already and I won’t let you do it again!”

The woman had left the room with pink spots on her cheeks and returned to inform him that she would personally oversee the elves while they made his meals and then hand deliver them to the boy. Harry allowed that, and the first day of term arrived to see a slightly pinched, but otherwise none the worse for wear, Harry Potter.

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Harry had never been comfortable in crowds, especially ones that consisted of children. He always had to be on his guard, in case Dudley or Piers or Malcolm were behind him. And, of course, crowds of children were most often encountered when Dudley or Piers or Malcolm or Gordan had cornered Harry somewhere and were beating him up ferociously. He liked it best in his cupboard, where it was too small to even fit Dudley, or Uncle Vernon.

The Entrance Hall, of course, was nothing like his cupboard, and there was a great crowd of children there. They were all dressed in those funny robes—as was Harry, and he longed for his torn trousers and beat up trainers, because it was harder to run in robes—and they all looked very anxious. One, a freckly redhead, looked so pale he might vomit into one of the ridiculously pointed hats that Harry had refused to wear and had dropped out of his window.

One of the professors, a tall, stern faced woman with square glasses, started to organize them into a line. Her face softened as she approached Harry, and she put a hand on his shoulder to steer him into place. Harry jumped from her touch, however, and looked for where her wand was. She looked sad, and almost angry, but not at him. Like Madam Pomfrey was angry. She just pointed him to his spot and continued her work.

The Great Hall was the first place in Hogwarts Harry truly cared for. He liked the tall stone walls, the missing ceiling, the tables. Here, the crowd felt safe. It felt like it could protect him, hide him, and he ducked his head and tried to hide as soon as he looked up at the head table.

For there he was. Professor Snape, his eyes on Harry, a cruel sort of glare in place, and Harry’s heart sank.

He was twirling a brand new wand in his hand.

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Severus had never been comfortable in crowds, especially ones that consisted of children. He always had to be on his guard, sneer firmly in place, because children were rude and dangerous and uncouth. He heard the names they called him, of course, git and greasy and hook-nosed bat. He remembered, from his own youth, how cruel children could be, how uncaring. He liked it best when he was in his classroom, where it was too scary for any child to strut and sneer.

Seeing Potter in the newest crowd of brats just made it less enjoyable than ever.

He had been furious every day since the brat had broken his wand. His replacement was his wands duplicate in every way it could be—the core was even taken from the same beast—but it still felt odd in his hands. It was lucky for Potter that he rarely used his wand in lessons, or the boy would be in even deeper trouble. As soon as he saw Potter, he smirked and twirled his wand nonchalantly in his hand. The boy’d soon see he wasn’t safe from Snape yet.

The children were all repulsive, Snape saw. A arrogant Malfoy halfway down the line, that same head of white blonde hair and smirk. Two lumps that had to be Crabbe’s or Goyle’s—the family had inter-married so many times it was hard to tell which was which—and a boy with a face like a rat that had to be Peranius Nott’s boy. And Potter, of course, the ugly little wretch, and another Weasley.

This year did have the promise of plenty of chances to be nasty, at least.

He watched idly as the children started to be Sorted, merely letting himself groan when the lumps and the rat-boy and Malfoy were Sorted into Slytherin and scowl at Potter every chance he got. When it was his turn to be sorted, the boy walked up to the Hat unhesitantly—arrogant, ignorant boy—and put the hat on.

He didn’t remember what happened next. Just that Potter removed the Hat, sent a look at Snape, and walked over to the Slytherin table.

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Harry liked it inside the hat. It wass dark and small and comfortable, and he thought this was the best place he’d been in Hogwarts yet. Maybe he’d never come out.

Ah, afraid I can’t allow that. There are others to sort, you know.

Harry jumped. ‘Did—Did you just speak to me?’

I did indeed, Mr. Potter. Now, hush, I need to place you.

There was the queerest feeling, as though someone was tickling the inside of his brain, and Harry jerked his head slightly. ‘Erm—what are you looking for?’

Memories. Deciding factors. Ambitions. My, my, Mr. Potter, what a life you lead.

Harry bristled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Nothing, the hat said. Nothing but what it is.

The tickling increased, than abrubtly stopped.

Hmm…you could go either way, you know. Slytherin or Gryffindor. You’ve the potential to be truly great, you know—and Slytherin would help you on that path.

Harry thought about how helpless he had been, under Snape’s hands and under the headmasters. ‘I don’t intend to stay,’ he said. ‘They’re making me.’

And you don’t like to have anyone make you do anything, do you?

Harry shook his head. ‘I want…’ He thought, for a moment, about what he really wanted—his cupboard and his life, never to let anyone freeze him or drug him or kidnap him again. Never to be as weak as all that. ‘I want as much power as I can get. Put me—put me where I can get it. Please.’

He could sense the hat almost smiling. Ah, you are a rare one, Mr. Potter. I hope you decide to stay, even though it isn’t your choice to be here. Well, while you’re here, you most certaintly belong in

“SLYTHERIN!”

Besides, Harry heard the hat say as he took it off his head. I’m sure you’ll feel most at home in the dungeons. Dark, you know, and small. Plenty of little hiding spots—even a cupboard or two.

Harry made his way to the silver and green table, filled with silent faces, and darted a quick look to the head table. Snape was looking at him in a way that made Harry shiver.

Yeah, well, let him, Harry thought as he sat down next to a blonde boy who looked at him with suspicious eyes. Let him look.

That’s all he’ll be able to do for now.