“What do you mean?” Harry asked slowly, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Magic doesn't exist. It's not real.”

The giant of a man, Hagrid, looked baffled, then angry and he glared briefly at Harry's relatives. “Nonsense, boy!” Harry flinched at the hated word. “Magic's very real! Look,” he pulled out a pink umbrella and waved it. Harry's previously ratty yellow t-shirt became green, but remained as ratty as it had ever been. Harry wasn't necessarily very impressed.

-x-

Diagon Alley, Harry decided, was a very strange place where he felt very out of place and uncomfortable. He still wasn't sure if he believed Hagrid, either. It seemed...too good to be true, at times, and Harry wondered if he was perhaps unconscious in a coma somewhere and was dreaming a new reality for himself. The giant had disappeared awhile ago and Harry used the little time alone wisely: first buying one of those neat pouches for witches who liked to read, but didn't want to be cumbered by having to carry the heavy books. Harry could easily hide it under his baggy clothes. Then, pouch in hand, he ventured back inside the bookshop. He had never been in one until today, but he had always liked the library his school had. It was quiet and calm; no one ever bullied him in there.

“You again,” someone drawled behind him, and Harry turned around slowly.

“Hi,” he whispered. “...Draco Malfoy, right?”

The boy nodded, looking rather too pleased and righteous, Harry thought, but he didn't say anything. “What are you doing here? Personally, I prefer Alexandria, but Father insisted we go here today.”

Harry nodded slightly, biting his lip. Wasn't Alexandria in Egypt? But again, he didn't comment. “Okay. I just needed a few books. About the Wizarding world,” he added as an afterthought.

Draco sneered. “Are you a Muggleborn?” Harry blinked. “Are your parents Muggles?”

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. They're dead.”

“Hm.” Draco scrutinised him, his gaze focusing somewhat on his forehead. “Well, come on, then. If you must buy books, then accurate ones are preferable. How much do you have?”

“Um...” Harry opened the small bag Hagrid had given him and glanced down at the glittering coins. He shook it a bit to get a better appreciation of how many there were. “Lots of the bronze ones, a few silver... A couple gold, too. I suppose I could go and get more, though.”

“You have a vault?”

“My parents did.” Harry thought Draco relaxed a little bit at that, but he wasn't sure.

“What is your name, by the way?”

Harry froze and bit his lip. “Harry,” he mumbled after awhile, when Draco began looking strangely at him. “I'm Harry.”

“Harry.”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Draco said slowly, eyes narrowed. “Let's go, then.”

Draco pulled out several books and Harry was at first a bit hesitant, apprehensive, about how he would fit them all in his small punch, but Draco waved it off, so Harry assumed it would 'magically adapt' and instantly became a bit more pleased with it – even though it was pink – and all at once became enthusiastic at the vast selections to choose from. After awhile, Draco had asked to see how much money he had, and then they had moved on. Draco looked pleased, so Harry tailed after, smiling shyly and eyes glittering as even more books were pulled out.

“Do you know what Dark Magic is?” he asked once and Harry had shaken his head.

“I have known about magic for all of today.”

Draco scrunched up his nose and they continued on.

“And this,” Draco sneered, “is proper conduct and behaviour, manners, traditions and hierarchy.”

Harry flushed. “Thanks.”

“Who is your friend, Draco?” The voice was calm and cold. Harry's heart stopped briefly.

“Harry, Father,” Draco replied shortly. “He appears not to have a family name.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Harry fidgeted with the pouch nervously. “I need to go and pay—”

“The money is withdrawn automatically from your vault.”

Harry blinked. “But...how do they know who I am? And why did you need to how much I had?”

“Because. The pouch is tied to you, is it not?”

Harry nodded absent-mindedly. That was true; the elderly wizard had asked for his name and then proceeded to wave his wand. There had been light and lots of sparks. “Oh.” Then, “I should go,” he said suddenly. “Mr Hagrid thinks I'm buying a wand.”

“You would appear to be in the wrong shop, then, Mr Potter,” Mr Malfoy drawled. Harry reflexively pressed down his fringe over his forehead to cover the ugly scar. “You bear quite a resemblance to your...Father.”

-x-

It turned out Harry was still done before Hagrid returned, and he made sure the pouch was properly out of sight. He decided not to mention either the Malfoys or what Mr Olivander had said about his wand.

-x-

Something had happened to his hair in the month between his birthday and the day he bordered the Hogwarts train. It had...grown. Fast. Harry was sure it wasn't normal, but he didn't exactly mind because it covered the scar better this way.

He spent the ride to the school alone, having found a tiny, abysmal compartment he was almost positive originally had been intended for storing trunks, because his fit perfectly on the floor. Of course, that meant he had to sit on top of it, but he didn't mind. It was, after all, how he had spent the last month in his cupboard.

He wouldn't lie – Harry hated lying to himself – and be a coward. But he was absolutely terrified of the forthcoming Sorting. He had read the books, as many as he'd had time to, and in one of them the ceremony had been mentioned in great detail, even having in-depth analyses of the Houses. They sounded nice, all of them, in their own unique way.

Hufflepuff was probably too friendly, though, and Harry hadn't been pure of heart and honest and loyal to anyone but himself for years.

Ravenclaw, he could do, but he had never studied for his own enjoyment or to further himself. He had studied so he could appear stupid and pretend to be dumber than even Dudley. Uncle Vernon's belt had taught him never to be clever.

Gryffindor... Harry bit his lip. It was the house of his parents and in that aspect it was tempting and wonderful – that he'd finally have something they'd had; that he would step where they had gone. But at the same time...he wasn't brave or courageous, righteous or chivalrous... He was... Harry bit his lip. He was pansy, snivelling, girly Pansy 'Freak' Potter.

Slytherin housed cunning students, students who manipulated and played with words. Students who were pushed down and belittled. Students who wanted to rise above their abusers and tormentors. Little boys and girls who wanted to prove themselves to a world that had failed them.

Harry bit his lip. To him, it looked like he would either end up in his parents' House, because the Sorting deemed and demanded that he did, or he would end up in its complete opposite.

-x-

The bruise from this morning, when his Uncle had backhanded him was still smarting, but most of it was hidden behind his hair. The Great Hall was almost silent as Harry trudged up to be sorted. Most stared in awe, but some were glaring quite nastily at him: the blond boy, Draco Malfoy, was. Harry suspected he had never forgiven him for deliberately fooling him like that. The man with the black hair at the Head Table was glaring too and Harry found him a whole lot more frightening. Not only because the man looked like a vampire, but because he was an adult and adults were Dangerous and Hurt Him.

“Ah,” the Hat said as Harry slipped it on, “Harry Potter. Your mother was particularly tricky to sort, but your father quite easy, I remember. But you...oh, the enigma!”

“Um, okay,” Harry thought back. “I don't think I fit in anywhere...”

“Ha! Foolish child, that is not for you, but for me, to decide, and I say you will go far in Slytherin. That House will help you go far; make you great...yes, you would do quite well there...”

“Slytherin?”

“Yes, dear child, Slytherin. Ah, I think that is how it will have to be. Yes, yes...”

“But—”

But the Hat was done lingering and a booming voice bellowed, “SLYTHERIN!” Harry started, then slipped the Hat off. The Hall was still silent and Harry fidgeted nervously with the Hat’s brim. What was he suppose to do?

Then the stern witch gently took the Hat from his hands and smiled stiffly at him. “Well, on you go then, Potter.”

Harry blinked and looked around, then hesitantly began walking to the table with the green and silver banners, and still no one was talking. In fact, Harry noticed nervously, most of the students at the table were...glaring at him.

-x-

“Um, Professor Snape, sir?” Harry asked tentatively.

“What, Potter?”

“I, um...are, are snakes...allowed?” He was suddenly on the receiving end of a harsh glare, and Harry squirmed. “I...I met one over the summer and when I told her I was going away she became upset and disappeared. Um. She hid in my trunk. I...I could get rid of her, if I have to, but I wondered if it was allowed. Sir. Is it?”

“You talked to it?”

Harry nodded, head bent. “Yes, sir.”

“May I see?”

Harry nodded again, slipping his hand up his sleeve and retrieving a small Grass Snake. The snake hissed slightly as it was exposed to the cool air, and Harry instantly stroked her, apologising and cupping her in his cupped hands. “She doesn't like the cold, sir.”

“Hmmm,” the Professor said noncommittally. “Certainly not from your dim-witted father.”

Harry flushed and hunched his shoulders.

“Parseltongue is the language of snakes. What you are is a Parselmouth. If I were you, Potter,” Professor Snape said silkily, lowly, “I would not advertise it.”