Snape glowered at the Gryffindor table, where a certain messy-haired child was most decidedly not sitting. Food would be served any moment now, and Potter, the disobedient little brat, was nowhere to be seen. Flitwick had taken his seat at the staff table several minutes ago, so the little monster was definitely finished with his tutoring session, and that meant he was deliberately ignoring Snape's explicit instructions to be on time for meals so that he wasn't stuck with the others' leavings.

Potter had several years of poor nutrition to make up for, but being sandwiched between Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom at the Gryffindor table was hardly going to help his caloric intake. By the time those two were finished serving themselves, the house elves were lucky to get the platters back. If Harry wasn't there when the food was first served, there would never be anything left for him.

Yet despite Snape's explaining this concept in clear, simple, Gryffindor-friendly words of less than three syllables, Potter's backside was not planted firmly in his seat in the Great Hall. No, the little fiend was obviously wandering the corridors, munching chocolate frogs, and wondering what new mischief he could dream up. Snape gritted his teeth. He would show that boy what it meant to ignore his instructions! He drummed his fingers on the tablecloth, wondering where he should position the brat so that the largest number of students would see him being spoon fed by the house elves. Maybe if he set up a special table just in front of the staff table...

He was distracted from composing appropriately punitive menus - plenty of liver and onions, broccoli by the crate - by the sight of one of his own First Years belatedly sliding into the Hall. Snape leveled a glare at Draco Malfoy. His snakes knew better than to be tardy. Apparently the Owlry detention hadn't taught young Mr Malfoy to follow his Head of House's instructions. Perhaps having two First Years spoon fed by house elves would bring the message home...

But wait - Malfoy wasn't taking his seat; rather he was whispering urgently to Flint. Snape watched, bemused, as Flint signaled to another senior Prefect, Davidella Jones, and the two of them hurried from the Hall, followed by Malfoy.

Well. How interesting. That particular pairing of prefects promised a healthy dose of pain for some poor miscreant. Snape half-heartedly considered going after them, but decided it was better to let his prefects handle the matter. Flint was big and not averse to clouting an impudent lower year, but Jones was the one that most of his snakes really feared. She was a lot like a saner version of Bellatrix - capable of incredible viciousness, but more discriminating in her choice of victims. Even Flint knew better than to get on her bad side.

Between the two of them, Snape was confident that they could handle any mischief-maker, not to mention administer an indelible lesson on why misbehavior was unwise. His intervention would merely hinder their ability to mete out summary judgment, and really, he had enough to do without supervising additional detentions. But the rest of his Slytherins were restive now, glancing over their shoulders after the prefects and Malfoy, and several had already followed them.

Then the youngest Weasley, who had - surprise, surprise - been one of the first seated at the table, got up and left the room. Probably in search of Potter, Snape mused in grudging respect for Weasley loyalty. The redheaded clan had obviously embraced Potter as one of their own, and that might even mean that Ron wouldn't hog all of the food. Maybe.

Now what?! Weasley had just dashed back to the Gryffindor table, and the rest of his siblings, closely followed by the entire Quidditch team and a respectable sampling of the rest of the table, were now following him out the door. That broke the dam on his remaining Slytherins, and they too bolted for the exit.

Snape glanced over at Minerva, only to find her looking at him with a similar expression of alarm. What calamity could drag such large numbers of ravenous teens away from the dinner table?

"Should we go see what's going on?" Minerva asked him, her voice deliberately low.

"Doing so would indicate a lack of confidence in our prefects," he replied, but he couldn't wholly suppress the unease in his tone.

Now even the Ravenclaws were looking around nervously, finally noticing something was amiss. Typical, snarled Snape to himself. They might be able to recite every known permutation of the 18th century Ignatio Compelare spell, but they needed their house elves to tell them their robes were on fire.

A contingent of Ravenclaws made for the door and finally even the placid Hufflepuffs began to look curious. As the last table in the Great Hall emptied, Snape and Minerva exchanged another look and simultaneously stood.

"I'll go," Minerva said, gesturing him to reseat himself.

"No, I will," Snape retorted. "You know perfectly well that the little dunderheads will scatter at the mere sight of me."

"Yes, but you won't bother learning who's responsible - you'll simply exonerate your House and arbitrarily deduct points from all others," she shot back.

Snape's eyes narrowed, but before he could reply, Dumbledore stood. "Perhaps we should all go, as it appears all of the students are now involved in whatever is happening - whether as spectators or participants."

"A capital idea!" Flitwick squeaked happily. Pomona Sprout sighed - it had been a long day in the greenhouses - but obligingly followed the others.

Albus led the way through the Hall, while Snape sulked and dragged his feet. Whatever might have happened, with the Headmaster investigating, it was all but certain that his House would bear the blame while McGonagall's delinquents would be praised to the skies.

Minerva fretted as she walked beside Snape. "What on earth could have attracted the simultaneous attention of Slytherins, Weasleys, and the Gryffindor Quidditch team?" she wondered aloud.

The breath caught in Snape's throat. Weasleys, Quidditch, his House... Harry! He abruptly shouldered past Flitwick and Sprout, making for the door at speed. Minerva gasped as she figured it out a second later, and then she was right beside him, hurrying to see what was going on. It took all of Snape's control not to shove the Headmaster aside as they reached the back of the milling crowd.

Even as the Headmaster's twinkling presence opened a path through the students, Snape's height allowed him to see over the heads of most. He caught sight of the touseled dark hair, being half-cuddled by one of the older Gryffindor girls, and his scowl intensified. He'd been right. Whatever it was that was going on, Potter had been in the thick of it, though at least he appeared relatively unharmed. He forced himself to take a deep breath and remain politely quiet, letting Dumbledore do the talking, though he itched to snatch Potter away from the other Gryffindor and check him over himself.

**--**--**--

Harry managed to grin as Flint and Wood rolled their eyes at whatever spell the other Slytherin prefect had been about to cast. For the first time since he'd heard the footsteps behind him, he felt safe. With the older kids from two Houses looking out for him, not to mention Ron and his brothers and even Hermione (!), he realized he wouldn't be the favorite target of bullies at this school, as Dudley had ensured had been the case in the past.

And Harry owed it all to Professor Snape. Hadn't Prefect Flint said as much? Harry belonged to Snape, so he was a snake. And the Hat had made him a lion. And Auntie Molly and Uncle Arthur (as they now insisted he call them) had made him a Weasley... Harry grinned to himself. Suddenly from having no one who cared about him, he had whole crowds of people lining up to help him.

“Oi! What are you doing?” A wave of Ravenclaws emerged from the Great Hall, trailed by some curious Hufflepuffs who were reluctant to miss out on the excitement. Seeing several of their Housemates sprawled on the floor or held against the wall, the Ravenclaws surged forward, only to halt in dismay as a phalanx of Gryffindor and Slytherin wands instantly targeted them. For a moment, it looked as if new hostilities might break out, but the famous Ravenclaw intellect allowed the new arrivals to rapidly calculate the odds and determine that an outright attack would be unlikely to end in their favor.

“Goodness gracious.” Before anything else could happen, the Headmaster's mild tones made everyone freeze.

Ron sighed in relief. At last the faculty had realized something was amiss and quitted the staff table. The Headmaster, clad in bright purple and yellow robes, led the way through the throng of students, the Heads of Houses close behind him. “What seems to be the trouble this …?” Dumbledore’s voice trailed off in shock as he realized that, contrary to his initial assumption that a full-fledged war had finally broken out between the Slytherins and Gryffindors, the two Houses were, for once, actually united as they faced off against a gaggle of disconcerted Ravenclaws.

“Erm...” He blinked several times but recovered quickly. “As I was saying, what is going on here?”

“Well, sir,” Flint began, only to have Dumbledore raise a gentle hand.

“Perhaps, Mr Flint, we could have all wands lowered before we proceed any further?”

“Better not, Headmaster,” Malfoy spoke up. “No telling what they might try if you did that. That one there,” he pointed, a malicious glint in his eye, “tried to Crucio Ron Weasley.”

There was an audible gasp. In the heat of the battle, few had actually heard Smythe’s curse, and even Flint was stunned.

What happened next was even more shocking.

“YOU BASTARD!” A bolt of ruby energy blasted past the others and struck Smythe full in the face. He howled in pain as his skin was instantly covered in angry, festering boils. “DON’T YOU EVER GO NEAR MY LITTLE BROTHER AGAIN, YOU FUCKING COWARDLY SACK OF –“

“Whoa, whoa there, Big Man,” Jones said soothingly, placing a restraining hand on Percy’s outstretched arm before he could fire off yet another hex. “Pas devant les domestiques, you know. Or les professeurs, in this case. Settle down, handsome. He’s learned his lesson. For now.”

Breathing hard and still glaring daggers at the now-weeping Smythe, Percy obeyed. Ron gaped at his older brother in astonishment, while the twins regarded Percy with newfound respect. Who would ever have imagined that their priggish, law-abiding prat of a brother could snap like that? His protectiveness rivaled Molly’s.

“Hmmm,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. He flicked his wand, and abruptly the four boys who had been held under guard by the others were bound with ropes. “All right? Then perhaps the rest of you can put away your wands and tell me what happened.”

Professor Sprout had already shooed her Hufflepuffs and most of the Ravenclaws back towards the Great Hall, while Flitwick, Snape, and McGonagall stood behind the headmaster, glaring sternly at their students.

“Well, Professor, we – that is, Jones and I – came into it on the late side. I’m not exactly sure what happened to start it…” Flint looked over at Draco, who looked at Ron, who looked at Hermione, who looked at Harry.

Harry waved his arms in frustration and shouted, but he was still under the silencing spell.

“I do beg your pardon, Harry. How remiss of me.” Another wave of the Headmaster's wand, and suddenly Harry’s voice returned.

“ – take off this BLOODY spell – oh. Sorry,” Harry blushed, avoiding Snape's eye.

“Harry, can you please tell us what happened?”

So Harry explained how the bigger boys had waylaid him, and how Hermione had interceded on his behalf, only to be knocked down. “—and then she kicked his kneecap out and he went down like a ton of bricks, right on his arse!” Harry said enthusiastically, then realized who his audience was. “Erm, sorry. I mean, he fell, and then they were fighting and then –“

“I came by and saw what was happening,” Draco interrupted, “so I went into the Hall and summoned our Prefects. By the time I got back –“

“- I had come looking for Harry and saw them fighting, so I yelled for Percy and the twins and jumped on the one who was about to pull Hermione’s hair out by the roots,” Ron chimed in.

“Yes, and by the time I got there, he was about to Crucio you, so I tackled them all, and it was just a bit of a blur for a while, until,” Draco sighed, but fair was fair, “Granger pounded Smythe's head into the floor and knocked him out.” Now most people were eyeing Hermione with amazement, and she blushed under their scrutiny.

“As soon as Malfoy came and told Jones and me that some Ravenclaws were giving a kicking to one of our Firsties, we came running.” Flint had obviously decided that the First Years had had the spotlight for long enough. “So Jones and I came out here and got Jeffreys and Peterson under control. Then I – “

“One moment, Mr Flint,” Professor McGonagall interrupted. “I’m a bit confused. You said that one of the Slytherin First Years was being attacked? But I thought it was only Mr Potter who was targeted.”

Flint just looked at her. “Yes, Professor.”

McGonagall glanced from Snape to Dumbledore. “When last I checked, Mr Flint, the Sorting Hat had placed Mr Potter in my House.”

“Our Head of House has placed Potter under Slytherin protection, Professor,” Jones cut in coldly. “That makes him ours too.”

McGonagall opened and shut her mouth, but no sound emerged. Snape smirked. “Well put, Miss Jones, Mr Flint,” he commended smoothly.

The headmaster beamed. “I agree. It is wonderful to see such a fine example of inter-House cooperation, as well as so obvious a display of respect for your Head of House. Fifty points to both Houses for working together and another ten to Slytherin for rendering prompt assistance to a first year. Now then, Mr Flint, I believe you were up to the point where you and Miss Jones came to the aid of Mr Potter?”

“Yes, sir. Those two,” he jerked his head at the twins, “had already tackled O’Leary, and it didn’t look like they needed any help, and Smythe was practically buried under those three, so the fight was pretty much over, until the rest of the Ravens decided they wanted to get involved.” Flint paused, then decided to be kind. “To be fair, sir, I don’t think they knew what these four’d been up to. They just thought their Housemates were in trouble.”

Professor Flitwick had been looking progressively more distressed as the enormity of the crimes of four of his students came to light. “Goodness gracious, Mr Potter, are you all right? I’m shocked and appalled that any of my Ravenclaws could have planned such a thing!”

Harry smiled at the diminutive professor. “I’m okay, sir.”

“Another untruth, Mr Potter?” Snape demanded sternly, barely restraining himself from grabbing the boy and carrying him bodily to the Infirmary. “According to your own account, as well as the others', you were punched, choked, thrown against a wall, and –“

“Pr’fessor!” Harry exclaimed, scandalized. The last thing he wanted was for his professor to treat him like a baby in front of everyone. “I’m okay. Really.”

“Perhaps, Severus, you would be so kind as to take all four of our battling first years to see Madame Pomfrey? It sounds like all of them may be a bit the worse for wear.”

“Albus, I must point out that my students, Mr Smythe in particular, may also require medical attention,” Filius said. He might be appalled by their behavior, but he would still carry out his duty and attend to his students’ welfare.

“Of course. Perhaps you would ask Madame Pomfrey to join us in my office as soon as she has taken care of these four?” Dumbledore turned to Snape expectantly.

“Oh, please, Professor, can’t we eat first? I’m starving,” Harry protested, looking at Snape beseechingly.

"Yeah!" Ron echoed. "Erm, I mean, me too, sir," he added quickly at Snape's glare.

Snape scowled and would have scolded the boys for their cheek, but Dumbledore chuckled and nodded before he had the chance. “Very well, Harry. That will let Madame Pomfrey see to these young men first, but as soon as the meal is over, Professor Snape will take all of you to the Infirmary, and I expect there to be no arguments.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry promised.

Flitwick, Dumbledore and the four Ravenclaw students went up to the Headmaster’s office, while McGonagall and Snape ushered the rest of the school back into the Great Hall. For the first time in student memory, seating by House went out the window, as those who had been involved in The Great Battle plunked themselves down at one table, and the rest of the students scrambled for nearby seats so they could listen in and hear what had happened.

“Cor, you’re a real little squirmer,” Flint commented, giving Harry a friendly nudge. “When I was running up I saw you giving those wankers a right good fight.”

Harry blushed.

“Wait’ll you see his moves on a broomstick!” Wood put in from across the table. “He’s practically not human the way he torques around!”

On the other end of the table, Ron and Draco had ended up sitting next to each other. Both studiously avoided the other’s eye for a while, but Ron broke first. “So, um, Malfoy – er, Draco – thanks. I mean, for before,” Ron mumbled. “Y’know, with that Ravenclaw.”

“You’re welcome, Weasley.” Draco hesitated, then added, “I suppose we’re even – you made him let go before he broke my arm.” He smirked. "Didn't know your family had been driven to cannibalism!"

"Huh?" Ron's eyes narrowed. He suspected there was an insult in there, but he wasn't sure.

Draco rolled his eyes. "The way you were chewing on his wrist? Cannibalism? Get it?"

“Oh." Ron colored. "Well, I wanted to make him let you go. It sounded like he was really hurting you."

Now it was Draco's turn to grow red. "Well, yeah..."

There was an awkward pause.

“Your brother knows some nasty spells,” Draco eventually commented. “Has he taught them to you?”

“Some,” Ron admitted. “You want me to show you?”

Draco shrugged, elaborately casual. “Yeah, maybe. I mean, it might be amusing.”

Ron grinned. “There’s one my oldest brother learned from the goblins. Blimey – it’s brilliant.”

“Yeah?” Draco dropped the façade of disinterest. “What does it do?”

While the two boys talked animatedly, and Harry, Oliver, Katie, and Marcus discussed Quidditch, Jones turned to Hermione.

“They had to levitate that big gorilla up to the Headmaster’s office, Firstie – he couldn’t even walk. What spell did you use?”

Hermione colored. “It wasn’t a spell. I just kicked him. My father made sure I know some self-defense moves.”

One of the other Slytherins, who hadn’t participated in the fight, scoffed, “Your father taught you? A Muggle? What kind of self-defense does a Muggle know? And what good would it do anyway?”

Hermione flushed angrily. “Are you insulting my father?”

Before the other Slytherin could reply, Jones said softly, “She broke Smythe’s wand, Singh. I’d watch my tongue if I were you.”

There was a distinct pause, then Singh said, in tones that were a great deal more respectful, “No offense, Granger. Don’t go all Gryffindor on me. I just meant that Muggles… well, what can they know about fighting?”

That did it. Hermione knew perfectly well that her inability to keep her mouth shut in class caused her to be damned by her peers as an annoying know-it-all. She knew that her intimate knowledge of all the rules often made her act like a goody-goody tattle-tale. She also knew that she had no one but herself to blame for all of this. But for all her rule-abiding, question-answering, homework-obsessed behavior, Hermione Granger was no coward. She had her pride and, whatever Wizarding society might think, she was fiercely loyal to her parents and the Muggle society in which she had been raised. She decided that if the children at this new school were going to despise her as much as the students at her old school had, then she might as well give them a reason to do so. To hell with being the good girl. For once, Hermione was going to fight fire with fire.

She glanced at Davidella Jones, whose kick-arse attitude combined with her Prefect's badge had won Hermione's admiration. Here was someone who obviously was a respected student and Good Girl, yet whom even imposing boys like Flint didn't cross. Hermione had found a role model.

Jones raised her eyebrows in silent encouragement, and heartened, Hermione glared around at Singh and the other purebloods. “Fighting? You think Wizards are the only ones who can fight? You people don’t have the slightest idea what fighting is really like. Hexing is for sissies. Muggles fight with their bare hands. And Muggles are a lot tougher than Wizards, too,” she went on, scowling around the table. “Here in the magical world, if you're injured in a fight, you’re fixed up in no time by Madame Pomfrey or some other healer. When Muggles fight and are hurt, we stay injured. You can’t hope to fight if you can’t stand pain, and Muggles know more about pain and suffering than any Wizard.”

“Hold on, Granger!” Malfoy called out. “Weasley here nearly got Crucio’d. That’s plenty of pain and suffering!”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “No one is putting down Ron’s bravery in saving me, Draco.” Ron blushed to the tips of his ears. “Or yours in saving him.” Now it was Draco’s turn to look awkward. Saving a Gryffindor? What had he been thinking? And what would his father say? “But Muggles know real, lasting pain, and that’s what makes us good fighters.”

“So you know pain, Granger?” This time it was a member of the Gryffindor Quidditch team who spoke, the skepticism clear in his tone. “Try getting hit with a Bludger.”

Hermione leaned forward. “My parents are dentists, Bradley. Do you know what that means?” Most of the purebloods shook their heads. “Muggles get holes in their teeth, and dentists fix them. Do you know how they fix them? First, they take a big, loooong needle,” she held up her hand to show how long the needle was, “and they stick it into your gum,” she demonstrated, “and they slooooooowly inject this medicine that stings like crazy. And then, they get out a machine that has a pointy bit that spins really really fast and makes a whiny noise like this –“ Her impression was good enough that she had most of the table holding their ears in pain. “And then they use that to drill holes in your teeth.” Now all of the purebloods were green. Even Jones was breathing shallowly and clinging to Percy’s arm. The other Muggleborns were enjoying this immensely, and the Half-Bloods were, depending on their background, either amused or revolted.

“And this can go on for hours,” Hermione continued chillingly. “And then they pack metal into the holes, and –“

“Oh, come now!” Percy broke out, a light sheen of perspiration over his face. “You’re making this up!”

“No, she isn’t!” A Muggleborn Gryffindor fourth year was all too happy to support Hermione’s story. “Look – my folks didn’t know I was a wizard until I was almost ten, and I’d gotten cavities fixed the Muggle way by then. See? ‘Ere’s one.” He opened his mouth wide and pointed so that the fascinated and nauseated Purebloods could see his fillings.

“That’s disgusting!” Flint said faintly.

Hermione’s smirk nearly outdid Snape’s. “And I’m not even talking about how Muggles straighten crooked teeth – they put metal bands in your mouth and make them tighter and tighter so that your teeth are dragged into position, and it takes years and years.” Now several of the purebloods had shoved away their plates and were holding their napkins to their lips.

“And both my parents do this for a living. Day after day, month after month, year after year. And they come home and tell me all about it. So don’t try anything with me, Singh. Inflicting pain is in my blood.”

“Minerva,” Severus frowned, studying the students. “Does it appear to you that many of the students are regarding your Miss Granger with a sort of fascinated terror?”

McGonagall looked where he was. “Good gracious. I don’t normally see expressions like that unless NEWTS or OWLS are being handed out. What on earth is going on over there?”

Before the meal was over, Hermione’s reputation in the Wizarding world was made. Oh, she was still known as a good student, if a bit of a know-it-all, but word spread like wildfire around the school: Do Not Mess With Granger. Between having parents who were skilled torturers and her own demonstrated proclivity to break the wands of people who offended her, Granger was obviously not someone to irritate.

Harry looked around the Hall and beamed. There were so many people who cared about him. For the first time in his life, he had friends – and not just Ron, though he would always have a special place as Harry’s first friend. But Slytherins had come to his rescue as well as Gryffindors, which was sure to make Professor Snape happy, and even Draco and Ron seemed to be getting along for a change.

He sneaked a glance up to the staff table. Both Snape and McGonagall were looked bemused, but Harry figured that was probably due to the unusual amount of chatter that was going on tonight. He rubbed the back of his head. Yeah, there was a lump there, and he was sure Professor Snape would make a big fuss – to be fair, Harry would be a little hurt if he didn’t make a fuss – but it was worth every bruise to see how much people at his new school liked him. He remembered Uncle Vernon’s parting words to him, about how none of the people at Hogwarts would like him any better than the Dursleys had, and he snorted. Professor Snape was right. Uncle Vernon was just a fat, stupid walrus. He didn’t know anything.

Harry had found friends and a new home and even – though he had to be careful not to say this too loudly lest he embarrass Professor Snape – a new dad who worried about him and made sure he ate all his vegetables and saw the medi-witch when he was hurt. Harry sighed happily. He had to be the luckiest boy in the whole world.