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The moment the Sorting Hat touched his head, Harry Potter had the very distinct impression that something was terribly wrong. It did not immediately shout out “GRYFFINDOR!” as he had hoped it would. It did not shout out “GRYFFINDOR!” after several seconds either. It was black, and quiet, as though the material had somehow blocked out all the sounds around him, filling it instead with the static of silence. He half expected it to remain this way until Professor McGonagall pulled it off his head, when, finally, a very quiet voice near his ear simply said, “Hmm.”

He supposed, that this meant that there was some reason behind this. At the very least, it implied that the hat was capable of intellectual thought, and he wasn’t to be doomed to the silence blackness. He tried to calm himself with deep breaths and mental reassurances that this pause did not necessarily mean anything; it was only a delay. But before he could fully form a thought, the hat was whispering into his ear.

“Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage I see. Not a bad mind, either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes – and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting… So where should I put you?”

Harry Potter gripped the edges of the stool so tightly that the skin above his knuckles stretched to the point of pallid whiteness. Where would he be placed? Gryffindor? He really wanted that one; it was the one his parents had been in after all… though, Ravenclaw probably wouldn’t be too bad. Hufflepuff would be a nightmare! And Slytherin… If he was honest with himself, he was more scared of the house’s reputation than anything. Everything told him that that house was bad, that it was the home of many dark wizards, not to mention the house of Lord Voldemort. That in itself was enough for one to wish a great deal amount of distance to be put between them.   

I don’t want to be alone, Harry found himself thinking desperately, a fear of separation from his only friend at the moment – Ron Weasley – gripping him. He had never really had a friend before, and if he lost this one…

“SLYTHERIN!”

His heart plummeted.

Oh no.

There was silence in the hall, a silence that had not been there for any of the other students. Then, the Slytherin table burst into the thunderous applause. Dazed, not fully realizing the implications of what had just happened, he got to his feet and made his shaken way to the far right table. He could feel the stares on his back. He thought of Ron, still waiting to be sorted, and Hagrid watching him from the High Table. Were they as surprised as he was?

Harry Potter sat down at the Slytherin table, now sporting the green and silver badge that had magically appeared upon his robes when his house had been declared. Slytherins around him were shaking his hand, smacking his back, congratulating him. Some stood up and cheered, yelling, expressing their delight at having him in their house. Harry smiled weakly at them, letting them shake his hands, pretending to be grateful.

It still hadn’t hit. But it was starting to.

There were still four people to be sorted. McGonagall called, “Thomas, Dean,” to the stand and a second later he was pronounced a Gryffindor. Harry felt a pang of envy slice through him as he watched the black boy sit down opposite the ghost in the ruff.

That should have been his seat.

“Turpin, Lisa” was then named a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron’s turn. He was pale green and he met Harry’s eyes briefly before the hat was put over his head.

 Ron didn’t want to go to Slytherin.

Harry remembered him talking about it on the train. Remembered how horrified he was at the thought of it. He was worried about it right now, too. His eyes had told him that. Did it make him a bad person if some part of him hoped he would still come to join him? Harry found himself crossing his fingers under the table, desperate and yet guilty at the same time.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

He wasn’t in the same house as Ron.

He was alone.

He was in Slytherin, the house that his parents had not attended, that had spawned the man that had destroyed his family, had created more dark wizards than any other.

Filled with fear, Harry looked up quickly to the High Table. He found Dumbledore’s sparkling blue eyes immediately, and found them looking straight at him. He was surprised and concerned, as if he were somehow aware of the inner turmoil spiraling through him. Once he had caught Harry’s eye however, he smiled warmly and nodded.

That was all he needed. If Dumbledore wasn’t worried, he wouldn’t be either.

In fact, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he was even beginning to grow slightly used to the idea. The House did seem happy enough to have him after all. They were still talking excitedly about it, ignoring the rest of the sorting, conversing over the improbability of it, over the amazing turn of events. He was feeling comfortable – ignoring the jabber – and gazing at the sorting ceremony with a slightly glazed over expression… that was, at least, until Draco Malfoy leaned over, smirking slightly.

“Joining us after all, eh, Potter?” he sneered.

“Yeah… seems that way, doesn’t it?” Harry replied, meeting his gaze evenly.

“Want to rethink your decision, then?”

Harry paused, confused for a moment. What decision? Oh… Oh! Whether to be friends with him. He surveyed him for a moment, calculating… Did he want to rethink his decision? Yes would be easiest. Malfoy wasn’t unbearable, and he didn’t even know the boy very well. Or he could say no and perhaps destroy his first – and maybe only – chance at friendship in Slytherin. He found himself glancing over his shoulder at the Gryffindor table, meeting Ron’s eyes. Ron looked at him for a moment, then forced a small smile and gave a wave. One of his older brothers noticed the direction of his gaze and gave him a sharp nudge to the ribs. Ron dropped his eyes to the table again. It was almost, painful…

“Yeah,” Harry found himself saying, looking back at Malfoy. “Yeah, I would.”

Malfoy looked vaguely surprised. Harry was surprised himself, and no doubt, his father was rolling in his grave. However, if he rejected it this time, Malfoy would make damn sure that his life was full of misfortune. Malfoy’s smirk broadened. “You’re a better Slytherin than I thought you would be, Potter,” he said.

“Hey, don’t jinx me now.”

Whatever response Malfoy had to that, Harry never heard. His table had exploded into cheers once again, welcoming another Slytherin – Zabini, Blaise – to the table and Malfoy leaned back to join in the congratulation.

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Dinner passed in a surprisingly pleasant manner. Harry actually found that he was enjoying himself. He listened to the other Slytherin’s talk about just regular things: the coming classes, summer vacation, home life. He had almost thought that they would be other, not normal kids, but even though they addressed each other by their surnames almost exclusively – unless they were friends – they were like anybody else. Well, mostly.

Malfoy was a bit of an exception. Though, Harry had sort of expected that. He drawled about his father, his life on the manor, his father, expectations for school, his father. Harry listened politely; secretly glad he didn’t have to reveal anything from his life.

“Our new house elf seemed to think that it was obligated to wear clean clothes. Can you believe that? We had the rest of the group set it straight. My father said, “That’s what I get for buying from owl-order.”

The group of Slytherins laughed at this and Harry nervously joined them, though he had no idea what ‘owl-order’ was. Maybe it was the magical version of EBay. He couldn’t help but notice, with a stifled snigger, that Goyle – in his attempt to laugh – had dribbled gravy down his front.

“My mother made the same mistake,” said a dark-haired girl sitting across from him. She was slender but had a hard face, a beauty darkened by the sardonic glimmer in her dark eyes. She reminded Harry of the girls that had teased the less fortunate just because they could. “The poor thing couldn’t even bring in the wood like it was supposed to. It started complaining that its arms hurt, its back was sore… it was ridiculous. We got rid of it.”

A girl beside her with light brown hair nodded in agreement. She had hazel eyes, and a petit frame though, her cheeks held a slight thinness to them that seemed to border on the unhealthy. “Good thing too Pansy, I’ve heard that some of those elves steal. Owl Order is definitely shady,” she said seriously.

“And overpriced,” Pansy added, nodding to her. “Especially considering the quality of the product.”

Malfoy smiled lightly. “You said it, Parkinson.”

Pansy Parkinson grinned at him, then turned to the girl beside her in order to ask her to pass the pumpkin juice, the name Daphne Greengrass drifting across the table.

Harry ate his food in silence, marveling at the sheer amount of it. There was anything and everything he could think of. The Dursleys had practically starved him back on Private Drive, giving him just enough to make it through the day. Now he piled his plate with chicken, pork, potatoes, and corn on the cob, and anything else that was within his reach. Upon finishing a rather crude joke about Muggle repairmen, Malfoy turned to see him piling on another helping of potatoes onto his plate.

“Hungry?” Malfoy asked raising an eyebrow.

Harry nodded, praying that he’d leave it at that. He didn’t.

“You’re acting like you haven’t had a good meal in your life.”

Harry swallowed what was in his mouth and found that Pansy and the others were now watching him curiously. “Um…” he paused. “It’s way better than what the Muggles gave me.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Malfoy sneered at him. “You lived with Muggles.”

“Why?” Daphne Greengrass asked, looking puzzled.

“Well…” Harry could feel himself cringing at the subject. “I was sent to live with my mom’s sister after… yeah… and they’re Muggles.”

“Oh. Were they bad cooks?”

“Um…” Truthfully, Petunia was a very good cook. She just gave him crappy food. And very little of it. But, they didn’t need to know that. Ever. “Yeah,” Harry lied, taking another bite of pork chop.

To his great relief, the conversation moved on to wizard bands and he was free to continue eating. However, it was then that the Bloody Baron glided over to their section of the table. He was the Slytherin ghost, as Malfoy had mentioned earlier when spotting him down the table. Now, as the ghost approached, the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stood on end. The Bloody Baron had blank staring eyes, a gaunt face and robes stained with silver blood. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know whose blood that had been at one point.

“Evening, First-years,” he croaked in a horrible scratchy voice, like rusty nails. He then proceeded to take a seat on the other side of Malfoy, beginning a conversation with one of the Slytherin Prefects. Harry tried not to chuckle at the look of utter revulsion on Malfoy’s face, and instead glanced up at the High Table.

Hagrid was drinking from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore, using her hands to demonstrate. Professor Quirrell looking rather worried, his hand fidgeting with a piece of cloth from his turban, was talking to a teacher with long messy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.

Harry didn’t expect what happened next. The hook-nosed teacher suddenly looked past Quirrell, black cold eyes meeting his just as a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Ah!” Harry’s hand flew to his forehead in reflex. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice, Pansy had engaged Malfoy in another discussion and Daphne had been glancing down the table.

The pain dissipated quickly, leaving in its wake numbing confusion. The expression on the face of hook-nosed teacher seemed to question Harry’s existence, one displaying two emotions simultaneously, loathing and bewilderment.

“Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” he asked.

Malfoy glanced at the High Table. “Oh, that is Professor Snape, the potions master. He’s head of our house.” He smirked at this. “I heard he favors us… He’s a good friend of my fathers.”

Somehow, Harry wasn’t surprised at this tidbit of information, but he didn’t say anything. He watched Professor Snape for a while, hoping to understand that look he had given him, but the potions master didn’t look his way again. Harry supposed that he was just confused about his being sorted into Slytherin, and did his best to forget about it.

When he could eat no more, he sat back in his chair and watched astounded as the food vanished from the plates, leaving them as sparkling clean as they were before. Seconds later, they were replaced with mounds of desserts. Ice cream, fondue, treacle tart, pie of every kind, cake, and… Harry stopped cataloguing them. He had never been allowed desert before. He stole a treacle tart from the tray before him and bit into it. It was the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.

“So, what is it like to finally be around wizards, Potter?”

Harry looked up at Malfoy. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly.

“Well…” Malfoy sneered at him. “You lived with those Muggles… how does it compare?”

Why did he have to bring up his home life? Harry narrowed his eyes.

“It doesn’t.”

That effectively ended the conversation. Malfoy went back to entertaining his friends and Harry returned to his treacle tart.

At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent instantly.

“Ahem – just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.

 “First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well. I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.”

Harry caught a snicker from Malfoy at this. “Of course he wouldn’t want us using magic in the corridors,” he sneered. “The old git’s a filthy squib. Honestly, the sort of riff-raff they let in here…”

Harry had no idea what in the world a squib was and as he wasn’t inclined to ask Malfoy for an explanation, he merely nodded like everyone else and looked back at Dumbledore.

“Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term,” Dumbledore went on. “Anyone interested in playing for their house team should contact Madam Hooch. And, finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-flood corridor is out of bounds to anyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

Harry and Malfoy exchanged glances.

What did that mean?

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The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with roughly cut stone walls and ceiling, from which black steel chandeliers supporting greenish lamps hung from aged chains. Across the expanse of one wall, a painted green and white mural, depicting wizards from another time, with a growth of green envy hanging above it, almost acting the barrier between it and the rough cuts in the stone. In an elaborately carved mantle place, a fire cackled merrily, with several squashy black armchairs circled around it.

Harry whistled. “Nice…”

Malfoy shrugged. “It’s okay.”

Crabbe and Goyle merely copied Malfoy and looked unimpressed, though their small eyes darted quickly about the room. Harry wondered vaguely if they were capable of independent thought. 

The prefect that was leading them paused and gestured to two hallways. “The boy’s dormitory is on the left, girl’s on the right. There’s a stairway that goes down and it’ll have the number of your year on it. Your belongings are waiting for you next to your assigned four-poster.”

Harry barely paid attention to this announcement. He could feel the stares of his fellow Slytherins on his back. A few of them pointed him out to their friends and whispered or sniggered. He was beginning to feel a bit like a display in a museum.

Malfoy, he noted, seemed to be reveling in the attention he was gaining as a result of merely standing next to Harry.

Maybe the friendship was a bad idea after all. But, it was a little late to take his word back. If he should take his hand back and refuse the friendship now… he cringed at the potentially dangerous consequences.

He followed Malfoy silently to their dormitory, finding that the room was decorated in the same green and silver fashion. There was an array of four-poster beds, each with green curtains that one could pull to hide the occupant from view. Harry found his trunk next to a bed that was pressed against the wall. He was just pulling back the curtains of his bed when a voice broke the silence.

“Potter. Famous Harry Potter…”

He half-turned to see the speaker. He was a tall, dark-skinned boy with a strong jaw and slanting eyes. He held his head high, with an arrogant swagger, as if he thought the world owed him something. 

“Never thought I’d be sharing a dormitory with The Boy Who Lived. You really have the…?” He gestured to his own forehead, dark eyes narrowed curiously.

Harry was about to respond, but Malfoy cut in, obviously eager for his own turn in the spotlight. “Yeah, he does. What’s it to you, Zabini?”

Zabini ignored him, remaining fixated on Harry, as if he were observing some sort of science experiment. “It’s true then… How’d you do it?”

“Do what?” Harry shot back, perplexed.

“You know – defeat the Dark Lord.”

Harry was very aware that the dormitory had fallen silent, awaiting his answer. The silence was broken as Nott, Theodore – a stringy boy with slimmer shoulders than even Harry – dropped his bag. Malfoy rolled his eyes, but Zabini didn’t even blink, watching Harry closely.

“Um…” Harry paused. What was he supposed to say? He hadn’t used any spells, potions, or amulets. He hadn’t even been able to talk, walk or run. He hadn’t done anything.”

“I’m just cool like that,” he finally said managing a smirk. If he was going to survive his time at Hogwarts, he was going to have to adjust to the circumstances.

A few Slytherins snickered at this, among them Crabbe and Goyle, though they quickly stopped at the eye roll that Malfoy gave. Zabini, however, smiled and held out his hand.

“Zabini, Blaise,” he greeted casually, and then glanced over Harry’s shoulder with what appeared to be slight distaste. “I see you’ve already met Malfoy.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, a bit awkwardly.

Zabini seemed to lose interest in him for a moment, instead turning to Malfoy. “You ambushed him,” he said off-handedly. “Couldn’t let the rest of us have a shot, eh?”

Malfoy shrugged. "Jealous you didn't think of it first?" he suggested.

"I'm not some sort of sitting duck," Harry put in, rolling his eyes.

His statement was ignored as the two continued their banter.

“Wasn’t lucky enough to bump into him on the train.”

“Such a tragedy.”

“Guys!” Harry finally yelled silencing them both. “How about on Mondays and Wednesdays I am Zabini’s friend. And on Tuesdays and Fridays Malfoy’s?”

The two Slytherins stared at one another, before Malfoy broached the question, "What about weekends?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're hopeless," he decided, and headed off to his bed, ripping back the blanket.

Being a Slytherin was turning out to be more work than he'd expected.

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