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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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Harry Potter never thought that his life could get any more complicated. But, that was before he met Hagrid. Before he was whisked away to a magical school called Hogwarts, hidden somewhere in the mundane English countryside. It was before he had been sorted into Slytherin. And, it was before he became friends with Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy was his opposite in nearly every way; in fact, Harry had never met anyone so unlike him. Malfoy relished fame and attention. He wanted people to laugh at his jokes, wanted girls to fawn over him… he wanted Slytherins to like him.

Harry on the other hand, hunched his shoulders and hated all the stares, the people gawking at him. He wanted to slip into the shadows, melt into the background and make it through the day unseen. He hadn’t done anything to deserve this attention. It was just a bit of luck.

Maybe that’s why breakfast the next morning was something like Hell on Earth.

 “Did you see his scar?”

“Like lightening!”

The whispers were everywhere. He tried to keep his head down over his plate, to ignore the people standing up to get a look at him, the students pointing him out to their friends. Harry focused on his bacon, trying and failing to ignore the Gryffindor table.

It wasn’t until halfway through breakfast did he no longer become the chief topic of conversation. He wondered how long it would take until everyone got bored of him.

Meanwhile, Malfoy – already bored of him – managed to get Zabini into an animated conversation about their family wealth.

“Married seven times,” Zabini was saying. “Poor mum. The blokes just keep dying and leaving her loads of money…”

Harry personally thought that seven was a bit outside the realm of coincidence, but wisely didn’t say anything. Zabini was the only other Slytherin – at the moment – that didn’t gawk at his forehead.

“Yeah, I heard,” Malfoy said, his tone hinting that he too thought the coincidence of that uncanny. Harry glanced up at him and they traded knowing looks.

“What about you, Potter?” Malfoy asked suddenly, as if he thought it polite to include his new friend in the conversation. “You got any galleons hidden away someplace?”

“Parents left me some,” Harry muttered looking away again. His gaze was drawn to the Gryffindor table once again, to where Ron was sitting beside his older brother, Percy.

“Oh, your parents,” Malfoy drawled. “Yes, that really is a shame…”

Something about his tone of voice made Harry suspect that the latter of that statement might not have been entirely platonic in its intention. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” Malfoy lowered his voice, and glanced up and down the table as if to make sure they weren’t being listened to. “Wasn’t your mother Muggle-born?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied looking at him flatly. He didn’t like the way he said Muggle-born. Like a bug under his shoe.

“Oh, I don’t have anything against you, you know,” Malfoy added quickly, misinterpreting the reason for Harry’s glare. “You turned out alright and all. It’s just a shame when Purebloods mix with that lot…”

“Don’t insult my mother, Malfoy,” Harry muttered coolly, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Malfoy would not pick fun at her. Not his dead mother.

Malfoy seemed to realize that he was trespassing on forbidden ground because he quickly added, “But your mother was an exception, I’m sure. Good witch?” he asked tentatively.

“Excellent,” Harry answered stiffly.

“Hey, Potter,” Zabini cut in. “What’s your first class?”

Grateful for the interruption, Harry glanced down at his schedule for the first time. “I’ve got Charms.”

“Same,” Zabini said with a laugh and smug glance at Malfoy, who simply rolled his eyes.

“Don’t get too excited, Zabini, I’ve got the same class as well.” He leaned foreword, lowering his voice again. “I’ve heard Professor Flitwick is part goblin. That ought to look interesting.”

Personally, Harry thought that it would be horrible idea to mock anyone with goblin blood, but he shrugged all the same, getting to his feet.

“Yeah. Let’s go then.”

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Much to Harry’s disappointment, the school did not get bored of him quickly. And, because of that, classes that week were incredibly awkward. He had never thought that his being famous could earn him more stares, but he hadn’t accounted that he’d be placed in Slytherin. It was as though someone had painted a gigantic bulls eye on the back of his head. Whispers followed him wherever he went, as did wild conspiracy theories.

“I heard he’s an even more dangerous wizard than He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. How else could he have beaten him?”

“He’s in Slytherin too. He must be a Dark Wizard, then.”

He couldn’t believe the absurdity of it all. What did it matter, how he did it? He would have given everything, traded his soul, if he could have everything back the way it was supposed to be. His parents alive and his forehead scar-less.

Malfoy didn’t help matters. He was constantly bragging to anyone within earshot about the Boy-Who-Lived.

“An honor to have him in our house, really,” he boasted when a group of Ravenclaws made the mistake of standing long enough to catch his attention. “Glad to be his friend, too. We’re very close.” Then, turning to Harry, “Father always said you were destined for great things, Potter.”

Somehow, Harry didn’t think he’d be saying this if he’d been placed in Gryffindor…

And then, worse still, the reactions of the teachers.

Professor Flitwick, a very short man with shocking white hair – and no doubt part goblin –started class by reading the roll call. Upon reaching Harry’s name, he paused, squeaked, and toppled off his stack of books. Other teachers weren’t so obvious, but Harry found that they irked him even more. Professor McGonagall taught Transfiguration, and every time she looked at him, Harry got the impression that she was trying to see what color his soul was. They stared too, perhaps not as obviously as the students, but Harry could feel the judgment and assumptions rolling off them in torrents.

Was being in Slytherin really so bad?

Hagrid had certainly seemed to think so, that time when they talked about the four houses. Not to mention that this was the house that had produced Lord Voldemort himself. But, Harry didn’t feel like a dark wizard. Aside from Malfoy, everyone seemed perfectly hospitable. Then again, that might be due to the fact that they were scared he would turn out to be a powerful dark wizard and were trying to get on his good side.

It killed his mood just thinking about it.

He was, however, relieved to discover that he was not the only one behind. There were others who hadn’t known they were wizards… though he did notice a shortage of those in Slytherin. But, as the class started from square one, it didn’t matter. And, Crabbe and Goyle were so stupid that Harry had the assurance that he’d never be the worst in the class.

Thursdays at midnight they went to the Astronomy Tower to learn from Professor Sinistra, a rather thin woman who loved to wear navy. And, three times a week they were in the greenhouses learning about different magical plants and their uses. History of Magic had been exciting for the first five seconds, and the only reason for that was because Professor Bins was a ghost. A lot of the older students speculated that he didn’t even know he was dead. He just died in the staff lounge and got up to teach the next day, leaving his body behind. He drawled on and on about dates and wars in a flat emotionless voice that put Harry into a daze six seconds in.

He had been looking forward most to Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Professor Quirrell’s lessons turned out to be something of a joke. He stuttered so much that it nearly impossible to understand what exactly he was talking about and the smell of the classroom – strong garlic – gave Harry a headache. Everyone said the garlic obsession was to ward off a vampire he’d met in Romania. His turban, he told them, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie… but Harry didn’t believe it.

For one thing, he wouldn’t say how he’d done it. And for another, a funny smell emanated from it and a rumor started going around that he had stuffed it with garlic too, so that he was protected wherever he went.

Malfoy was seething by the end of class.

“Absolutely absurd! He should be fired immediately. I’m going to talk to my father about this. You can’t learn Defense Against the Dark Arts from a loon.”

When Friday rolled around, Harry was surprised to find Malfoy in an even happier mood than usual. “Potions, last thing today,” he explained before Harry could ask. “Course, we are sharing the slot with the Gryffindor’s, but it’s okay. We have Snape.”

Harry couldn’t see why this was a good thing. His one recollection of his Head of House was not a pleasant one. “You said he favors us?” he asked tentatively.

“That’s what my father says.”

Then, the mail arrived. Harry was quite used to it by now, but it had near given him a heart attack that first morning, when about a hundred owls swarmed into the Great Hall during breakfast.

Hedwig hadn’t brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes flew in to steal some of his bacon, or nibble his hear affectionately before taking off for the Owlery. This morning though, Harry was pleasantly surprised to see her flutter down between the marmalade and toast and drop a note onto Harry’s lap. Ignoring the sudden gaze of Malfoy, he tore it open and read, in a very untidy scrawl:

Dear Harry,

I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me ‘round three? I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig.

Hagrid.

Harry borrowed Zabini’s quill, scribbled Yes, please, see you later, on the back of the not and gave it back to Hedwig.

“Who was that from?” Malfoy demanded as the snowy owl swooped out the window.

Harry shrugged. He had the feeling that Malfoy wouldn’t be on the best of terms with Hagrid. “No one,” he lied, getting to his feet and heading towards the door.

-

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Potions took place in one of the dungeons. It was even colder here than the Slytherin common room, and apparently Snape’s idea of interior decorating consisted of having pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls.

Professor Snape started class by taking roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name but, unlike Flitwick, he sneered.

“Ah, yes,” he said softly. “Harry Potter… Our new… Celebrity.”

Harry traded looks with Malfoy, who gave a small shrug. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black and cold, like dark tunnels.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making,” he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death – if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

He was met with absolute silence from the class. Harry was in the process of trading slightly impressed looks with Malfoy when Snape suddenly said, “Potter – can you tell me what I would get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Something of Harry’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle began sniggering uncontrollably. Harry stepped on Malfoy’s foot under the table – hard – before replying. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”

Snape paused, a fraction of a second, watching him with a cold calculating eye. Harry started to feel anxious. Wasn’t he supposed to favor his own house?

“Well, then lets try again,” Snape suddenly shot. “Potter, where would you look if I told you to find a bezoar?”

What on earth was a bezoar, let alone where to find one! Harry tried not to glance at Malfoy who was still chuckling uncontrollably beside him and ended up meeting Ron’s eyes. He wasn’t sniggering like Malfoy. But he didn’t doing anything else either. Snape was still waiting for a response, but Harry had no idea what to say.

Finally, “I don’t know, sir.”

Snape’s mouth curled into an unpleasant sneer. “Thought you wouldn’t open a book before you got here, Potter?”

He had looked through his books… but how did Snape expect him to remember everything in One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi? Not to mention that his Aunt and Uncle had locked his spell books away the instant he bought them!

Harry was beginning to feel slightly betrayed, turmoil building up inside of him. Why did he have to be treated different? Why did everyone make him out to be some sort of hero or contrarily, the villain? Why couldn’t he just be treated like the rest of the Slytherins? All he wanted… was to be anonymous. Normal.

He was beginning to wish that Malfoy – and his bodyguards – would crawl under a rock and die… the snickering was getting on his nerves, as if he didn’t have enough on his plate.

Snape however, didn’t seem to give up.

“What is the difference, Potter, between monkshood and wolfsbane?”

There was a clatter as someone jumped to their feet, but Harry ignored whoever that was. Instead, he looked up into Snape’s cold black pitiless eyes.

What was the professor looking for?

Was no one going to treat him right… treat him like a normal kid? Not even his Head of House? And where were the friends the Sorting Hat had promised? Or maybe, he had just thought the wrong thing and been placed here as a part of some sad, sick irony. He glanced down, suddenly worried the sadistic professor might see weakness in his eyes and attack him.

 “I don’t know Professor, I’m sorry.”

Snape looked at him for a moment longer before glancing at someone in the back of the room. “Sit down,” he ordered coldly. “I don’t know if you take pleasure in the entertaining the delusion that you are somehow better than your classmates, or if you think you have something to prove, but your insolence will not be tolerated in my classroom. One point from Gryffindor for your need to show off.”

The rest of the class turned to see Hermione Granger sinking back into her seat, looking immensely hurt. Malfoy gave another low chuckle.

Snape, meanwhile had returned to his desk. “For your information, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat and it will save you from most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite.” A fraction of a pause. “Well, why aren’t you all copying that down?”

There was a rummaging for quills and parchment. Over the noise, Snape added, “And I highly suggest that you study more thoroughly before coming to my class again, Potter.”

Harry made a firm commitment to memorize the book when he had a spare moment, and proceeded to feverishly copy down the notes. He glanced up every now and then, watching the professor pace through the classroom. Maybe it was just paranoia – not that he didn’t have a reason for it – but he wanted to make sure Snape didn’t catch him off guard.

After that, he put them to work making a potion to cure boils. It was relatively easy, and the class was quiet for the most part except for the soft comparison of ingredients and murmured instructions. Snape circulated the room criticizing everyone except for Malfoy, whom he seemed to like. But this also resulting in his hanging around their table – the same table that Harry was stationed at.

“Potter!” Snape snapped and Harry jumped. “You’re crushing the fangs wrong, how on earth do you plan to reduce them to powder like that?”

Harry felt the back of his neck burn and quickly adjusted his knife, his hand slipping with the excess effort.

“No! What are you doing? You’re going to chop off your finger in a moment. Look at the way Malfoy’s doing it.”

Harry glanced half-heartedly at Malfoy who was positively shaking with laughter. He was crushing them the exact way he had been doing before Snape had started berating him.

Five minutes later.

“Potter, You need more dried nettles.”

Ten minutes later.

“You’re stirring it the wrong way!”

He only stopped to admire Malfoy’s potion. “Look at the way it’s simmering, that’s what you want!”

Halfway through the class Harry was exhausted. He was re-reading every single instruction in his book, measuring everything twice, doing everything in his power to get the potion right and still, the potions master said it wasn’t good enough.

“Look at the way Malfoy’s stewed his horned slugs,” Snape said loudly to the class. “See how they’re all belly-up?”

Harry glanced down at his own potion. There was still one slug that hadn’t bellied up. He cringed and waited for the professor to criticize him for it, but he was saved.

There was a loud hissing noise and a burst of acid green smoke shot out of Neville Longbottom’s – the boy who had lost his toad on the Hogwarts Express – cauldron. He had managed to melt it. General and widespread panic swept the class as the potion spread across the floor. The boy himself had been drenched with the solution, and he moaned in pain as angry red boils starting to spring up all over his face and arms.

Malfoy burst out laughing, with Crabbe and Goyle joining in after a second’s delay. Snape cleared away the spilled potion with a wave of his wand, snarling something about Longbottom having incorrectly added some ingredients. He sent him to the hospital wing, then rounded on Granger who had been working next to him.

“You – Granger – why didn’t you tell him not to add the quills? Thought he’d make you look good if he got it wrong, did you? That’s another point you’ve lost for Gryffindor.”

Harry wanted to point out that it wasn’t her fault, but bit his tongue. He didn’t want to get on Snape’s bad side now, not when he stopped attacking him.

But he burned with questions. It was an uncomfortable and slightly nauseating feeling. Why was he so mean to her? Why did Snape pick on him? He’d been the only Slytherin he’d done it to. Something Malfoy had been quick to notice.

“Well Potter, looks like you get special treatment from everyone,” Malfoy said just as Snape was making his checks past their table.

Harry, aggravated by the truthfulness of that, muttered angrily, “Wish they wouldn’t. It’s annoying.”

Snape paused, looked at him for a moment and then swept away, robes billowing behind him.

“I think he hates me.”

“No, of course not,” Malfoy said airily. “He hates Granger over there, that’s obvious.” He gestured to Hermione Granger, who was staring at her own perfectly brewed potion, looking on the verge of tears, and scoffed. “Filthy Mudblood…”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Mud-what?”

“Her parents are Muggles,” Malfoy explained, looking at the Gryffindor as if she were something particularly unpleasant that had no right to be in the same room with him. “Mudblood – it means dirty blood. I don’t know what Dumbledore’s thinking, letting them n here…”

“Watch it, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. “My mum was Muggleborn.”

Malfoy looked as though he couldn’t quite understand the reason for his anger. “I already said, she was probably the exception. I mean, you’re her son,” he went on lightly. “Maybe your mum’s grandparents were wizards and they just had a squib child. I’m sure there was magic in your family before.”

Harry decided not to point out how very wrong he was and was saved from making something else up when the bell rang, signaling the end of class. He stood up and jerkily stuffed his notebooks and quill into his bag. He glanced behind him.

“Hey, I’ll catch up with you.”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment before smirking. “Going to have a word with Ol’ Snape? Have fun.” And he left, taking Crabbe and Goyle with him.

But Harry wasn’t going to talk to Snape. He made a beeline for Ron who was still packing his bag up. He looked up when Harry approached.

“Hey.”

Ron stared at him.

“Um…” Harry took a breath. “Can we still be friends?”

Another lengthy pause.

“I thought you hang out with the better wizarding families now,” Ron muttered sourly.

“Who? Malfoy?” Harry shrugged. “You can’t judge a family by how much wealth or connections they’ve got. Our friendship is sort of fake anyway…” he trailed off.

“I assume he doesn’t know about this then?”

Harry shook his head. “He thinks I stayed to talk to Snape.”

“Seriously?”

“I know, right?”

Ron scratched his head awkwardly. “My brothers freaked out on me after the sorting…” he finally said. “Asked me if you had acted Slytherin at all… Seemed worried that some of you had rubbed off on me.”

Harry swallowed nervously. “And… what do you think?”

Ron took a deep breath and grinned. “I think the Sorting Hat might actually have made a mistake.”

Harry released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Good. You have no idea how hard it is to talk to Malfoy without telling him off.”

“Oh. I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“Hey!” Harry remembered the letter from Hagrid. “Hagrid’s invited me for tea, you want to come along? I don’t think Malfoy likes him much.”

“Sure… but I’ll meet you there. I think Percy might strangle me if he knew I was still friends with Slythering Potter.”

Harry snorted. “Is that what they’re calling me?”

Ron smirked back. “Yeah, Fred and George thought it was funny. They’re not against you, mind. They think… well, you can’t be all bad if you got rid of the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I mean… you could’a joined him and then we’d be in a pickle.”

Harry was too happy to have his friend back to point out that at one, he didn’t have any choice in the matter.

-

-

-

Severus Snape was a complicated man. He knew it, and he liked that part about himself. He liked how his colleagues never quite knew what he was thinking, or even how he’d take a simple joke. Of course, once you got to his core everything made sense. Once you truly understood him he was no longer complicated.

Perhaps that was why he kept everyone at a distance.

There was one person that understood him, here at Hogwarts. Only one. He prayed that it would always remain that way. After all, once the puzzle was solved, once the questions found their answers the mystery vanished. The secret became knowledge, the fear became pity. And pity was something he would never consent to receiving.

His knuckles rapped on the door once before he pushed it open and entered swiftly, closing it with a snap behind him.

“Headmaster,” he said nodding to Dumbledore, who stood before him, surveying a bookcase. “You asked to see me?”

“Indeed, I did.” Dumbledore glanced at him for a moment, his blue eyes twinkling before returning to the bookcase. “I’ve heard that you’re picking on your own house, Mister Potter, I believe.”

Snape’s eyes flashed. “You brought me here to question me on my teaching methods?”

“No—” Dumbledore replied, now pulling a copy of Transfiguration Today from the shelf. “—No, but I was curious. After all, one can only assume what the boy did to upset you…” He paused here, and Snape swore that he was smiling. “Alas,” he went on, “If you should rather that I get to the point, I can do so… or is there something on your mind?”

Even in all the years that he had known Dumbledore, Snape had never quite gotten used to the way he seemed to read his mind. Or maybe it was just the fact that he understood him while still being able to treat him naturally. No pity, no eggshells. Just the tacit understanding.  

 “It’s Potter,” Snape said finally crossing to the window. “In Slytherin…”

“Ah well, as for that, I have only speculations, Severus.” Dumbledore crossed to his desk and paused for a moment stroking Fawkes, a beautiful phoenix with shocking red and gold plumage, before taking a seat.

“The Sorting Hat must have made a mistake, or seen something that obviously wasn’t there.”

“The Sorting Hat has never made a mistake before, I see no reason why it should start this year.” Dumbledore looked up at him, “What did he do in your lesson, if I may ask?”

Snape hissed furiously and began to pace the space in front of the desk. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? My, I will remember to always be doing something around you.”

Snape shot him a glare that Dumbledore, as he had opened the book and was skimming it with his eyes, did not see.

“He’s lousy at potion-making.”

“Severus, he only found he was a wizard a couple of weeks ago, I’d be shocked if he could concoct a perfect potion his first go at it – and, what with you breathing down his neck, well, I’d be surprised to see anyone make a perfect potion then.” A short pause then, “It’s because he did nothing when his father would have done something, is it not?”

He had struck gold. Snape did not reply, but his silence was the conformation.

“What you expect to see and what actually is there are two very different things, Severus,” Dumbledore said calmly. “His other teachers have reported that the boy is modest, likeable, and reasonably talented. I personally find him an engaging child.” He glanced up at the potions master for a moment before returning to the book.

Snape continued to remain silent, though his pacing had slowed slightly. He knew that Dumbledore was right – as he usually was – but that didn’t make it any more bearable.

“Keep an eye on Quirrell, won’t you?” Dumbledore added as he turned the page of Transfiguration Today.

Snape turned sharply to him. “I didn’t think we were finished with Potter,” he spat seeming angry with himself that the boy – as much as he hated him – was ruling his life.

Dumbledore sighed and at last, looked up. “You might hate him for something that the child had no control over, but that does not change the fact that you will continue to watch over him. You yourself cannot deny this. You will do it, whether I ask you to or not, and you know it.” He shut the book with a snap and stood up. “Now, we will move on to the actual reason that I have called you here, and that is to discuss Quirrell. There has be something very different about him since he has returned from his travels, and I suspect that he might have encountered Lord Voldemort.”

Snape stopped dead in his tracks and stared at him. “What?” he whispered. “How is that even possible?”

“Quirrell, during his year break, traveled to the forests of Albania, the last known location of Voldemort. And since he’s come back, he’s been very different. The addition of the turban for one, his jittery nerves for another, and many other reasons that I will not discuss at this point in time.”

Snape stood stiff, his hands clenching at his side. “What do you want me to do?” he asked quietly.

-

-

-

“I’m going to go for a walk,” Harry stated standing up.

Malfoy looked up at him. “Where too?” he asked standing up as well. Harry cringed, if Malfoy insisted in coming with him…

“Just to the grounds. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

Malfoy seemed to catch the finality in Harry’s voice because he sat back down. “Fine then, just be back before we have to go to dinner. The Bloody Baron likes all us Slytherins to go down together.”

Harry nodded and quickly exited the Slytherin common room. He made his way up back to the main hall and out onto the grounds, walking quickly, hoping to avoid any Slytherins – or any other students for that matter – in case they started questioning him.

Onto grass now, and across the field to a small hut on the edge of the forest. Harry, feeling slightly jittery, nearly bounced up to it and knocked hurriedly on the door glancing behind him.

“I’m comin’,” came Hagrid’s voice from within and Harry heard some scuffling and several loud barks. Then the door was thrown open and Hagrid stood there grinning down at him. “Heya Harry. Good ter see ya! Jus’ hang on a sec…” Hagrid seemed to be blocking something behind him from getting to the door.

“Back Fang!” Hagrid turned and watched him seize the collar of an enormous black boarhound and practically drag him away from the door. “That’s it… A’ight come in!”

Harry crossed the threshold and Hagrid closed the door behind him, while at the same time releasing his hold on Fang. The dog barked again and bounded up to Harry, nearly knocking him over, his slobbery wet tongue licking his hands and face.

“So, how are yeh? I want ter hear all ‘bout yer firs’ week,” Hagrid called as he was grabbing bucket sized mugs from a cupboard above a basin.

“It was fine,” Harry answered getting to his feet. Now that Fang had greeted him, the boarhound returned to a mat by the fireplace and curled up, watching him with large deep brown eyes.

Hagrid’s hut was only one room, but it was still quite large. Traps, hams and pheasants hung from the ceiling. It was cozy, warm and very inviting. Harry crossed to the table that had chairs so high up that he had to jump into it in order to take a seat.

Hagrid returned with a plate of rock cakes and sat down opposite him. “C’mon, what’s it like? You understandin’ everythin’ alright?”

Harry nodded and picked up one of the rock cakes, but didn’t take a bite.

“You sure yeh alright?” Hagrid asked watching him carefully.

Harry opened his mouth to tell him that he was fine, but never got managed it. In seconds he was talking more than he had all week. He told him his worries about being placed in Slytherin, about Malfoy’s fake friendship, and Snape’s treatment of him in potions class. He talked for nearly half an hour and when he’d finished he felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted off his chest. Hagrid was quiet a moment longer, then…

“Don’t worry ‘bout Snape. He doesn’t like any of the student’s anyways.”

“He didn’t do it to any of the other Slytherins! I think he hates me.”

“Nonsense! Why should he?” But Harry couldn’t help but notice that Hagrid avoided his eyes when he said that.

Harry glanced down at the rock cake that he was still holding. He tried to take a bite but nearly broke his teeth. He set it back down and glanced over at the door.

“Somethin’ on yer mind?”

Harry hesitated a moment before, “I invited Ron to come down here too.”

“Weasley?”

Harry nodded and then voiced something that had been bugging him the entire walk here. “Do you think that, because I’m in Slytherin and not in Gryffindor, Ron and I will…” A deep breath, “never really be friends? Do you think he’d just… pretend to be my friend to spy on the Slytherins, or something? I mean I know Slytherin and Gryffindor aren’t the closest of houses. Is hoping that he’s going to show up… pointless?”

Hagrid surveyed Harry for a long moment. He glanced over at the door too and then broke into a large whiskery smile.

“Why don’t yeh ask him yerself?”

Harry whirled around. Ron was there, standing in the doorway. He hadn’t even heard the door open…

“Ron…” Harry said staring at him.

“It’s true,” Ron began heavily, closing the door behind him and walking over to the table. “We probably won’t be best mates. I talked to Fred and George about it, cause… I mean…” Ron trailed off awkwardly, then shook his head and continued. “And, well, they reckoned… that we make a truce.”

Harry stood up. “Truce?” he asked slowly.

“Erm… Yeah. They called it a ‘neutral stance’. You know, I won’t join in when they make fun of Slythering Potter and you won’t make fun of the blood traitors when Malfoy has a go at us.”

Harry swallowed. Less than ideal but considering the circumstances…

“Why not just be friends?” he asked quietly.

“Because…” Ron squirmed slightly, looking incredibly awkward.

“… I’m in Slytherin,” Harry finished, defeated.

“No. Not, really… Just, a precaution, you know?”

“Until I prove myself?”

“Yeah… Yeah… sorta like that.” Ron extended a hand. “So…Truce?”

For one wild moment, Harry considered not taking it, but he shook himself and took Ron’s hand. “Truce.”

“Right.”

There was another, tense silence.

“Can you stay for tea a little though?”

“Yeah… I reckon that’s within truce guidelines.” Ron grinned and Harry grinned back.

-

-

-

The next hour passed in a surprisingly pleasant manner. Harry, worried at first that Ron and his newfound truce would make things awkward, was happy to discover that the subject didn’t come up again while they were talking to Hagrid. He supposed that this meant that it would go into effect once they leave and couldn’t talk to each other any more without risking the retribution of their houses.

Ron told Harry and Hagrid about his first week. He mentioned that the girl that Snape had been so mean to – Hermione Granger – had burst into tears after the lesson.

“I felt kinda bad for her, you know? I mean… she is a bit of a know-it-all, but he didn’t have to go off on her like that.”

As Hagrid managed to get Ron into an animated discussion about his elder brother Charlie – who was studying dragons in Romania – Harry’s attention was caught by a piece of paper on the ground. Picking it up he discovered it was a cutting of the Daily Prophet. It was about the attempted break-in at Gringotts Wizard bank. Ron had mentioned it on the Hogwarts Express, but he hadn’t said when.

“Hagrid…” He said as he read it through. “That break-in at Gringotts happened on my birthday. It might’ve happened while we were there!” Harry looked up at him.

He was definitely avoiding his eyes now. He grunted something unintelligible and offered another rock cake. Harry looked over the paper again.

“The vault in question had in fact been emptied earlier that same day…”

Hagrid had emptied number 7-1-3, taking that little package… had that been what the thieves were looking for? And where was it now? Harry knew better than to ask Hagrid about it, not when he wouldn’t even acknowledge the cutting. Distracted, he glanced down at his watch and jumped up.

“What is it?” Ron asked startled by his abrupt movement.

“I have to go. Dinner starts in less than half an hour and I’m supposed to walk down with the rest of the Slytherins. I’d better go before Malfoy comes to look for me.”

Ron stared at him for a moment before nodding. “See you around then….”

“Yeah… see you.”

Harry exited the hut, giving a small wave behind him then made a run for the castle, praying that no one looking out the windows.

Once his feet hit the steps, he slowed to a brisk walk. He was just about to push open the front doors and enter when a voice behind him stopped him in his tracks.

“Running a little late for dinner, Potter?”

Harry jumped a foot in the air and turned to see Draco Malfoy leaning easily against the wall behind him, his face glowing as if he had just caught a child stealing cookies from the cookie jar.

“Er… Yeah,” Harry said nervously then, slightly angry, “You following me?”

“No, of course not,” Malfoy replied smirking worse then ever. “But when you didn’t come back, well I figured you’d gotten lost and decided to come to find you.”

“I’m not lost.”

“So I see.” Malfoy walked past him, then paused in front of the doors. “It really doesn’t matter to me if you want to hang out with that oaf Hagrid or the Muggle loving Weasley, but you are going to have make a decision.”

“Decision about what?” Harry asked sharply.

Malfoy met his glare evenly, and for once he wasn’t sneering. “You can’t have one foot in both worlds, Potter,” he said. “Soon, you are going to have to decide where your loyalties lie, and there will be no rethinking your decision then.”

He pushed open the door and was about to enter when Harry suddenly shot, “What if I don’t know?”

Malfoy turned. “What?”

“What if I don’t know where my loyalties lie?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Then you going to have to figure it out, and… I’d make it quick, Potter. Slytherins aren’t very patient and the time when you have to decide will come faster than you know.”

-

-

-

Harry had been looking forward to flying more than anything else at Hogwarts. He could imagine the feel of the wind whipping his hair, watching as the world grew small, the sky open and free. He had never even touched one, a real broomstick that is. So, when he saw the bulletin in the Slytherin common room announcing that first-years were starting flying lessons that Thursday, his heart swelled.

Malfoy, of course, found something to complain about.

“With the Gryffindors again,” he sighed. “Well, at least we can show them how a wizard is supposed to fly.”

Harry cringed slightly. He wasn’t sure he could fly yet even. What if he made a fool of himself?

Malfoy must’ve seen something akin to worry on Harry’s face because he suddenly shot, “Ever been on a broomstick, Potter?”

“No…”

“It’s no big deal, really. Any idiot can do it.”

Just wait, I won’t be able to, Harry thought dismally as they exited the common room and headed for breakfast.

Malfoy hadn’t said anything about the conversation they’d had on the front steps. In fact, he acted as though such a conversation had never taken place – something that both worried and confused him. 

“You can’t have one foot in both worlds, Potter. Soon, you are going to have to decide where your loyalties lie, and there will be no rethinking your decision then.”

The words rang over and over in his head. Never menacing. Never challenging. Objective. Merely a statement of the obvious, nothing that he would ever consider frightening. And yet, the tacit warnings they held…

What would he choose?

He was still holding onto that small part of himself that told him that this had been a mistake. He had been sorted into Slytherin by accident and that he was truly a Gryffindor at heart. Someone was going to come and tell him the Sorting Hat had put him in the wrong house and correct it.

Wishful thinking.

So what would he do when he finally was confronted with the decision? Would he fight for a place next to the brave at heart or accept his colors?

-

-

-

“So there I was, testing out the new broomstick my father had just given me when, out of nowhere, I hear this screech. I stop dead and whirl around and I see this eagle coming up beside me. Well, I thought, if this broomstick is as good as my father said it was, beating the bird in a race should be no problem. I shot off like a rocket, the bird closely on my tail. It suddenly pulls ahead of me and shoots high into the sky. I follow it, gaining quickly. I am in the lead and then I hear this roar. The sound is so loud I can feel it vibrating my ribs. A second before it’s too late I drop and an enormous airplane full of muggle passengers flies overhead, missing me by inches.”

Malfoy leaned back with a satisfied smirk on his face. Around him other Slytherins are leaning forward, intrigued.

“Did any of them see you?” Pansy piped up shrilly, her eyes wide.

“No…” Malfoy drawled. “I dived back to the ground faster than you could blink.”

“Wow…” said Crabbe staring at him slightly open-mouthed, his eyes out of focus.

Harry traded slightly skeptical looks with Zabini before returning to his toast. This was the third story in a row that Malfoy had narrowly escaped muggles in airplanes. Ever since they had read the flying lesson announcement Malfoy hadn’t shut up about it. He kept telling these long boastful stories and complained loudly about first-years not being able to play on the house quidditch team. He wasn’t the only one, either. It seemed as if everyone with muggle parentage had spent sometime on a broomstick. Pansy bragged loudly about how she stuck the neighbor’s cat in a tree without getting caught and even Zabini mentioned a time when he had nearly ran into a pair of hikers up by his house.

Harry felt left out, but at least he knew what Quidditch was – and though he didn’t know any teams – he could still follow the conversation.

“Tell us another one!” Daphne asked.

“Well,” Malfoy began, his eyes glittering. “There was this one time when I—”

He was interrupted by the screech of owls bringing in the daily mail. He paused, looked up and smiled. “I’ll continue in a moment, looks like Maleficent has a package for me.”

Maleficent was Malfoy’s enormous eagle owl and, Harry thought that the name suited it just fine. It always seemed to be glaring at him and the one time his hand had strayed too close it had snapped angrily at his fingers. Almost every morning it fluttered down with something, goodies from his mother, a letter from his father and whatever other gifts his parent’s had decided to shower him with.

Today, it was a box of chocolates imported from France.

While Malfoy boasted loudly about the exquisite taste, Harry turned to Zabini and asked in an undertone, “Is flying a broom quite hard?”

Zabini looked at him for a moment before smirking. “What? Afraid you won’t be able to manage it?”

 Harry glared at him before he quipped, “No. I’m just curious whether all of Malfoy’s broom stories could be done by a drunken troll.”

Zabini snorted into his pumpkin juice before waving his hand carelessly behind him. “It’s easy enough, though I think a drunken troll would plow the ground with his head.”

Harry grinned and was about to ask him to pass the marmalade when Malfoy spoke loudly. “It looks as though Longbottom’s gotten something.”

Harry automatically glanced at the Gryffindor table and watched as the boy in question started unwrapping a small box.

“So?” he asked. “You get mail all the time.”

Malfoy didn’t answer; instead he stood and walked over to the Gryffindor table, Crabbe and Goyle following him as though they had chains around their necks.

“What do you reckon he’s doing?” Zabini muttered.

“No idea…”

It wasn’t hard to see exactly what he was doing, of course. He had taken something from Longbottom and was inspecting it. It looked like a small glass ball. But as soon as he had taken it, Ron and his brothers Fred and George had leapt to their feet, bracing for a fight. It certainly looked as though they would attack even with the High Table full of teachers, but in a flash, Professor McGonagall was there. The Weasley’s sat down and Malfoy made his way back to their table, looking smug.

“What was that all about?” Harry asked him the instant he had sat down.

Malfoy shrugged, faking innocence. “Nothing.”

-

-

-

Harry wondered dimly how much longer they would have to wait when he saw them. The Gryffindors were trudging across the field toward them and, try as he might, he couldn’t help but feel the familiar stab of longing. Following them was their teacher.

Madam Hooch had short, gray hair and eyes like a hawk. She surveyed them for a moment then barked, “Well, what are you all waiting for? Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.”

Harry was quickly jostled into a line. He looked down at his broomstick. It was frayed and the wood looked like it was coming off in splinters at the head.

“Stick your right hand over your broom, and say ‘Up!’” she called.

It certainly sounded easy enough.

Harry, like the rest of his classmates, followed her instructions.

“Up!” Harry said loudly and at once, the broom jumped into his hand. He couldn’t help but notice that it was one of the few who had. Crabbe’s had shook violently and Nott’s – a boy from his dorm – had sort of flipped over. Malfoy, his broom in hand, glanced over at Harry looking faintly surprised.

“Not bad, Potter,” he sneered.

Once everyone had their brooms in hand, Madam Hooch walked by again, telling them how to mount and checking their grips. 

“Malfoy, you need to move your hands down and switch them,” she said as she passed by.

“I’ve been doing it like this for years!” he protested.

“Then you’ve been doing it wrong for years, haven’t you?”

Harry noted that a pink twinge had appeared on his face. He caught Zabini’s eye and they looked away, sniggering.

“Now,” Madam Hooch called out. “On my whistle I want you to kick off from the ground hard, hover for a moment, then lead forward slightly, and touch back down. On my whistle, three—two—”

But, Neville Longbottom, obviously nervous, had jumped the gun. He shot into the air like a cork on New Year’s Eve. Twelve feet, twenty feet. Harry could see his pale face looking down at them, saw his eyes wide with fright, saw him gasp and slip sideways off the broom and—

WHAM— there was a thud and sickening crack. Madam Hooch ran over to him, her face almost as white as his.

“Broken wrist,” he heard her mutter. “Come on, boy—it’s all right, up you get.”

As she supported Neville, who was sobbing wordlessly clutching his wrist – which was swelling rapidly, she turned to the rest of the class and said, very seriously, “None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear.”

And she turned heel for the castle, her arm around him.

As soon as she had reached a safe distance, Malfoy turned to the rest of the class, sneering.

“Did you see his face, the great lump?” And he burst into laughter, the other Slytherins joining in. Harry chuckled nervously, starting to feel awkward.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped Parvati Patil.

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” replied Pansy her eyes full of cruel amusement. “Never thought you’d like fat little cry-babies, Parvati.”

“Look!” And the next second, Malfoy had darted forward and seized something from the ground. He held it up to show everyone. Harry saw that it was the same glass ball he had taken during breakfast. “It’s that stupid thing that Longbottom’s Gran sent him.”

Harry looked over at Ron. He was glaring furiously at Malfoy, his hands clenched. As were almost nearly every Gryffindor. Hermione Granger was the only one who wasn’t shaking with anger, that’s not to say she didn’t look a little upset, of course.

“Hey, Potter!” Malfoy suddenly called and Harry’s head snapped to him. “Let’s go hide it in a tree.”

Harry knew that every eye had suddenly gravitated toward him. His fellow Slytherins were cheering him on, they had even started chanting.

“Hide it! Hide it!”

“Er…” Harry said half-glancing at Ron. “I don’t really know how to fly.”

“Oh, come on!” Zabini yelled. “It’s not that difficult, besides you already defeated the Dark Lord, flying a broom should be a piece of cake.”

Malfoy’s lip curled into a sneer and he jumped onto his broom. He hadn’t been lying. He could fly, well. But, that just made everything that much worse. He made a quick circle around the group – show off – before coming to a hover above him, smirking now.

“What’s the matter? Scared of heights, Potter?”

“No…” Harry muttered darkly.

“Then, c’mon!”

“But—”

“A true Slytherin would do it.”

And Harry knew instantly what this was all about. Malfoy had put him in the spotlight, had stolen the Remembrall for this single purpose.

To make Harry choose.

If he didn’t jump on his broom right now he wasn’t a “true Slytherin” and Harry knew he would be forever ridiculed. But if he did, he would be banishing Gryffindor from his mind forever. Accepting his colors. And Malfoy was right. There would be no re-thinking his decision later.

“…Where your loyalties lie…”

Harry looked up at his pale, pointed, smirking face and took a deep breath.

He jumped onto his broom and kicked off from the ground, hard, the cheers from his fellow Slytherins almost deafening. The instant his feet left the ground, soon as he felt the wind whipping through his hair as he soared higher, watching as the people below him shrunk, he realized something incredible. This was easy, this was fun! The sheer joy of it filled his being, it was like breathing… the broom moved wherever he wanted it too. He turned sharply and shot toward Malfoy coming to a complete standstill in midair beside him.

He looked stunned. He stared wordlessly at Harry for a moment before recovering himself.

“The famous Harry Potter can do anything, it seems.”

“That’s right, Malfoy,” Harry replied smirking himself.

“I almost thought you wouldn’t do it,” Malfoy muttered in an undertone so that no one else would hear. Then he smiled and held out his hand. “Welcome to Slytherin, Potter.”

He looked down at it and, this time, Harry shook it. “Pleasure is all mine.” Then, he added in a whisper. “But I’m still visiting Hagrid. Don’t care what you say about it.”

Malfoy chuckled. “In that case…” And he shot high into the sky, a bewildered Harry quickly following him. “You have to catch, this—” he waved the Remembrall “—before it touches the ground.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to make damn sure you won’t be able to see your big oaf friend.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “And here I thought we were getting along.”

“It’s nothing personal.”

“Okay, fine. If we’re going to do that then I’m upping the stakes.”

“Oh yeah?” Malfoy sneered.

“If I catch it, you have to see Hagrid with me. And you can’t complain or make fun of him at all. Do we have a deal?”

Malfoy chuckled. “Deal.” And he threw the Remembrall as hard as he could.

Harry watched as it rose into the air, almost in slow motion. He was dimly aware that Malfoy had returned to the ground, to watch with everyone else. Then… the ball began to fall. He was picking up speed, racing it to the ground. He stretched out his hand… a foot from the ground he caught it! He pulled out of the dive and landed softly onto the freshly cut grass and straightened up. He held it above his head, a broad smile on his face, listening to the cheers emanating from the green and silver clad students. 

“HARRY POTTER!”

His heart sank faster than he’d just dived. Professor McGonagall was running toward him, her lips thinner than Harry had ever seen them.

“Never—in all my time at Hogwarts—”

She was practically speechless with shock, and anger Harry was very well certain with the way she was glaring at him. “—How dare you—might have broken your neck—”

“He didn’t do anything—” Daphne said shrilly but Professor McGonagall cut her off.

“Thank you, Miss Greengrass but I have eyes of my own. Mr. Potter, follow me.”

Harry, now that the high from flying was gone, felt incredibly stupid. As he passed by his fellow Slytherins he heard Zabini mutter, “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of this one,” but he couldn’t feel very hopeful.

He couldn’t believe he had let Malfoy bait him like that… he was going to get expelled. Barely two weeks into school and he’d screwed up. The Dursley’s would kill him when they learned he was coming back. The prospect of having him gone for nearly nine months of the year destroyed. He wondered if maybe he could persuade Dumbledore to allow him to stay on the grounds with Hagrid as his assistant.

Harry became aware that she was taking him toward the dungeons. Of course, she was going to dump him with his Head of House, let Snape dish out punishment. And, considering the look he’d given Harry during potions, he was fairly certain what the outcome would be.

They stopped at a door and Professor McGonagall knocked jerking Harry back to reality for a moment. “Severus?” she called sharply.

The door was flung open and she entered, taking Harry with her. Snape’s office was cold, dark, and ghostly with little animals and all manner of oddities floating in jars around the walls. These seemed to give off a faint greenish glow, almost like glowsticks. When they entered, Snape closed the door behind them and surveyed them each for a moment before returning to his desk.

“Yes?” he asked glancing Harry only mildly curious.

As McGonagall started telling him about what she had seen out on the lawn, Harry plopped himself into the available chair next to Snape’s desk. He started thinking of excuses that might save him his wand. Malfoy had baited him… he’d been forced… he’d had no choice… But, whatever it was, he knew it wouldn’t fly.

And, the worst part of this whole ordeal, Harry knew that given the chance to do it again, even knowing this result, he’d still do it exactly the same.

Maybe that’s why he could not even bring himself to look his Head of House in the eyes, even if said eyes were currently drilling holes into the top of his head. He had chosen, of his own accord, to be a Slytherin and the thought, so odd, so peculiar and even a tad bit horrifying, he had found some peace within it.

He belonged somewhere.

“He’s all yours, Severus.”

Harry registered dimly that she had left, shutting the door with a snap behind her. He knew that Snape was now waiting for him to start his defense – at least, that’s what it felt like he should be doing – but, he didn’t say a word. He merely continued to stare at his hands, his shoes, the floor.

“So,” Snape spat and Harry could hear the glee in his voice. “It appears that the great Harry Potter finds himself above the rules we petty mortals are obligated to follow, namely obey instructions!”

Harry flinched, but didn’t respond.

“What were you thinking, you stupid boy? McGonagall told me that you went into a vertical dive almost forty feet in the air, and that you didn’t pull up the broom until you could lick the grass! Do you think that just because you survived when nobody else has you’re invincible? Well, I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but you’re just as mortal as the rest of us and showing off at your flying lesson won’t save your neck, no matter who’s watching.”

No response.

“You think that you can just shake this off and break the rules with no consequences? Well, I have news for you! While everyone else may worship your mere existence, I will not! You are nothing but an ungrateful, spoiled, insolent brat that has as much regard for the rules as his arrogant, pig-headed father did!”

Nothing.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

His lack of response seemed to annoy Snape, because he suddenly snapped furiously, “Answer me when I speak to you.”

“I’m sorry…” Harry mumbled now wringing his hands nervously together. “But—”

“But what?” Snape snarled.

And for the first time since he’d entered, Harry looked up at his Professor’s cold, black pitiless eyes. “Please – Please! – don’t expel me,” he finally managed to croak out, noting with humiliation that his voice was shaking slightly. And, before he could stop himself, he was talking as fast as he could, trying to get it all out before it consumed him.

“Malfoy stole Neville’s Remembrall and was playing around with it. He wanted me to come and hide it with him, but I didn’t really want to. Then he jumped on his broom and he started taunting me and then rest of the Slytherins started to chant. I kept telling them that I didn’t even know how to fly – it was my first flying lesson – but then Malfoy said that a true Slytherin would do it. See, he’d been bugging me to decide where my ‘loyalties lie’ for a while and he made it sound like that if I didn’t go I wasn’t Slytherin, or deserved to be one. And… well… I didn’t want to be shunned by my House… so I did it.”

Harry took a deep breath and found that Snape was staring at him almost… bemused. It was an odd expression on his face, but it was gone in a flash.

“And you think that excuses you?” he asked cynically, his eyes flashing.

“No!” Harry said quickly and then he dropped his head again staring hatefully at the ground. “Nothing excuses me…” he muttered in a tone of disconsolation. “Just thought you should know the whole story.”

That was it. He was finished. There was nothing else to say. Except…

“When should I get my stuff?” Harry asked miserably, trying not to imagine Uncle Vernon’s malicious face when he picked him up at Kings Cross. Going to stonewall high in those revolting clothes that his aunt had dyed gray. Dudley’s taunts, his Aunt’s sneers, his Uncle’s hand flying for his face—

“At the end of term, with everyone else,” Snape said slowly and quietly, as though he hated the words that were coming out of his mouth. Harry’s head shot up.

“What?” he asked hoarsely.

Snape’s lip curled into an unpleasant sneer. “That doesn’t mean you are walking away free of punishment. You are to serve detention with me every Friday from now until the end of term. Now get out of my office.”

Harry jumped to his feet as if he’d been electrocuted and practically ran to the door, anything to be out of that room with the creepy pickled things in jars. He didn’t stop running until he’d reached the common room and flopped down onto one of the couches.

He wasn’t expelled. He was going to be able to go to class tomorrow. He allowed himself a smile and put out of mind the prospect of having detention until Christmas.

-

-

-

It seemed that the news that the lack of expulsion for Potter’s little stunt was just as big as the boy’s superb flying skills. Snape almost regretted his decision to let the boy stay in school, but ultimately, that decision was made by Dumbledore and there would have been no way he’d let his dear Golden Boy out of sight. Granted, Snape didn’t want the boy out of his sight either – making him grudgingly admit that he’d never truly go through with a threat of expulsion – but he wanted him to learn from his mistakes.

Smash the growing’s of James Potter before they could take root in his son.

As he walked swiftly down the steps to the dungeons, the previous incident in the Teacher’s lounge intruded upon his thoughts, slowing his walk and furrowing his brow. It seemed that Minerva had been genuinely concerned that’d he expel the boy, or at least attempt to. She’d been furious as well, though something in the way her eye glimmered struck him that Potter wouldn’t have gotten any punishment if he’d been in her house.

And she told him not to play favoritism. What a hypocrite.

“Really, Severus. Don’t play coy with me, we all know you hate the boy – it’s rather obvious – but you can’t expel him! You just can’t.”

“I will do whatever I deem correct.”

“What you consider correct and what someone else does are two extremely different things.”

“Are you insinuating that I am too harsh?”

“Rather, you go to extremes when it comes to judgment.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when a Gryffindor crosses my path.”

“Don’t play that card with me, it goes both ways.” Pause. “Or, did you perhaps go too easy on the boy simply because he’s in your house?”

“And I thought I was the one who went to extremes in judging.” Frustrated sigh. “Potter has been given detention for the remainder of the term. Satisfied now?”

“Moderately.”

“Good. Because I have a class I need to prepare for.”

Honestly, that old bag could’ve been the boy’s Grandmother with the way she acted.

Outside his office now, Snape paused, surveying the door. It was ajar, the barest glimmer of light streaming out into the dark hallway. With a flourish, he pushed open the door, one hand automatically searching for his wand – just in case, but there was no need. Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch captain was standing in front of his desk, wringing his hands. Marcus was a tall boy with coarse black hair and grey eyes that seemed to shift around the room just a tad too much for anyone’s liking. Snape brushed swiftly past him to his desk, waiting almost a full minute before saying anything.

“Yes, Flint?”

Marcus Flint swallowed. “I heard that Potter can fly.”

Snape nodded, his lip curling. “Yes, that seems to be the rumor flying around now.”

“But can he, I mean… is he good?”

“I didn’t witness it.”

“Zabini said he caught the ball a foot from the ground.”

Snape had the horrible feeling that he knew were this conversation was going. “I am not allowing it,” he said curtly, figuring he better stop the question in its tracks. “First years aren’t allowed on the Quidditch team for a reason.”

“Please, Professor!” Flint suddenly cried. “We need the best team we can get to win the house cup! Just bend the rule this once, for the sake of beating Gryffindor at least!”

“Are you suggesting,” Snape spat, his eyes flashing, “that I reward Potter’s rule-breaking?”

“Detention for the rest of term is hardly a reward. Please sir, just let him tryout at least. If it’s all rumor than no harm, but if he is really good we need him on the team!”

Snape was silent for a long moment, at war with himself. Letting Potter tryout would be giving the boy a reward for his behavior, it would be giving him special treatment and putting him above the rules. On the other hand, not letting Potter be on the Quidditch team might mean they wouldn’t get the Quidditch Cup. The other houses were becoming increasingly determined to beat them. Who was more important, his house of the boy? 

He rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he snarled, getting to his feet.

“You’ll allow it?” Flint gasped.

“I’ll see if the Headmaster will allow it,” Snape bit out. “I will be present at the tryouts and if he’s not good enough my permission is withdrawn. Understand?”

“Absolutely!”

Why was this boy such a headache?

-

-

-

Albus Dumbledore’s blue eyes were twinkling merrily at him, something that Snape had taken to imply amusement and a way of sophisticated mockery. If he had been a man with less control, his face would’ve been brick red right now. Instead, his lip curled, his pallid face livid with fury. Blast it, if that man made one more crack about—

“Well, Severus, I must say I’m impressed. For you to put aside your prejudices for the sake of the House—”

“—Is pushing me closer to changing my mind,” Snape snapped. He took a breath before continuing – getting short with Dumbledore was never a wise thing to do, even if he considered him somewhat of a friend. “Does Potter,” he said slowly, hating the words coming out of his mouth, “have permission to tryout for the Slytherin Quidditch team?”

Dumbledore surveyed him for a moment longer. “Yes. Potter has permission to try out.”

Snape nodded stiffly and turned, his black robe billowing behind him. Just as his hand gripped the door-handle Dumbledore spoke again, making him pause.

“Not what you expected, is it Severus?”

Miserable pause. “When should I get my stuff?”

“Oh, but you see Professor you have it all wrong. That’s not what happened at all.” Cocky smile. “He attacked me first, it was merely self defense! And then a bit of revenge…” Bashful grin, a mocking glance.

Yes, James Potter always seemed to have an alibi, a different point of view, an explanation. His son had done no such thing. It was a discomforting feeling, as though he had seen James but encountered her. Or at least, some warped version of her.

“No,” Snape found himself saying. “He doesn’t—” He abruptly cut off, as though seeming to realize what was about to tumble from this mouth and clamped his jaw shut. But, the damage had been done, if it were possible, the sparkle in the old man’s eyes increased. “Its just,” Snape continued quickly before Dumbledore could produce his own conjectures, “He—” again he cut off.

He couldn’t say it.

“He’s more like her than you expected.”

Slowly, Snape nodded. Even as he did, he felt the incredible urge to pull out his wand and start hexing the paintings off the walls. “He’s still full of his father!” He spat out, recovering himself. “No regard for rules, a desperate need for attention, no consideration for the property of others.”

Dumbledore sighed and turned away. He was quiet so long that Snape had almost decided to leave, but again he was interrupted before he could step out.

“What model are you going to get him?”

Snape stared. “What?” he asked too surprised to sound malicious.

“I’d recommend a Comet 260, or – if you’re feeling generous – a Nimbus.”

Snape was dumbfounded. He opened his mouth, couldn’t think of anything to say that quite covered his shock, and closed it again.

Dumbledore smiled. “I’d, of course, reimburse you regardless of what you get him.”

-

-

-

Harry Potter was a scrawny boy of eleven with jet-black hair that was always a disaster and bottle-green eyes. He was, albeit strained, friends with Malfoy. And, he was a Slytherin.

By sorting, and choice.

He had never really felt accepted into the house until now. Sure, before they had greeted him politely, some degree of respect hanging in the air, but it had always felt awkward, as though everyone was doing it grudgingly. Now, after he had publically sided with his house – before the Gryffindor’s no less! – the attitude had completely changed. Even Zabini – who Harry had always considered to be on good terms with – behaved differently. True, his character wasn’t exactly fuzzy to begin with, but the attitude now… Harry wondered how he had ever perceived his previous behavior as friendly. But, the most notable change was the names.

It wasn’t Zabini anymore, it was Blaise. It wasn’t Malfoy, it was Draco. And it wasn’t Potter, it was Harry.

“So,” Blaise said clapping hair on the back. “You’re not expelled, are ya.” It wasn’t a question.

“No,” Harry replied his smile faltering slightly. “But I’ve got detention until Christmas.”

Draco looked up. “Are you serious? You must be the first Slytherin to get detention from him… ever.”

“Thanks Draco, that just made me feel that much better.”

“I’ll see if I can get him to shorten it,” Blaise said. “After, you know, a month of good behavior.”

Harry let out a hollow laugh. “Good behavior… more likely than not I’ll be adding weeks to my sentence with every passing day.”

“Harry?”

Harry turned slightly surprised. The girl nervously brushed a strand of long dark hair and he recognized her as Daphne Greengrass. She had tried to defend him at the broomstick practice. 

“Oh, hello. What’s up?”

“After the…” she trailed off pointedly. “Well, that Weasley boy wanted me to give this to you.” She held out a folded piece of parchment. “I didn’t read it!” she added hurriedly a rose tint accenting her cheeks and before Harry could say anything she had stuffed it into his hand and darted away.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “You know Harry, I think she’s growing a fondness for you.”

“Shut it,” Harry mumbled, feeling his face flush. In effort to avoid Draco – who was sharing smug smirks with Blaise – he opened the note and felt his heart fall.

Potter. Consider our truce, nullified.

Harry felt his fist clench, crumpling the ripped parchment within it. What, because he had decided to side with his house instead of the Gryffindor one? He wasn’t in Gryffindor, he was in Slytherin and it was about time he’d accepted that fact. If the situation had been reversed, he wouldn’t have expected Ron to side with the Slytherin house. That would’ve resulted in the instant exile of his person from the house – well, in a manner of speaking – and so it was the same for him. Why couldn’t he understand that?

R—Weasley was being stupid.

“What’d the blood traitor say?” Blaise asked, attempting to look over Harry’s shoulder. Harry stuffed the crumpled parchment into his pocket and turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

“Blood traitor?”

“Yeah, don’t you know?” Draco drawled smugly. “They’re the worst purebloods, give the rest of us a bad name. Arthur and his family are filthy muggle loving fools. Way Arthur goes on about muggles, you’d think he’d want to be one of them.”

“Want to be one of them?” Harry repeated blankly. “Why?”

Draco shrugged. “Beats me, all I know is that he’s obsessed with muggle stuff. Works with it at work. My father loathes the Weasley’s, says their besmirching the name of wizard. And I agree, a total disgrace.”

Blaise shrugged, “Of course, it’s my policy to hate anyone that comes in contact with muggles.”

Harry snorted. “I guess I should keep my back watched then, shouldn’t I?”

Blaise smirked in reply. “Harry Potter, ever the exception.”

“What about me?” Malfoy suddenly shot.

Harry and Blaise turned to him. “You associate with mudbloods and blood traitors?” Blaise asked quizzically.

“No…”

“Then why would you even—” Blaise shook his head, leaving it at that. He and Harry exchanged amused looks. As Blaise decided to entertain himself further by poking at Malfoy’s rather stupid question, Harry found himself pulling the note once more from his pocket, flattening it out, and glaring down at the four words hastily scribbled across it. He did want to admit it, but this felt like a greater let down than it should have. Somehow, he’d gotten it into his head on the Hogwarts Express that they’d always be friends, best mates from that moment on until they graduated. Scabbers biting Goyle’s finger, eating Berti Bots Every Flavor Beans. It was amazing to think that, now, whatever semblance of a friendship had been dried and crumbled, parchment smashed and thrown into the trash. He knew he should have expected this. After all, Slytherin and Gryffindor did not get along as all. But he had hoped.

He stood, abruptly, and tossed the paper into the fire, watching as the flames licked the inky words off the page, leaving black nothingness in it’s wake. There, it was done. Forgotten, a wistful memory.

“So, what did the message say?”

Harry turned to see Draco observing him with interest, his grey eyes flickering down to the burning paper. Harry surveyed him for a moment, then chuckled though the sound held no mirth in it.

“Let’s just say, the blood traitor and I have nothing more to do with each other.”

Malfoy’s smirk broadened. “I told you, on the train, didn’t I?”

Harry did not nod, but it seemed it didn’t need to. “That takes care of everything then.”

“Not quite.” Harry was smirking now. “Tomorrow, we are going to see Hagrid.”

Malfoy frowned. “Can’t you take Blaise with you, or something?”

Harry shook his head. “A deal is a deal.”

“But—”

“A Slytherin never goes back on his word to his friend.”

Draco stared at Harry for a long moment. Harry chuckled, and smacked him rather harder than necessary on the back. “I’ll see you tomorrow after classes on the front steps then, friend.”

At that moment, Blaise called them over to get started on their History of Magic homework, preventing Draco from responding. He gave Harry a sour look, but non-the-less nodded and then swept back over to the table, looking sulky. Harry resisted the urge to do a fist pump. This was his revenge. Blaise looked questioningly over at him. Harry shook his head, and muttered, “later” while Draco was busy getting his textbook out of his bag. While it was true that he’d have rather asked Blaise to join him, making Draco uncomfortable was his goal in life at the moment. And since Draco didn’t want to go he was definitely going.

 -

-

-

“Finally.”

Harry set down his quill and stretched, feeling stiff after sitting in one attitude for the last hour and a half. Blaise sighed and set his quill down as well, a yawn escaping him.

“Not my best work…” he grumbled slightly, proceeding to stuff it into his bag. “But that old codger will just have to live with it.”

Draco murmured something that sounded like an agreement, but as he still had another paragraph to go, he seemed to be trying to remain concentrated on it. Harry was just re-reading his finished essay on the foundations of the goblin society when a tap on his shoulder made him jump. He turned around to see a dark haired boy standing there. He was a great deal older than Harry was, his arms burley and stocky, though rather short. His black hair was coarse and thick, though seemed to more manageable than Harry’s was. His front teeth looked slightly too big for his mouth

“Harry could I have a word?” he asked, his voice hinting at an excitement just waiting to bubble over. “Marcus Flint.” He held out a hand and Harry, though slightly confused shook it.

“Sure…”

Marcus Flint glanced once at Draco and Blaise before leading Harry away from them to an area of the common room that was vacant. Harry surveyed him curiously for a moment before broaching the question.

“What is it?”

Marcus seemed hardly able to control himself. “I am the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch Team,” he said in an undertone though very fast. “I heard you can fly very well.”

“I— but first years aren’t allowed on the house teams!”

Marcus shook his head. “I pulled some strings to allow you to tryout. No promises on getting in, of course, but better safe than sorry. Anyway, we’re having the tryouts tonight. Grab your bag and met me down on the Quidditch Pitch in fifteen minutes. Don’t…” he glanced back at Draco and Blaise. “Tell your friend just yet. You’re the only first year that got an okay.”

Harry nodded, hardly daring to believe it. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll be there.”

He went back to the table and began shoving his books and papers back into his bag.

“What’s up?” Blaise asked raising an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

Harry nodded, wondering what to say. He looked up and met Blaise’s eyes. He blinked, looked over at Marcus then back to Harry.

“No way…”

“What?” Draco asked without looking up.

Harry, panic rising, caught Blaise’s eye and, shook his head pointedly. They would no doubt talk about it later, but right now in a room full of first years was a bad idea. Draco in particular didn’t seem the type to just let it slide that only Harry was being given the opportunity to tryout for Quidditch. Blaise frowned, but seemed to be on a similar train of thought because he said, “The exception to all rules is ditching us.”

Harry glared at him. “I’ll be back, don’t wait up though.”

At last, Draco looked up. “Where you going?”

Harry opened his mouth but Blaise – seeming to realize that he didn’t have any cover – said, “You said you had a headache, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” relief flooded him. “I’m just going to grab some medicine.” And with that he darted out of the common room, a sinking feeling telling him that Zabini wasn’t just going to cover him without getting something in return.

Slytherins seemed to work that way, at least, until they were sure loyalty was deserved.