There wasn't a time, really, when he could remember being alone in his body. The others were always there. Always jostling about in his head, taking up space. Talking, complaining, laughing, crying. They were always there, and he felt content that way, knowing that they wouldn't leave him.

They helped him sometimes, too, he knew that. He always knew when he would "go to sleep" for a while, and when he came back, there'd be new bruises on his arms or his back, or the Dursleys would look at him in that particular knowing way he always hated. He didn't know what happened, but he knew it wasn't good.

He knew it wasn't good when Uncle Vernon began sneaking him out of the cupboard at night, either. That's when Kitten appeared, a small sylph-like girl with fiery red hair and a sultry expression. In Harry's mind's eye, she was quite pretty, but he didn't understand why she didn't dress herself properly, or why the hunted look existed in her eyes. He didn't understand and perhaps it was better that way.

He didn't understand the pitying look in Aunt Petunia's eyes, or the way she'd hand him the first aid kit every once in a while when he had no discernible injury. Someone else took over then, and that was all right. He didn't need to know, did he? Kitten and Blue and Tom and Jay and Lily-they took over for those things. It was their time, and he didn't want to interfere.

And so Harry grew, and his blackouts grew longer and longer until one day, he couldn't remember there were others. There was just Harry. Harry and his blackouts. His sleepy times, as he referred to them, and if things happened during those times, he didn't know. He didn't want to know, and perhaps this was why the dissociative wall had sprung up in the first place.

His Hogwarts letter came, delivered by the Keeper of the Keys, and Hagrid showed him about Diagon Alley. He barely "went to sleep" during this trip at all, far too fascinated by the people and the funny clothes and the funny things sold in the shops. He took an instant dislike to the pale, pointy-faced boy in the robes shop, and a queer sort of revulsion to Ollivander, the wand-maker. There was something about the way the man looked at him that reminded him of his Uncle Vernon, even though he knew his Uncle would sooner spit on the man than be "like him." Like a wizard.

He went to sleep all the time during the month between getting his letter and catching the train and he didn't understand, when he finally got onto the platform (assisted by the strange, sprawling redheaded family) why he had such a hard time catching his breath or why his back hurt so much. It didn't make sense, and so he filed it away somewhere safe, somewhere it didn't matter anymore. Like he always did.

And Harry looked around and smiled and laughed with the Weasley boy and stifled a grin at the bossy Granger girl and life seemed like it would go swimmingly at Hogwarts, dropped into this new life of magic and wonder...

Swimmingly, that is, until the Sorting Hat opened up its rip of a brim and yelled "SLYTHERIN" to a shocked and entirely silent Great Hall.

At first, Harry couldn't seem to move. It wasn't until the stern-faced older woman who had introduced herself as Professor McGonagall gave him a gentle push and took the Hat from his head that he found his legs worked, after all. He stumbled toward the Slytherin table, feeling wooden. They didn't look any friendlier now that he was one of them, although Malfoy's mouth gaped open inelegantly.

The silence was broken by the Headmaster clapping, but he was one of the only ones. The Slytherins finally started applauding as well, and he saw Malfoy mouthing to the brute-like boys next to him something about Potter, but he couldn't quite catch it. Nevertheless, he finally managed to sit down, perching himself on the very edge of the bench like he was ready to dive for cover at any moment.

The bushy-haired Granger girl had already been Sorted into Ravenclaw and he could see her when he craned his head. She looked awed by her surroundings, although her bright gaze managed to pick him out several times, and he thought he could catch a glimpse of concern on her face.

Ron was Sorted into Gryffindor. And by the look of betrayal that had crossed the redheaded boy's face when the Hat yelled Slytherin for Harry, that friendship had been nipped in the bud before it even started. And he'd been looking forward to it so much, too. Harry stifled a sigh and straightened the slump he'd fallen into as the Sorting concluded and "Zabini, Blaise" sat next to him.

"Hello, Potter," Blaise said agreeably enough. Harry murmured back a greeting as the plates in front of him filled up with food and his jaw dropped.

"Not used to magic?" Blaise chuckled, and Harry shook his head.

"Of course not, he was raised by Muggles," Malfoy sneered from across the table.

"Shut it, Malfoy," Blaise drawled. "Everyone knows that, did you think you were being clever?"

A muffled snicker ran around the table and Malfoy's cheeks flushed painfully red. For a moment, Harry felt sorry for the prat. He remembered, after all, what it was like for Dudley to humiliate him, for the embarrassment to rise fever-high as everyone else laughed and laughed and never shut up...

On the other hand, this was Draco Malfoy, and Harry doubted Malfoy had felt much humiliation in his life anyway. It might be good for him every once in a while to learn that his name didn't make him so very special after all.

So he said nothing and merely concentrated on his mashed potatoes. Midway through the meal, his gaze was caught by a particular hook-nosed, black-haired professor at the Head Table.

"Who's that?" Harry managed to ask once he'd swallowed the overly large mouthful of chicken. The stuttering professor he'd met in the Leaky Cauldron sat next to the man in question, and as Harry looked, a bright stab of pain flashed across his forehead, nearly making him choke.

"Our Head of House," Blaise answered once he'd looked up himself. "Professor Snape."

Harry murmured a thanks as he finished his goblet of pumpkin juice. It was an acquired taste, but he thought he liked it. The man looked stern. Not to be crossed. Despite the overly slender frame and greasy-looking hair, he reminded Harry uneasily of Uncle Vernon. This was the sort of man who could hurt you. A lot.

His opinion was not changed by the after-dinner meeting in the Common Room. The Slytherin dorms were down in the dungeon and Harry was already shivering by the time they filed their way into the ornately decorated room (through a wall, no less. Despite Platform 9 3/4, Harry had been more than half-convinced he was going to walk right into the stone and knock himself out).

"Welcome to Slytherin House," Professor Snape said in cold, formal tones. He'd drawn his robes up around him in a way that looked undeniably elegant and Harry felt a brief flash of envy somewhere inside. "While you are here at Hogwarts, your House will be your home..." He went on, listing the House rules. No squabbling outside the House walls. The other Houses disliked them, so it was important to present a united front.

Great, Harry thought when he heard that bit of news, his stomach sinking. So everybody else will act like Dudley, essentially.

Finally, Professor Snape ended his speech and turned his attention on the first years.

"All members of Slytherin House are expected to have monthly meetings with me," he reiterated. "First years are first. These are important for me to get a sense of your academic standing, as well as helping you adjust to life at Hogwarts. As such, I will be putting up a list by the entrance, and meetings will start this Friday. Please check the list for your time, I will be most displeased if you are late."

Harry nodded fervently. More and more, this man was sounding like Uncle Vernon. Although at least he hadn't directly attacked Harry so far. That hope was quickly dispelled when he turned his dark gaze on Harry.

"Mr. Potter, I was surprised when you were Sorted into this House," Professor Snape said, managing to convey his displeasure in a simple sentence. Harry's shoulders sagged. "Do be a credit, would you."

"Yes, sir," Harry whispered, but the man had already turned away with a flamboyant swirl of his robes, calling away the prefects for a secondary meeting.

Harry blinked, and suddenly, he wasn't there anymore.

It would have taken a far more discerning eye than any of the first years surrounding him possessed to have noticed the changes that overcame the scrawny body. The shoulders stiffened and straightened, the posture improved. The eyes grew cold and watchful, a sharp emerald that contrasted with the normal misty green.

Tom looked around at his surroundings as they filed out of the common room and into the first year dormitories. Slytherin, eh? He wasn't surprised. Nor was he surprised that Snape had ended up Head of House. He might prove useful later. Draco Malfoy certainly wouldn't. At least not now. The boy was nothing like his father. Lacked finesse utterly, used his name as a clumsy weapon intended to provoke respect and instead drew only derision. Tom's lip curled slightly before he calmed his expression back into the slightly befuddled one that Harry usually wore. Well. Malfoy was only eleven. Perhaps he'd learn. And if not...Lucius would be sure to draw him back into line.

From judicious eavesdropping and a careful picking through of Harry's recent memories, Tom garnered that they were rooming with Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. Malfoy and his cronies were in the other room. Probably a wise choice to split them this way, Tom thought with mild approval. Although it did present Malfoy with a potentially annoying echo chamber.

"Which bed you want, Potter?" Theodore Nott questioned. Tom fought the urge to tell him not to use that ridiculous surname, and instead offered to take the bed closest to the door. That felt like a decent choice, and one the other two boys accepted with equanimity. Jay stirred inside, angrily demanding that they get out of this snake-infested hell pit, but Tom ignored him. They would acclimate soon enough. Really, there wasn't a chance in hell that Harry would have ended up in Gryffindor. The Hat had been debating between Slytherin and Hufflepuff, of all places. Tom had finally convinced it that he'd rather throw the damn thing into an erupting volcano than be placed in Hufflepuff. Not surprisingly, the Hat had acquiesced.

The others weren't very happy about it. Well, those who cared. Blue tended to just go along with whatever her twin said. Kitten didn't care where they ended up, as long as she got to have her fun. Lily cared more about her dolls (which were hidden at the very bottom of their trunk, thank you very much). The others were mostly just glad that they'd gotten to school in the first place. Dursley had tried to stop them. He didn't want Harry out of his sight. He might tell, after all. In the shrouded dimness of his new four-poster bed, Tom allowed this sneer to overtake his face. As if Harry even could. He didn't remember. But Dursley didn't know that. It was Petunia who'd persuaded the walrus-like man that going against who knew how many wizards was a very bad idea, particularly after they'd already sent Hagrid. Hagrid was like an exuberant puppy, but he was large enough to give even Vernon pause.

Tom stretched out full-length, luxuriating in the soft feel of the sheets beneath him. It had been far too long. The only memories he had of Hogwarts itself were very blurry, scraps from his previous...lifetime. The reality was better, and he couldn't wait to fully explore the sprawling castle. Dumbledore was Headmaster, doddering fool, but he could work around that. For one, Albus would probably never expect his old nemesis residing in the head of the Boy Who Lived. Even if Dumbledore was aware he'd created Horcruxes (which was doubtful).

For another, Tom had no intention of jeopardizing anything. Not this time round. Too many years of living in Harry's head. The boy had rubbed off on him, and a decade of separation from his original "host," so to speak, had curbed the worst of the Dark Lord tendencies, as he deprecatingly referred to them.

Still. It was good to be back in Hogwarts, in the familiar green and silver dormitory. Oh, it had gone through renovations over the years, but it was still comfortingly similar. And at least Zabini looked like an interesting person to cultivate, even if Malfoy didn't.

Yes. Tom nodded in satisfaction. This would do nicely. He was used to staying up, to investigating what little leftovers could be found in the Dursleys' kitchen, or what new bit of information he could glean from Harry's textbooks or from the family itself (like Vernon's gambling habit-interesting, that). But the long train ride was beginning to catch up to him. He could have one night off, surely? He cast a quick locking charm around the bed curtains and settled down to sleep. Morning would come soon enough, and then he could see just how much Hogwarts had changed in the years since he'd first attended.

Harry couldn't remember going to bed when he woke up the next morning, but he chalked it up to the over-excitement and anxiety of the previous day. It wasn't every day, after all, that you made your way to a magical castle full of ghosts, a stray poltergeist, and a Head of House who looked like he was going to do his best to make your life a living hell.

But that was for another day. He fumbled his glasses on and stumbled to the lavatory, the bare stone beneath his feet icy. No one else seemed to be awake and no wonder, it was only about six o'clock. Harry was used to rising early because of the Dursleys, though, and he simply yawned his way through a very brief, lukewarm shower before getting dressed in his new school clothes. The new fabric brought a twinge of shame. He'd hated spending all that money on new things just for him, used as he was to Dudley's hand-me-downs. But Dudley didn't exactly have wizarding robes to hand down, now did he? (Granted, if he did, Harry would be guaranteed to drown in them, since they would have roughly the same proportions as those needed for a baby whale.)

The chill in the air made Harry shiver as he made his way down to the common room. They didn't receive their schedules until breakfast, so he hadn't packed his bag yet. The only people in the common room were a few older year students, who eyed him with curious stares, automatically going to the scar that bisected his forehead. He nervously brushed his bangs over it. To think, he'd used to be proud of the damn thing, he thought irritably, flopping onto a couch by the fireplace. The flickering warmth calmed him a bit and he looked around at his new surroundings with interest.

Ron had acted like being Sorted into Slytherin meant you were automatically doomed to become a Dark Wizard and be tortured in the process, but actually, the dorms seemed quite nice. The decorating was a bit austere and formal, but it was still fairly cozy for all that. It was a bit chilly because they were, after all, in the dungeons. But there were no heads mounted by the fireplace, no Dark Arts books set out on the tables. Actually, Harry bet that except for a few minor cosmetic details, the Slytherin dorms looked exactly like the other three Houses'.

For a moment, he thought of telling Ron this and then remembered that in all likelihood, Ronald Weasley would never talk to him again. He was a "slimy snake" now, after all. His stomach churned unpleasantly and he wondered if he could skive off breakfast. But no, Professor Snape had been quite clear last night that his Snakes were to attend allmeals and if they didn't, they better be in the Hospital Wing. Harry had zero desire to meet Madam Pomfrey, particularly this soon in his school career.

"There you are," Blaise said behind him, startling him. Harry jumped and twisted, his back twinging unpleasantly, to see the slightly smirking face of his new friend. "You woke up early," Blaise plopped down on the sofa across from him, stretching across it a bit like a pampered cat.

"Um, yeah," Harry replied, awkward. "I guess it's because it's so new and all."

Blaise nodded and motioned Theodore Nott over, who perched sullenly on the sofa next to Harry. His hair was untidy and stuck up in the back, much like Harry's. He looked exhausted, and Harry wondered if Nott had gotten any sleep last night. It didn't look it.

"First day jitters?" Blaise asked in almost a jovial tone. Harry shrugged, not knowing what to say. He wasn't used to people actually wanting to talk to him. In his old school, Dudley had made more than sure that no one dared talk to him or suffer the wrath of Dudley's gang. He was actually relieved as the common room filled up and it was time to go to breakfast.

Blaise didn't seem at all fazed by Harry's desultory and stilted attempts at conversation, which both surprised and delighted Harry. Maybe he could make an actual friend here, someone that had no idea of the consequences of befriending Harry, who wouldn't be thrown off or disgusted by Harry's "freakiness." There was no Dudley here, no Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia. It was something altogether new and brilliant, and the thought crossed Harry's mind for the first time that maybe, just maybe, he had found a place to belong.

A hope that was dashed the instant he stepped into the Great Hall and found himself confronting the Weasley boy, who told him in no uncertain terms that he must be worse than You Know Who to actually get placed into Slytherin, and that he disgusted Ron.

For a moment, he felt like he was going to black out and sharply pinched himself. He couldn't black out now. Not with Ron's fiercely scarlet face right in front of him, his face matching the color of his hair. But Harry couldn't seem to say anything either, like his throat had locked up.

And then, suddenly, he could.

His face relaxed into an expression bordering on insolence, but not quite tipping over, stance easing into one slightly combative, rather than the frozen, hunched-over posture Harry had adopted upon seeing the anger in Ron's face.

"You know, Ron, for someone who claims to be brave, you're certainly showing off the brash stupidity that seems common in your House," he found himself saying in a slight drawl. "Not to mention your ignorance. You Know Who killed my parents, remember? I would never join him or have any interest in supplanting him as the next Dark Lord. Do work on hiding your prejudices better, would you?"

And he made his way calmly, on legs that felt like stilts, to the Slytherin table.

"Nice," Blaise said admiringly. Harry could barely hear him, it was as if his ears were stuffed with cotton batting. Had that really been him? Why had he said something so...cold? Was Ron right?

Before he could panic more, Tom slipped fully out. This was not a time to appear weak or confused. He answered Blaise calmly, buttered his toast and ate it, accepted their class schedule from one of the prefects, a haughty-looking girl with the last name of Monteroy.

Lovely, he thought, staring down at the plain parchment. Their first class was Double Potions with the Gryffindors. He directed a glare up at the Head Table, where Dumbledore sat, serenely enjoying his breakfast. The Gryffindors and the Slytherins had a rivalry that went back decades. Would there ever be a Headmaster who didn't seem to enjoy provoking that at every turn?

Apparently not, Tom sighed and stabbed his scrambled eggs with a force they did not deserve. He had planned to slip back inside and merely observe after breakfast had concluded, but now he was not so sure. Harry was still near the breaking point, he could not face the Weasley boy again. That much was clear, the ass had greatly shaken Harry's self-confidence with his ill-thought-out tirade. As if Harry had somehow become the next Dark Lord in between arriving at Hogwarts and trying on the Sorting Hat. It was ridiculous.

You could let me out, Jay suggested inside, with an entirely feigned aura of innocence.

Right, Tom snorted back. As if you wouldn't cause more chaos than any of us can afford. Normally, they would have one of the more scholarly alters front for classes, like Raven. She was always absorbed in one book or another, and could scarcely be persuaded to come out of her head and into the real world. But for a brand-new class like Potions, Tom wasn't sure that was the best of ideas. They'd read all the books, of course, they couldn't afford not to. It had made for a month of very little sleep, and a brisk trade in stealing batteries for the perpetually flickery flashlight they kept hidden under the floorboards, but it had been well worth it to attempt to understand the new world they'd been thrust into.

Still, Raven didn't tend to do as well with the practical side of things, and considering Professor Snape's disposition, they were sure to end up actually attempting potions before the end of class. Lily would want to skip class altogether and play with her dolls or play outside, neither of which was an option. They would have to find an outlet for her soon, but the student population could not see the Boy Who Lived skipping about like a little girl.

Freak was entirely out. He'd spend the entire class period curled up under the table, babbling apologies to anyone who looked even halfway adult. And to a frightened child, that was most anybody. Same with Blue. She may be older, and more brash, but her role as the one who took on the most physical abuse meant that she'd be constantly flinching and ducking from blows, real or imagined.

If Kitten could be persuaded to focus, that would be one thing, but she'd be more inclined to try and seduce the Professor, and Tom couldn't see that working out very well. For one, if what he recalled about Severus was true, the man preferred women. For another, he didn't prefer women in the bodies of eleven-year-old, barely pubescent boys. That was likely to end up with a trip to the Hospital Wing and the Headmaster's Office, both places they'd prefer to avoid for the time being.

And as for the others...well, there were even more reasons why they were unlikely to be decent choices for Harry's first class.

Tom sighed, slightly unhappily, and finished his orange juice. No. If Harry was incapable of fronting right now, it looked like he would have to go through Potions himself. Jay was far too unstable to be trusted on his own. Angry and impulsive, Jay was also Harry's premier persecutor, and more of a bully than most of them wanted to admit. He could rival Dudley on his bad days, of which there were many. As his twin, Blue tried to steady him, but she was too shy and insecure herself to manage it most of the time.

He looked up and caught Professor Snape staring right at him, a glare incipient in those dark eyes. Hmm. Potions could be more interesting than he'd thought.

Best-laid plans and all that rubbish. Despite Tom's every intention of staying out and going through Harry's first Potions class, it was Harry himself who slipped through the door, doing his best to stifle the slight tremble that coursed through his body.

He wasn't afraid, exactly. Professor Snape seemed all right, as long as you did exactly what he said, stayed quiet, and didn't make him angry. All the others said that he favored his own House, too, so at least the rest of the school shouldn't see him punish Harry too badly, should Harry slip up.

And he wasn't afraid of Gryffindor House, either. Or Ron, who was already seated on the other side of the room and shooting him angry looks beneath the unruly cap of red hair. He wanted to go over and apologize, but knew the idea was abysmally stupid.

So instead, he sat quietly at a table closer to the front, Blaise to one side and Nott to the other, and waited for their professor to arrive. Which he did, just as class started, with a dramatic flourish of robes that had Harry barely managing to suppress his flinch, and Blue murmuring in soft, desperate fear inside his head.

Professor Snape looked just as stern and foreboding as he had last night, and Harry hoped with all his might that this would go better than his classes usually did. Those classes had been tainted, though, with Dudley's presence and the poisonous words of his aunt and uncle dripped into his teachers' ears about what a bad influence he was on other children, what a frightful example he was for their Dudley, what a lazy, ungrateful whelp he constantly proved himself to be. He tried his best, he really did, but when an adult has already made up their mind about you, there's nothing more you can do, he had learned over and over.

With a start, Harry realized that Professor Snape was saying something and he scrambled to write down what it was. It might be important later, a small voice inside seemed to urge. He hadn't had much practice with the quill and despite his best efforts, liberal ink splotches soon stained the parchment. Something about bottling fame, brewing glory, and putting a stopper in Death...it sounded dreadfully fascinating, and Harry felt a small tingle of excitement spark down his spine. Perhaps Potions wouldn't be so bad after all.

Or perhaps it would, as he realized Professor Snape was leaning down right in front of him, glaring at him with all the intensity the man could muster, which was a lot. The anger seemed to lessen, however, when the Potions master took in his pitiful attempt at note-taking.

"You will be staying after class, Potter," Professor Snape informed him coolly and swept away. Harry sagged in his seat, feeling sweat trickle down his back. He felt like he'd just escaped from the jaws of a particularly ravenous lion, an impression that was not dispelled by the man's rapid-fire questioning of Ronald Weasley on the other side of the room. He hadn't the faintest the answer to any of those questions, except perhaps that a bezoar was found in the stomach of some kind of animal, wasn't it?

A goat, his head answered just as Professor Snape said it in the most biting tone he'd ever heard. Poor Weasley was redder than Harry had seen him so far, he looked like the tips of his ears were going to spontaneously combust.

Thankfully, in a moment, the whole class was set to making a boil cure potion. He'd gone over this already, he knew he had, although he was relieved when Blaise immediately appointed himself Harry's partner. Nott ended up paired with Draco at the table behind them. As he retrieved the ingredients from the store cupboard in the back of the classroom, Harry might have known it was too good to last.

Jay was bored. And when Jay was bored, things tended to happen. Which is how he ended up pushing his way out, past an oblivious Harry, to discover they were in the middle of Potions class with the greasy bastard, Severus Snape himself. And that prick Weasley, too.

A grin curved Jay's mouth as he picked out an extra handful of porcupine quills and slid them into his pocket. He might not have the brains of Raven or Tom, but he knew what would happen if he fucked with someone else's potion. Nothing good, and that's precisely what he was counting on.

As he sauntered back toward his work-station with Blaise, he noticed that Weasley had paired up with the round-faced, sniveling Longbottom. Hmm. Pity he hadn't partnered someone a bit more of a challenge to fuck with. All you had to do was look at Longbottom wrong and he'd end up falling over himself. It was pathetic, really.

Almost as pathetic as their dear host, Harry. Jay couldn't help but sneer when he thought of Harry. Stumbling, clumsy, lazy, stupid...every epithet and then some could apply to the boy, really. Harry might be a year older than Jay now, but Jay knew he was smarter. Better in every way. Hell, even his twin was better, and Blue was a wreck 90% of the time, due to that bastard Vernon beating on her so much.

He knew Tom wasn't happy about him slipping out, but he couldn't care less. He wasn't going to do anything bad. Not really. Just a little prank and who better to play it on than Weasel? Even now, the bastard kept stealing glances at Harry and mumbling something uncomfortably loud and pointed about the Dark Lord Who Lived. Despite what Tom had said at breakfast. It's not like it had worked.

"Sorry, I forgot something," Jay mumbled to Blaise and slid off the stool. Blaise merely waved him on, preoccupied with the stage of the potion they were at. It gave Jay ample time to casually slip past Weasel and Longbottom's cauldron, letting the spare handful of porcupine quills drop into the thick, goopy concoction. Their potion was a failure, anyway, Jay snickered to himself and hurried back, just as Weasel's cauldron actually managed to explode.

What the hell did you do? Tom yelled at him inside, but Jay only laughed, managing to turn it into a hoarse shout of concern. He barely missed the deluge of failed potion, but half the class wasn't so lucky. He heard Snape yelling at the Gryffindor halfwits and telling Longbottom to go to the Hospital Wing. He'd gotten the worst of it. All Jay could think was how disappointed he was it hadn't been Weasel.

You need to be more careful, Tom cautioned. You will have people noticing that something is wrong. I presume you don't wish to end up in a locked ward somewhere, nothing but a mediwizard's experiment?

Of course not, Jay scoffed as they slipped away in the crowd. He knew that Snape had wanted to see Harry, but whatever. It could wait until later. But no one's gonna notice anything anyway, unless Harry fucks up. Granted, he always fucks up.

He doesn't, but that's beside the point, Tom sighed. Just...be careful.

Always am, Jay snickered and lost himself in the press of students. Charms was next, and it was bound to be interesting.

Despite Jay's best efforts, the rest of the day passed by relatively smoothly. They got lost multiple times, which was to be expected, and ended up late to almost everything, but considering that was the fate of every other first year (with the possible exception of the bushy-haired Granger, who seemed to believe she would be set on fire were she to be late), none of the system felt too much out of sorts. Raven was clamoring to go to the library, as was Blue, oddly enough. Tom wanted to explore the castle more, to compare his old memories to the present day.

Harry ended up out for dinner, blinking owlishly at the table and regarding the others with mute surprise at the rehash of what had happened in Potions. Draco had seen him drop the porcupine quills into Weasley's cauldron and kept eyeing him with a mix of admiration and suspicion. Harry himself felt horrified. He'd done what? Now Ron would never want to be friends with him again!

Maybe he was the next Dark Lord in training after all. Harry slumped, picking at his food. He knew he should eat more, now that he was actually allowed to eat as much as he wanted, but he couldn't. None of this was going how he'd imagined. Back in his cupboard, this had seemed like a magical adventure out of one of the storybooks he purloined from Dudley and hid under his mattress.

Now that he was actually here, however...he'd been Sorted into the House that turned out his parents' murderer. His only friend on the train thought he was the next Dark Lord. And apparently, he'd managed to make said ex-friend's cauldron explode, and couldn't remember doing so at all. Maybe Ron had a point, Harry pondered moodily, stabbing a carrot with his fork.

"Hey, you all right?" Blaise questioned, jarring him from his reverie. Forcing a smile, Harry nodded and took a giant bite out of said carrot. It would be all right. He had to have faith in that.

Or so he kept telling himself that evening as he tried to do his homework. Tried being the operative word because no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to put quill to parchment correctly, and instead had ended up with a mess of chicken scratches and ink splotches that even hecouldn't read, never mind Professor Flitwick. Flitwick had seemed relatively easy-going (although excitable, given how he'd actually toppled over backward when he reached Harry's name in the roll call), but Harry had a feeling even he wouldn't accept this mess. He pushed it away from himself with an irritable sigh. Beside him, Blaise did the same.

"Do you know how to use a quill?" Harry found himself asking, near the end of his tether. His hands were covered in ink, and he'd managed to scratch his thumb with the tip of his pen.

"Sure," Blaise said agreeably and began showing Harry the finer points. He'd finally gotten a meager grasp on it (and started his homework on a fresh sheet of parchment), when a shadow fell over their table. Harry looked up and gulped. It was Professor Snape and he did not look very happy.

"Potter, I asked you to stay behind after class," Professor Snape said icily. "However, given the...circumstances in which class ended, you will not receive detention. This time. Now come with me."

Feeling his heart sink down into his new shoes, Harry bid Blaise a low goodbye and stuffed all his things into his bag, which the professor had indicated he should bring with an irritable wave of his hand.

Professor Snape led him down a corridor Harry hadn't noticed. The lamps kept flickering and the chill raised goosebumps on Harry's arms before the Potions professor finally stopped in front of a foreboding-looking wooden door and murmured something at it. It creaked open, and Harry was pushed inside before he could blink.

"Sit down," Professor Snape ordered curtly, and Harry obeyed, looking around the man's office with slight interest. His feet barely touched the ground and he flushed at this reminder of his height.

"I noticed this morning," Snape began, "that you do not know how to use a quill properly, Potter." Harry's cheeks flushed brighter.

"I asked Blaise for help, sir," he managed to say softly. The professor looked slightly surprised at that and nodded.

"Mr. Zabini is indeed a good resource for that," Snape told him. "Keep it up. If you hand in your homework looking like your notes did, you will receive an immediate grade of Troll and be told to do it over."

"I understand, sir," Harry whispered. The professor stared at him as if he were a new and interesting species of bug, and Harry couldn't keep eye contact. Uncle Vernon had always told him that it was disrespectful, don't you look me in the eyes, boy! And so Harry instead regarded the already-dirty laces of his trainers until Professor Snape told him that he could return to his dormitory and finish his work, dismissing him with another one of those slightly elegant hand-waves.

Perhaps Harry should have suspected something when the lamps flickered out before and behind him, but really, how could he? They'd looked nearly extinguished anyway and a first year couldn't expect to know they were magicked to stay lit regardless. But he suspected nothing until there was a rush of footsteps and suddenly, he was surrounded.

They knocked off his glasses first thing, so he couldn't see more than shadow among shadow. And then they slowly and steadily begin to pummel him to the ground.

Leigh switched out nearly immediately. Their main physical protector could hardly expect to stay inside, after all. But Harry's body was tired and still recovering from the summer's beatings. Leigh got in a few good hits (including breaking the nose of the ringleader), but all too soon, their body was slumped unconscious against the wall, bleeding heavily from the nose and breathing funny because the heavy boot of one of the perpetrators had managed to crack a rib.

They wouldn't be found for another two hours.

They woke slowly. Everything hurt. Everything was pain. And so it was that Blue opened her eyes to discover the antiseptic air and stiff white curtains that must indicate the Hospital Wing.

"What happened?" she croaked, not really expecting an answer. Her throat felt like it was on fire. She struggled to a sitting position, and was immediately pressed back down by a black-garbed arm.

"You were discovered several corridors away from my office, beaten to a pulp," the acerbic Potions Master informed her. She looked up, puzzled at the glint of concern she could see in his eyes. "Care to enlighten me further on the subject?"

"I don't know, sir," she whispered hoarsely. He handed her a glass filled halfway with water and she gulped it greedily, having to use both hands to hold it steady. It soothed her throat, although the muscles across her shoulders pulled in a painful way.

"He's awake!" Blue heard a female voice say. A moment later, Madam Pomfrey bustled out from her office, wiping her hands on a white towel. "Severus, why didn't you tell me?"

"He just woke up less than a minute ago," Snape snorted dryly.

"Oh," a flush spread over the nurse's cheeks and Blue regarded her with interest. So this was the nurse. She wondered if Pomfrey had noticed the older injuries and scars that could not have happened from a school fight. Panic licked at the corners of her mind. If she had noticed...

She looked calm though. Far too calm for a person who had discovered Harry's extensive medical history. Blue relaxed a fraction. Perhaps their magic had worked one more time.

Never tell, never show, nothing happened, nothing ever happened! a voice whispered constantly in her head, and she couldn't help but nod in agreement.

Madam Pomfrey bustled around her, plumping up her pillow and giving her a lemony potion to drink. Telling her that she would be in the Hospital Wing for at least the rest of the night and probably the next day, as well. Professor Snape simply stood by and watched them, his eyes still odd-looking. Blue couldn't understand why, and as the nurse disappeared to the other side of the room to deal iwth a very noisy second year who'd spent the past hour throwing up, Blue relaxed inside. Someone else could deal with the enigma of their Head of House. She was tired.

Tom opened his eyes part-way. He was tired. Exhausted, really, for it had been his own magical strength that had kept Madam Pomfrey's diagnostics at bay. She hadn't noticed anything terribly untoward, although he'd been unable to hide their general state of exhaustion and slight malnutrition from her. He had no doubt that she'd be doing something about that later, but for now, they were safe.

Snape was watching them, and Tom made sure to keep his muscles lax, his face smoothed out as if he was already dreaming. It took more effort than he was used to, but that was all right for now. He didn't know if the Potions professor could be trusted. Yes, he was their Head of House, but even when Snape had been a loyal Death Eater...there was something off about the man. Now, presumably, he'd been cleared of all charges, but even Harry knew the evil that could hide behind an innocent face. They couldn't trust him, and they certainly couldn't trust Dumbledore. Even Jay was in agreement on that.

How could they? They'd just been beaten half to death in Hogwarts itself. Their "refuge" was no longer anything close. And worst of all, they had no idea the House affiliations of the perpetrators. Tom concentrated on the memory of the attack, but it was too dark and too blurry without Harry's glasses. They were students obviously. From their size, anywhere from third year on up, although there had been a shorter figure that might have been younger. As far as House went, however, they were clueless. Which meant they could be sleeping in the same dorm as their attackers. A lovely, comforting thought, wasn't it?

A sigh escaped before Tom could stifle it. The body still ached abominably, but it was easing. Whatever potions and spells Pomfrey had used were doing the trick. That was decent news, at least. Even better was the fact those potions were helping in older injuries, as well, now that Tom wasn't suppressing them. He still had no idea how he'd managed it, but at least it'd worked.

For now, Jay's snide voice interrupted his reverie. If Tom concentrated, he could see the boy pacing back and forth inside, his hair standing up in crazy spikes where he'd ruffled it.

For now is all that was required, Tom reminded him. Next time, we'll see.

Next time Pomfrey will find out, and then that slimy bastard you call our Head of House, and then we'll be in shit, Jay said acidly. Not to mention the fact god knows who wants to fucking kill us. Or did you forget that?

It would be hard to forget that when we are sitting in a hospital bed for the duration, Tom retorted, trying to keep his calm. Jay was the most exasperating, he really was. Tom could cheerfully strangle him. But we have no leads on who did it. Adding the childhood abuse to this mess would have made it all unbearable, and would confuse the real issue. And you know it.

A derisive snort was Tom's only answer. Tom settled back further into the pillows, but sleep was a long time in coming.

They should have expected it. Later, Tom would castigate himself for not trying harder to get out of the Hospital Wing. Not that it mattered much in the long run-Snape assumed they were having nightmares about the attack that had landed them in Pomfrey's care, anyway. But it wasn't good enough. Not anymore. Not with Dumbledore poking around. He had to get involved, of course. It was his school they'd been assaulted in. But Tom didn't trust him. None of them did. Jay even trusted Snape more than he trusted the Headmaster, which said something.

In any case, the body had been asleep only a short time when the flashbacks started.

Uncle advanced upon the trembling, sobbing boy in the corner. His belt was looped around one ham-like fist. Blue knew he despised sniveling, knew she'd get it even harder, but she couldn't help the tears that dripped down her cheeks anymore than she could help the way the bruises flowered in dark blue splotches over her arms and legs when he hit her.

"Shut it, boy, or I'll give you something to really cry about!" Uncle snarled. His voice was slurred a bit, and Blue knew he was drunk. He'd spent the night out at the pub, and not even Aunt liked dealing with him when he'd had one too many. Blue hadn't even done anything wrong. She was just there, and thus, a handy target for his rage.

But Blue couldn't shut it, not now, not really, although she stuffed her hand in her mouth and bit down so hard she nearly drew blood. It didn't work, and the belt licked around her arm to leave a trail of fire down her shoulder. She bit her lip savagely to stem the shriek threatening to tear free. If she woke Aunt or Dudley, she could expect to end up in an unconscious, bloodied heap in the cupboard. Tom couldn't heal that easily or quickly.

So she bit her lip and closed her eyes and felt the belt rain down on her in a flurry of sloppy blows. Tears slid constantly down her face, and the whimpers came freely, but she did not scream. No matter what Uncle did, she would not scream. She would not...

Consciousness came quickly, too quickly, and Blue snapped her hands up, as if warding off another blow. Professor Snape jerked back from his stooped posture over her bed, and she looked at him with overly wide, too bright eyes, her chest hitching.

"You were having a nightmare, Potter," Snape muttered uncomfortably and sat back in his chair. He'd transfigured one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs into a cozy armchair, where he'd apparently been sat reading, watching over her.

"Sorry," Blue croaked an apology. They came second nature to her, and thus she missed the surprised look that came into her professor's dark eyes.

"Nothing to apologize for, Potter," Snape replied. "I presumed that would happen after the attack on you earlier this evening."

"Oh," Blue mumbled, tracing a nonsensical pattern on the bedspread with her finger. The tips of her ears turned red. Was Snape actually being...nice? The thought seemed too fantastical for words, yet here the man was, sitting at her bedside like he gave a damn. The thought was oddly comforting.

Go to sleep now, Blue, her twin told her. Blue nodded sleepily and turned over. Normally she would be loathe to turn her back on a strange man like that, but Snape seemed...all right. At least for now. And if not, well, Jay would watch out.

Pulling the sheets up to her chin, Blue was asleep again within minutes.

The talk with the Headmaster the next morning went about as well as Tom had expected. He refused to let anyone else be out for the confrontation (as his mind insistently labeled it). Dumbledore was as twinkly-eyed as ever, which disgusted all of them. An eleven-year-old had been beaten to shit in a dungeon corridor, and he couldn't even look serious? Yes, Madam Pomfrey had fixed them up all right, but Tom had heard Snape and Pomfrey talking-Albus had seen them when they were first levitated in, their face a mask of blood and bruises, nose canted to one side. Not to mention the cracked ribs, the broken wrist, the broken toes...

Bet you anything it's because we're in Slytherin, Jay said acidly when Dumbledore had gone, and Madam Pomfrey was giving them a last once-over. You just know if his precious Boy Who Lived was in Gryffindor, he'd be all over finding out who did it.

Maybe, Tom acknowledged, fairly reluctantly. He kind of thought that the Headmaster would be this lackkluster no matter what House Harry had been Sorted into, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. There was something about the way Dumbledore had looked at him, something about the timbre of his voice when he asked them questions...

But he couldn't figure it out and trying to puzzle it over was only giving him a headache. So with a sigh, he slipped back inside and let Raven come out. They needed to study, anyway.

Raven looked around the Hospital Wing with slightly detached interest as she got dressed in her school robes. It was still weird to her to look down and see a boy's body, but she was used to it by now. The Nurse lady gave her a funny look but let her go, admonishing her to be careful. Raven nodded. Of course she would be careful. She wasn't stupid.

She made her way to the library carefully. There weren't many people out and about. Probably in class. The Nurse lady had told her that she wasn't to go to class, even though she was let out of the Hospital Wing. She was supposed to take it easy and rest. Studying was resting, wasn't it? Raven nodded once, decisively, as she slipped into the library and simply stood there for a moment, her jaw dropping open in an inelegant gape.

Hogwarts library was amazing. She'd never seen so many books in one place, not even at the public library. She didn't know where to look first. All the new subjects, too, she noted with approval as she drifted among the shelves. Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Runes...it was brilliant. She finally resorted to finding a Potions text that looked interesting. It couldn't hurt to get ahead in Potions, considering their Head of House taught them. She wanted to impress him.

Raven looked around for somewhere to sit, holding the book tightly against her chest. Fatigue was starting to creep in, an unpleasant reminder of their recent injuries. Her eyes widened in surprise when they lit on the bushy-haired girl from the train, sitting tucked away in a corner. Granger, wasn't it? Hermione Granger? She'd been Sorted into Ravenclaw, a fact Raven deeply envied. But shouldn't she be in class?

"Hermione?" Raven asked tentatively. Her voice was higher-pitched than Harry's but not enough for most people to notice. The girl startled and looked up, trying in vain to hide tear-stained eyes.

"Oh, it's just you," Hermione said in a wobbly sort of voice, pushing her hair back behind her ears. It resisted her attempts though and sprung out, as untamed as ever.

"Is something wrong?" Raven asked awkwardly, sitting to the side of the girl, just enough to block anyone's casual view of her.

"No, no, of course not," Hermione tried to say, but the fresh tears sliding down her raw cheeks automatically gave lie to her statement.

"Something must be wrong," Raven stated with more surety. She was not very good at emotional interactions, but she was all Hermione would get at the moment. Harry was sleeping inside, as was Blue and Freak. Jay was...doing something, and Tom wasn't paying attention. It was up to her.

"It's just...Ronald," Hermione sighed. The hairs on Raven's neck prickled uncomfortably. "Ronald Weasley. You know? I had Charms with him this morning, you know, mixed class, and well, I got it right before he did, so he said I was a dreadful nightmare and I-I'd never make any friends, and he hoped I got...sent back to the M-Muggles." The girl's bottom lip trembled and more tears cascaded down her face.

"Oh," Raven blinked. "Oh, I'm sorry, Hermione." She leaned over and gave Hermione a clumsy, one-armed hug. Anger began to burn fiercely in the pit of her stomach. First Ronald called Harry the next Dark Lord, and now he'd called Hermione a nightmare, just for getting a spell right before him? Something had to be done about him.

First good idea we've had in a while, Jay sniped in her head, but she ignored him with the familiarity born of long practice.

She said a few more meaninglessly comforting things and asked Hermione about the book she was reading (and trying so desperately not to splotch with her tears), but inside, her thoughts were turning at a rapid rate. What could they do about Ronald Weasley? Raven wasn't very good at pranking. She had no taste for anything that would truly hurt him, either. That wouldn't teach him anything (and if he found out it was Harry Potter, of all people, who'd orchestrated it, well, the chances of seeing Harry as anything but Junior Voldemort would vanish like mist).

Weasel's brothers could probably help you out, Jay casually mentioned. Oh, what were their names? Fred and George?

But they're related to him, Raven said doubtfully. I don't think that's a good idea.

Yeah? They've already pranked him at least once, I heard about it yesterday, Jay snickered. Turned his hair green. It's worth a try.

Well...maybe, Raven conceded. But I'm not doing it.

Fine, Jay rolled his eyes. I will. But I'm telling you, I bet they'd like to get him again. And I wonder how they'd feel about him making first years cry, too. Granger ain't much, but you know? She can't help it. She's like you. Bookworm with no social skills.

Hey! Raven glared at him internally. I do, too, have social skills.

Really? Is that why you're hiding away in the library with a Ravenclaw? Jay smirked. Raven bit her lip to control the pout threatening to burst forth. He had a slight point there, but really, what did anyone expect? She hadn't been to the library yet, and it was brilliant in here, there was no doubt about that. And Hermione sounded like a real kindred spirit, too, gesturing animatedly about the first year Charms class that Raven had yet to attend.

Oh well. With the plan of what to do with Ronald Weasley tentatively settled, Raven turned her full attention to Hermione and books. Anything else could wait. 

Over the next several days, Jay kept a close watch on the Weasley twins whenever he could. It was difficult to manage, what with classes, Blaise tailing them at every opportunity, and the occasional refresher chat with Dumbledore (who had still discovered absolutely nothing about their attackers-a fact none of them were surprised about). But he eventually realized that they stuck close to the Great Hall as much as possible when not actually in class. Why that was, he wasn't entirely sure. To keep a closer eye on their pranks? Because that's where the food was? No idea, but it was a plan, and he'd stick to it.

It was approximately twenty minutes before lunch ended when Jay casually sauntered over to the main doors, his hands stuffed in his robe pockets. The desire to get some form of revenge on Ronald Weasley burned even stronger in him. In all of them. Raven had had a few more study sessions with Granger, and the bookworm always had a new tale of woe about the redhead. He seemed to have a vendetta against Hermione after that Charms class and took it out on her whenever he could.

Jay didn't much care for her himself, not having a great deal of patience for bushy-haired swots, but she wasn't really that bad when you got down to it, and she certainly hadn't done anything wrong. All right, so she was a bit annoying with her tendency to wander around with her nose in a gigantic textbook all the time, and the way she answered every professor's question she possibly could, but those were really Ravenclaw traits in general, weren't they? Her fellow first years seemed pretty damn similar.

Plus, although Jay hated to admit it, he still remembered Weasel telling Harry he was the next Dark Lord. He despised being in Slytherin. He really did. But that rankled. Fuck that. He was no Voldemort, none of them were (not even Tom, ironically enough).

One of the Weasley twins was leaning deceptively lazily against the wall, supposedly watching the rest of the students stream out of the Hall, but Jay caught the flicker of the boy's wand up his sleeve. Not to mention, the other twin was nowhere in sight. Interesting.

"Hello...George?" Jay hazarded a guess. He knew he was probably wrong (and that even if he was right, the Weasley was likely to tell him he was wrong anyway), but was pleasantly rewarded with a crooked smile.

"That's right," George acknowledged. "What do you want, Potter?" Jay's mouth twisted before he could stop it. He wasn't Potter, damn it, he didn't even have a last name!

Patience, his twin consoled him. He doesn't know us, remember?

Right, Jay inwardly scowled.

"You can call me Harry," Jay corrected with an easy smile. "Just wanted to talk to you. You are one half of the most amazing pranking duo the school has ever seen after all." He hoped the bit of judicious flattery would help George open up, and he was soon rewarded with a full smile.

"I doubt that," George laughed. "But thanks anyway. And what would the Boy Who Lived need with pranks? Already hate your dormmates?"

"They're not so bad," Jay dismissed with a slight flap of his hand. "Well...besides Malfoy..." He let the words trail off in disdain.

"His father's on the Board of Governors," George said. "It'd be bloody stupid to do much to him."

"PIty," Jay sighed. "But no...actually, I was kind of hoping you could help me with something involving your brother."

"Which one?" George immediately asked, his face closing up with momentary suspicion.

"Ron," Jay said. "He's been picking on Granger a lot. Calling her a nightmare, a swot, saying she should go back to the Muggles. Making her cry. She even skipped Transfiguration the other day." Already, Hermione's reputation was such as she'd rather cut off her own fingers than miss a class. This was a serious charge.

"All she did was get a spell right in Charms first," Jay continued. "I've been studying with her sometimes, she's not so bad. And anyway, it's pretty dickish to make a girl cry."

"You're all right, Potter," George said, seemingly in admiration. "Oy, Fred!" he called, attracting the attention of his twin, who came loping down the hallway. His face was flushed and he looked like he'd been running, furthering Jay's guess that George had been the lookout for something.

"That was brilliant," Fred panted in laughter, but George cut him off with a warning look at Jay.

"Never mind that, Fred," George told him. "Potter here's got some very interesting things to say about ickle Ronniekins..."

Jay quickly summed up what he'd already told George and had the satisfaction of watching Fred's eyes darken in anger. Perfect. This was perfect. He had to bite his bottom lip to avoid the laughter bubbling up.

"Any ideas then, Harry?" Fred asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"A few," Jay said, his eyes sparkling wickedly, as he began to summarize his own plots...

It was almost a week later before Jay and the Weasley twins could begin to put their plans into action. The time chafed on Jay. He was used to planning and doing almost immediately, and the delay was almost intolerable. Still, everyone else cautioned him to wait. To acquire patience. Harry spent most of this week inside, although he didn't really realize it. Tom was careful to keep up the facade. Quiet, studious Harry, who sometimes acquired a sly penchant for pranks (although in the company of the Weasley twins, so that the rumors of him going Dark stayed firmly underground), who had a habit of hanging around with the bookworm Granger. Snape had taken to studying them with oddly expressionless, dark eyes, but Tom and the others were confident they could keep him distracted and confused. No one would know the secret that lay at the core of Harry Potter's shattered psyche.

Fred and George had decided that the prank would do well at lunch time. Most of the students were in the Great Hall at that time, including Hermione. Raven always made her go and eat lunch and dinner, although she frequently missed breakfast, too lost in another book or in revising her last homework assignment to remember to eat properly.

Jay had also made a few last-minute changes to it that he wasn't entirely sure the Weasley twins were aware of. Really, he hoped that they weren't. The prank was supposed to proceed as such: Ron ingests potion combined with a few discreet spells. Ron's hair goes several shades of bilious green (to go with his middle name, apparently), as well as him blurting out something embarrassing to the rest of the Great Hall. His hair would continue to change colors (always in various putrefying shades) for the next several hours until dinner.

Harmless enough, Jay supposed, but he'd modified the spell with Tom's help. Instead of it being something merely embarrassing, it would have to be a secret that was pertinent to Harry's life and/or well-being. Jay had a slight hunch that Weasel had been involved in the assault, and he wanted it confirmed. If he wasn't, well, it would be something stupid and harmless. If he was, well...watch Dumbledore ignore that, a shouted confession in the middle of lunch. The man had been surprisingly incommunicative around Harry lately, and the twinkle seemed to vanish from his eyes more often than not. Tom, who knew the Headmaster better than all of them, said that usually meant he was hiding something. And what else could he be hiding?

Somber thoughts for a day that was supposed to be at least partly amusing, and Jay forced them out as he hurried into the Great Hall with Blaise and Theo, Draco close behind. The Malfoy boy had taken to hanging around the periphery of the Boy Who Lived and his friends, a fact Jay found laughable and Tom found intriguing. Lily was just fascinated by the peculiar blonde shade of his hair and wished she could ask to colour with him, something that was never happening in this lifetime (and which she still pouted about).

Fred or George Weasley tipped Jay a subtle wink and he nodded slightly back, finding a seat at the Slytherin table that afforded him a good look at the Gryffindor one. He had to at least have Weasel in his line of sight for his modified spell to work, after all. Fred or George was in charge of slipping him the potion. The boy ate like a starving warthog, so at least there was no chance of his pickiness ruining it. Hermione was already sitting at the end of the Ravenclaw table, her nose buried in a book, and Raven wished that she could tell the girl to pay attention to the world around her this meal, that something was going to happen. But of course the overly rule-abiding Ravenclaw would tell on them, and that would not end well.

Weasel himself arrived five minutes later, and Jay thought uncharitably that the redhead was almost swaggering to his table in the company of...Thomas and Finnegan? Maybe? Finnegan was the one who had a penchant for blowing everything up, Jay knew that. He'd singed half his eyebrows off.

They ate sparingly, quickly, one hand always on their wand underneath the table. Jay chatted with Blaise, trying his best to appear as normal as possible. He was good at pretending, and he was confident that no one would suspect him. At least, not straight away.

At the Gryffindor table, Weasel stuffed half of his sandwich in his mouth, and Jay nodded. It was time. He whispered the spell under his breath, aiming right for Weasel just as the boy's hair turned the most alarming shade of pea soup green Jay had ever seen. At first, no one noticed. Then Finnegan turned to his dorm mate and nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. Giggles and snorts spread through the Great Hall at an alarming rate, and Jay himself couldn't help but laugh. Even Hermione looked up from her book, and Raven saw her shoulders shake in a quiet giggle.

Weasel looked particularly awful with green hair, and his horrified expression when he saw his own reflection in a serving soup was enough to delight Jay's soul for quite some time to come.

But the entire Great Hall went dead silent when Weasel blurted out, his face beetroot red, as if he was trying with all his might not to say anything, "I almost threw up on Potter's shoes when I hit him!"

And the anger roared to life in Harry's stomach, and for a moment, no one could front. No one could front at all.

Tom ended up the one forced out, as the only one who wasn't likely to storm across the Great Hall and pummel Weasel into the ground. Even so, his face had whitened and his fingers clenched so tightly around his wand, he thought he might break it.

It had been one thing to suspect that Weasley was involved in the assault. It was quite another to hear him admit it like this, blurting it out in the middle of lunch. The boy had frozen in shock, which was probably a good thing for him, as his brothers had surrounded him, the twins looking quite grim-faced. At least he wouldn't be ducking out of there any time soon.

Blaise's hand clamped down on Tom's shoulder, fingers digging painfully into the bony contours, but Tom didn't mind. The pain centered him, and prevented Leigh from coming out as he wished, full-bore, destructive magic flooding his pores. They were so angry. How could he? Why? If Snape hadn't found Harry in time, they could have died. If he had lain there all night, on the freezing dungeon floor, the chances of them sitting at that Slytherin table now were virtually nonexistent.

"Ronald Weasley, come with me," the Headmaster finally said. His voice was colder than Tom had heard it in a very long time. "Severus, Minerva, please accompany me. And..." Dumbledore's eyes roamed the Great Hall. "Harry Potter. Please come with me, as well."

Tom gave a singular, tight nod. Blaise's hand fell away and Tom gave him a quick look in thanks. The boy's features were oddly pinched, as if he too was moments away from a spectaculer show of rage. Even Malfoy looked angry. The older Slytherins had their masks firmly in place for the most part, although there were a few fifth years at the end of the table who looked...uneasy? Afraid? Had they been involved, too?

Probably, Jay said. He was pacing inside, his hands clenched in fists so tightly, thin trails of blood streaked down his arms. He seemed entirely unaware of the superficial injuries, though. It's not like it was just fucking Weasel in that hallway.

Tom nodded slightly absently as he followed the somber group out into the corridor, in the direction of the Headmaster's office. He was aware of a very peculiar buzzing sound in his ears and wondered if this meant he was going to lose his vaunted sense of self-control. As satisfying as that would be, it would ultimately be a mistake, he knew. Particularly around Dumbledore. His own flavor of magic had warped and bent around Harry's, creating an interesting blend, but should Albus recognize it...

Well, that certainly wouldn't end up stifling the rumours that Harry was the next Dark Lord, now would it.

"After you, my boy," Dumbledore said with that jovial tone Tom had always hated. He realized with a slight start he'd made it past the gargoyle and up the steps without even noticing. Not a good sign. Normally he was fully cognizant of his surroundings.

Ronald Weasley was perched on a narrow, spindly chair on the opposite side of the room, McGonagall's hand clamped on his shoulder like a claw, keeping him prisoner. His face was the colour of curdled milk, an unpleasant shade that went equally unpleasantly with the still vile shade of his hair.

Bastard, Jay spat inwardly. His anger felt almost tangible, and Tom had to fight to keep control for a moment. Leigh paced under the surface, just as furious. It was not a pleasant sensation, the prickly feeling of rage that ran just beneath Tom's skin. Even Harry could feel it, and it was clearly making him uneasy.

"Mr. Weasley," Professor Snape purred as he settled Tom into a more comfortable visitor's chair. It surprised the Slytherin. Apparently, no matter what his conflicting feelings toward Harry Potter might suggest, when it came to other Houses bothering his Slytherins, the man was positively dangerous.

"What precisely did you mean by your little confession in the Great Hall?"

Weasel looked around, panic widening his eyes. Dumbledore had seated himself behind his desk (cluttered with all manner of eccentric oddities as usual), but his expression was as grave as everyone else's. And McGonagall looked ready to drag the first year off by his ear for the worst thrashing of his life.

"N-nothing?" he tried to squeak out. Tom had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes. Weasley was one of the worst liars he'd ever seen.

"Oh really?" Snape said, his voice still dangerously soft. "You didn't say that you almost threw up on Potter's shoes when you hit him? Thus suggesting that you are one of Potter's mysterious assailants from a week or so ago? From the assault that left Potter so injured that had I not stumbled across him a few hours later, he would have died by morning? Any of that ringing a bell?"

Tom hadn't known until that moment that Weasley's face could pale even further, but somehow he managed. Sinking down a bit in his chair, Weasley managed the courage to whisper, "Died? He could have died?"

"Yes, Mr. Weasley," Albus responded somberly, steepling his fingers and regarding the tableau in front of him with blue eyes still bereft of their usual twinkle. "If Professor Snape had not found him when he left his office, Harry could very well have died. His injuries were quite severe."

Oh, good of you to notice, Headmaster, Jay sniped inside their head. Pity you didn't notice everything else, eh? Fucking blind as the rest of them.

Jay, be quiet, Blue insisted. This is important.

Tom turned his attention back to the outside world. Ronald had taken to actually quivering in his seat like a frightened hare.

"I didn't...I didn't stay that long," Weasley admitted, his voice thick and ashamed. "I hit him-hit Potter, and he just...the sound he made...I just felt sick and I ran back to the dorms."

"Where you did not contact me?" Professor McGonagall questioned sharply. "You left a fellow classmate to be beaten by a gang and did not even think to summon any sort of help?"

"I didn't want to get in trouble," Weasel whispered. Tom's lip wrinkled in disgust. Gryffindor, home of the Brave indeed. He could have anonymously tipped off a teacher, or even Madam Pomfrey, if he was afraid of the consequences for his own involvement. It was pathetic.

"Who else was involved?" Snape demanded. His eyes narrowed in cold, implacable fury as he stood over Weasel like an overgrown bat. None of them envied Weasley in that moment. Snape was nasty when he was angry. He wasn't often that angry at his Slytherins, but they'd all seen him use the sharp side of his tongue on the other Houses.

Weasley rattled out a list of five names. Tom didn't recognize any of them. Dumbledore sighed, looking older than they'd seen him before.

"Severus, we will need to bring in Filius and Pomona for this discussion as well," he said, "seeing as how all the Houses are involved."

Great, Tom thought dryly. Finally, inter-House cooperation, and it's used to beat us into unconsciousness. How did we end up so lucky?

"Harry?" it took a moment for Tom to realize Dumbledore was talking to him and he quickly looked up to find that disconcerting blue gaze fixed firmly on his face.

"Yes, sir?" he asked.

"Go back to your dorm, would you?" the Headmaster requested. "I think...I think classes have been canceled for the rest of the day."

Hermione was waiting outside the Headmaster's office when Tom left, her arms wrapped around yet another enormous book, brown eyes huge with anxiety. Raven felt touched that Hermione had actually waited for them, like she cares!, but Tom didn't feel anything. He couldn't yet. He'd been Occluding like mad in the Headmaster's office, and the effort involved exhausted him. If he'd been a fully grown wizard, that would have been one thing. But trapped as he was in a first year's mind, with only bits and pieces of his old scholarly knowledge available? No. It was tiring and it wasn't pleasant, but it was also necessary. Still, driving off a friend and potential ally was a bad move, and he gracefully slid back inside to let Raven talk with her friend.

Raven smiled at Hermione a tad too brightly, pushing Harry's glasses up her nose.

"Hi, Hermione," she said, falling neatly into step beside the Ravenclaw. Another brief moment of envy stabbed through her when she saw the blue and bronze school tie Hermione wore, gently flapping against her uniform shirt. That was where she belonged. Oh, the House of Snakes wasn't that bad. But there was so much intrigue, it made her head spin. She wasn't really capable of cunning, of deception.

"Hi, Harry," Hermione babbled. "I can't-I can't believe what..." The normally overly talkative girl fell silent. Raven nodded in understanding. It was one thing to know that Weasel had a penchant for minor bullying. Quite another to know he'd been involved in the vicious assault and near-murder of a fellow student. The whole incident felt very removed from Raven. She hadn't been out for it, or much of the aftermath. Consequently, it felt like something you remember in a dream or read ina particularly vivid storybook. Slightly distressing, but not enough for any real emotion to spill out.

"Professor Dumbledore sounded really mad," Raven offered. "And Professor Snape." Her eyes rounded at the memory of Professor Snape. "I thought Professor Snape was going to eat Ronald alive," she confided in a slight giggle that she changed to a cough at the last minute. Boys do not giggle! Jay thought indignantly inside.

"Professor Snape's scary," Hermione nodded, clutching her book even tighter to herself. Her bushy hair bobbed around her shoulders and Raven caught herself admiring it for a moment before scrambling to catch up. Oh Merlin. Her cheeks stained bright red. She wasn't supposed to have a crush on Hermione. That was silly. Beyond silly. And entirely un-logical. She knew that girls could like other girls, Raven wasn't that sheltered, but for her? Oh no. Definitely not.

Caught up in her thoughts, she only caught the tail-end of Hermione's statement, something about not wishing to ever cross Professor Snape, lest she be used for Potions ingredients. Raven nodded.

"Um, well, I guess you should probably go back to your dorm," Hermione said nervously, catching her bottom lip with her teeth. With a start, Raven realized they'd reached the dungeons.

"I guess," Raven said, reluctant. "The Headmaster said I should stay there for the rest of the day, until everything's sorted out."

"See you at dinner," Hermione smiled and walked off, probably to the library, judging by her direction. Clearly the reprieve from classes (which had been broadcast through a mysterious spell that Raven was dying to investigate) was not going to stop Hermione's studying.

Nor should it, Raven thought with approval as she walked down to the Slytherin dormitory. She was nearly there when someone stepped out of a neighboring corridor.

Bentley? Brently? Something like that, she thought, and then realized with a gasp and a slowly sinking heart that his name was one of the ones Ronald had mentioned.

The boy looked half-mad already. His face was ghostly white and sweat rolled down his face in fat drops. Raven backed up against the opposite wall, their wand falling into her hand. She clenched it with a death's grip, too terrified to allow the proper switch to take place.

"He told, didn't he," Bentley or Brently said in a low, nearly emotionless tone. Raven nodded slightly.

"When he finds out..." The Slytherin fifth year moved forward, and Raven was struck anew by how big he was. Harry's body was tiny and painfully scrawny for his age, but even Blaise or Draco would be dwarfed by Bentley.

"He?" Raven's voice quavered, but her curiosity forced the question out. Bentley shook his head, dismissing her.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "You, on the other hand..."

But what he was going to say, Raven never found out, because all of a sudden, she was surrounded with the rest of the Slytherin first years, who were all glaring quite defiantly (and bravely-almost like a Gryffindor, although none of them would admit it) at the fifth year boy.

"Don't you have somewhere to be? Like the Headmaster's office?" Draco inquired snidely, as haughty as Raven had ever seen him. Bentley glared at them, but apparently the thought of using magic to immobilize them all never occurred to him-he simply turned and vanished back into the shadows of the dungeons.

"How did you know?" Raven asked. Her knees were very wobbly, and she was certain she was about to pitch forward onto the unforgiving stone floor.

Draco shrugged, then smiled, a gesture that looked surprisingly child-like in the flickering lamp light.

"Easy," he bragged. "Why else would he be intimidating you like that? Acting like he's gonna hurt you? Especially after what Weasel said at lunch? He had to be one of the people who beat you up, Potter."

"Right," Raven murmured, slightly dazed. "And you came to my aid because...?"

"You know that," Blaise interjected, steering her toward the welcome refuge of the dormitories. "Slytherin House watches over its own."

Perhaps Slytherin was a better fit than she'd realized, Raven thought as they walked back with the rest of the first years and she slipped inside, letting Jay front instead. She had a lot of thinking to do, about quite a few different things, and it was much easier to do so when she was undisturbed by the outside world intruding.

As Severus Snape stood in the Headmaster's office, waiting for the other perpetrators of the assault on Potter to make their way up the winding stone staircase, he realized he was still utterly and entirely furious.

Slytherin students had been assaulted before, of course, this was nothing new. He'd dealt with countless black eyes, bloody noses, and even the occasional broken bone. He knew how the rest of the school felt about his Snakes.

Potter, however...Severus shook his head. The look on his face still terrified Weasley, who gulped and sank lower in his chair, his hair still a particularly noxious green hue.

If Severus had not stumbled across the boy on his way back to his quarters, the first year would have died. Of that, Severus had no doubt. He'd been a broken mess, lying there in a small puddle of his own blood, his breath choked and laborious. His skin had been ice cold to the touch. The dungeons were chilly even in the height of summer.

Severus's dark eyes touched upon the quivering Weasley boy once more, and another spark of anger uncoiled in his stomach. How terrible for you, he thought in as scathing a way as he could muster, nearly throwing up when you had the gall to participate in assaulting another student.

Even Minerva still looked furious and Severus had no doubt that she'd be contacting Weasley's parents herself. That was bound to be an interesting conversation, he thought and mentally snorted. Minerva was a terror when she wanted to be. Of course, then again, so was Molly Weasley, even if she did have an irrational soft spot for her two youngest children.

Severus didn't like Potter. He'd been fully prepared to hate the boy when he'd first realized that this was the year the Boy Who Lived came to Hogwarts. He'd expected the boy would end up in Gryffindor, just like his parents, and essentially be a carbon copy of his father. When Potter had been Sorted into his House instead, he'd nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. James Potter must be rolling over in his grave.

But as time passed, Severus slowly began to realize that Harry was nothing like his father. Granted, he wasn't all that much like his mother, either, much as it pained him to realize it. He was quiet. Almost sullen at times, but those moments were so brief, the Potions Master wasn't sure if he'd imagined them or not. Smart, too, the boy was definitely smart. He had a surprisingly hard core of strength tucked inside that scrawny body. He'd need it, Severus reflected, considering he was the Boy Who Lived. If the Headmaster was correct (and although it pained him, he had to admit the man usually was), Voldemort would be back. And when he was...well, there was no way he would be leaving Potter alone.

And apparently, there were those kept within the walls of Hogwarts who believed Potter should be as dead as their erstwhile master. That slow burn of fury both concerned and delighted Severus. He had no doubt Albus would disapprove, but then again...Dumbledore looked almost as furious as he did. That twinkle in his eyes almost never went out and when it did, well, you wanted to get out of the way as quickly as possible. Not for nothing was Albus the only wizard Voldemort had ever feared, after all.

A hesitant knock sounded on the door and Severus straightened properly, letting his anger show through. The first of the miscreants had arrived. His smile was vicious. This would be...very interesting.

Harry was more confused than he'd ever been in his life. All of his year mates refused to leave him alone, clustering around him even in the dormitories and glaring fiercely at any upper year who so much as looked in his direction. His mind was strangely cloudy, and it felt like someone had turned the radio up in there too loud and left it on a crush of static. He couldn't understand any of his own thoughts.

From the low buzz of conversation around him, he deduced that Ronald Weasley had been in on the attack earlier in the year. That hurt. It made his stomach ache and churn, and it made the backs of his eyes want to fill up with tears. He didn't let them fall though. He wasn't a baby. Still. He'd known Ron didn't like him anymore. Especially after he'd said such mean things in the Great Hall. But he didn't think the boy would hurt him. Would almost kill him. That was far too much to comprehend and so for the time being, Harry didn't even try. He just sat there, surrounded by Blaise and Draco and Teddy Nott and Pansy and Millie, and tried to finish his Potions homework. It was extremely slow going.

Some interminable time later, their Head of House appeared in the common room with a flourish of his robes. He looked even more somber than usual, and Harry felt his stomach lurch as the professor's dark eyes locked with his own.

"As we are all well aware, considering the events of lunch, the conspirators who assaulted Harry Potter earlier in the month have been caught," Professor Snape announced. "With the exception of Ronald Weasley, they have all been expelled."

The buzz of shock that went around the room made Harry's ears burn as he hunched his shoulders uncomfortably. Expelled? They'd all been expelled? That sounded horribly harsh, and yet...it was right, wasn't it? Considering what had happened? Madam Pomfrey still dragged him into the Hospital Wing for another check-up every time she saw him, because of that night. Half the professors regarded him like he might break at any moment. Because of that night. He'd almost died and the worst part was, he still hadn't the slightest what would make anybody attack him like that. After all, well, he was the Boy Who Lived, he supposed, but he was a first year. He didn't even know how he'd defeated Voldemort, although he still thought it had all been a horrible mistake. His parents had probably been the ones to do it, not him. What could a baby do against the worst Dark Lord since Grindelwald?

"Potter, come with me," Snape commanded and Harry realized that the Potions Master's speech was over. He stumbled to his feet, gathering up his things, and shambling his way over. Snape's eyes raked over him, probably checking him once more for injuries, and he followed.

This time, Snape did not take him back to his office, perhaps because of what had occurred in the corridor so close by. Instead, he took the boy to a small, rather crowded room deeper in the dungeons. It had a warm, cozy feel though that Harry rather liked. It was a nice sort of room. Although he wouldn't want to have to dust it, he thought, standing in the doorway and looking around at all the knick knacks that cluttered each surface. It would be hell to dust.

"Sit, Potter," Snape invited. His voice was not precisely warm, but it wasn't as cold as it usually was, either, something Harry found odd. He perched nervously on an over-stuffed green velvet chair, feeling a bit like he'd been placed in a giant dollhouse. His feet didn't touch the floor.

"I wanted to explain why Weasley has not been expelled privately," Snape said. He kept folding and re-folding his hands, a nervous gesture that Harry found himself focusing on. Could a professor be nervous? "Because he is a first year and did not stay to assist in all of it, the Headmaster believes that he can be reformed. He has, however, been suspended for two weeks and upon return, will have four months' of detention. He is very lucky he is not also facing sanction from the Ministry of Magic, or a trip to Azkaban."

"Azkaban?" Harry asked, his voice squeaking. He hadn't meant to talk, but the unfamiliar word made him blurt out the question before he could stop it.

"It's the wizarding prison, Potter," Snape explained, surprisingly patient. "It is a highly unpleasant place, mostly due to the dementors who guard it, and before you ask, Potter, they are a type of magical creature that feeds on positive emotions. It is the reason Azkaban is so isolated. Three of your ex-classmates are now on their way to Azkaban as we speak, to be held there before trial. You may be asked to speak there, but because you are a child, it is more likely that I and Madam Pomfrey will be speaking about your injuries instead. Still, on the off chance, I and the Headmaster will be preparing you for what happens in a wizarding court."

Harry blinked and nodded, feeling too dazed to take it all in. Dementors? Wizard prison? A trial?

"Do-do they have to go there?" he asked, his stammer making him flush bright red. "I mean...it sounds awful, sir."

"Your concern is touching, Potter, but yes, it is standard procedure, particularly considering their age," Snape replied. "They will not face the Dementor's Kiss for this, but a few years in Azkaban will-be of assistance to them later in life, when it comes to following idiotic, criminal plans."

"The Dementor's Kiss?" Harry slouched down lower in his seat, biting his bottom lip anxiously at all the questions that kept spilling out. Granted, so far, Professor Snape didn't look angry at those questions. But he knew more than most how looks could be deceiving.

"It is the highest penalty paid, and as such, it is rarely used," Snape informed him. "It is called so because a dementor is capable of sucking a person's soul out through their mouth. The person will still be alive, but they are nothing but a husk. There is no recovery from the Dementor's Kiss."

Harry felt like he'd been plunged into a bucket of ice water. His skin kept crawling. There was a thing that coul suck out people's souls? For a moment, he envisioned this happening to Dudley, but he couldn't keep that up for long. Nasty as Dudley might be, he didn't deserve that. Harry wasn't sure anyone did, but he didn't want to speak up and disagree with the professor again.

"We will be having twice weekly sessions until the trial," Professor Snape continued, making Harry gawp at him. For a moment, the static in his head cleared and as clear as day, he heard, We have to see the git twice a week?! I don't get paid enough for that!

You don't get paid at all, Jay, stop that, an unfamiliar, slightly higher voice responded. Harry felt sick again. He'd thought the voices stopped a while ago. Apparently the stress was getting to him more than he thought, although he didn't dare confess any of this to his Head of House.

"Do you understand, Potter?"

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded, suddenly frantic to get away in any way he could. It felt like the walls were closing in on him. Somehow, Professor Snape didn't notice any of his internal panic, and the meeting ended on a quite agreeable note.

Harry rushed out and was immediately sick in the nearest loo.

Harry went to bed early, but he couldn't sleep. Not properly, anyway. All he could think of was a dementor swooping down on him (looking vaguely like the boogeyman from old cartoons he'd seen, since he hadn't the faintest what they actually looked like), and sucking his soul out from between his lips. What would it feel like, feeling the wisp of everything that made you who you were, everything that made you human, escape into the scabrous, sucking maw of a nightmare? Would you realize that your soul had just snuffed out like a birthday candle? Or would it simply be the end and your body would collapse, boneless, a shell of who you used to be, nothing more than a fleshy husk of a person?

They were not the kind of thoughts that made for a peaceful night.

Inside, Tom was furious. He knew Professor Snape was not a kind man, was not the sort of man who would tuck in his first years and wish them pleasant dreams, but for the love of all that was sacred, he wished the man would bloody think before answering his students' questions. That kind of information was best left for another year, another time, not given willy-nilly to an impressionable eleven-year-old who already had far too many nightmares swirling around in his shattered brain. From his own fragmented days at Hogwarts, Tom recalled that the students were not usually given information about the Dementors until at least third or fourth year. The only mercy he could afford Harry was not letting him know precisely what they looked like.

Not that anyone truly knew what lay under a Dementor's hood. They only lowered them when they were about to perform the Kiss and the victims of that were, shall we say, unable to solve the mystery. Tom shuddered. Even though as Voldemort, he had used those creatures to his advantage, lured them to his side with the promise of whatever they wished, they'd still unnerved him. They desired nothing more than to feed off happiness, off human souls. To rip the light free until there was nothing left but darkness.

It was in a muddle of these dark thoughts that Lily finally managed to push herself past everyone else.

The five-year-old girl had had enough of being kept inside and patted on the head like an obedient dog. It was boring inside. She didn't even get to peek out like she was accustomed to doing, because Tom and Jay were afraid that others would notice the childish tilt to their head, or the way she sometimes lapsed into a lisp. It wasn't fair. She deserved to know what was going on, too. And despite what everyone else thought, she knew she had to be circumspect.

Thus it was that she clambered out of bed on cat-silent feet, retrieved her dolls from the very bottom of their trunk, and climbed back into bed with the curtains drawn round tight again. Tom had put a locking spell on them, but Lily didn't know how to replicate it. And she didn't want to ask him, either, because then he'd stop his ceaseless muttering about something that sounded really dark and scary and make her go back inside. The thought that he might actually help her never crossed her mind.

At first, Lily stayed quiet as a mouse, only mouthing the various inanities she presumed her dolls would say. She only had three, but they were precious to her. They'd been carefully scavenged from the trash bins and then dutifully cleaned up to be presentable, and one-an old-fashioned faux-porcelain doll-had actually been swiped from a toy store when they were nine. Jay had been the one to do it, of course, his palms sweating at the thought of the proprietor noticing him stealing such a girl's toy. Lily had cherished it from the moment she saw it, clutching it tightly to her and barely able to let it go, even for the necessary times it had to be hidden. If the Dursleys knew they had dolls lying around, they would be destroyed instantly and Harry would be ruthlessly taunted and beaten for being so unmasculine.

Other things would happen to Harry, too, in that eventuality, shameful, secretive things in the dark of night, but of course, Lily had no inkling those things ever happened. Those times belonged to Kitten, and Lily knew better than to peep out when Kitten was the one fronting. Tom had made it very, very clear to her that there were times, dangerous times, that Lily needed to stay inside and not make a peep. Most of those times were at the Dursleys.

But now they were at a new place, a school place! And she'd always been allowed out sometimes in primary school. Usually when they had art, because she could draw better than Harry anyway, and she really liked it. It was fun drawing with crayons and markers and later on coloured pencils and charcoals a bit, too. Sometimes the teacher would smile at her and praise her work and even though the teacher had to use the wrong name, Lily still cherished each word.

She wished she had a drawing pad, too, but she didn't think Tom had remembered to bring one. And she didn't know how to use a quill. So instead she sat loosely cross-legged in the middle of their bed, dressed in their oversized pajamas, with her special doll (named Annabelle) at her side, and having the other two, a rag doll and a plastic Barbie knock-off, carry on with an imaginary tea party. Lily didn't realize that she'd been getting a tiny bit loud, particularly with her giggling, until she heard a loud snort from the bed next to her, and someone turning over.

Instantly, she froze, her eyes rounding in panic. Oops. She wasn't supposed to make noise! What if someone saw? She very cautiously tipped back until she was lying down, albeit on top of the covers.

"Harry?" a sleepy murmur came from the other bed. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Lily whispered back, trying to sound like a tired eleven-year-old boy. She didn't know how well it worked, but at least no further inquiry came from the other side of the bed curtains.

"Too close," she whispered to herself in her customary lisp and put the dolls under their pillow. Tom or Jay could put them back in the morning. She was awfully tired and the momentary scare had taken even more of her energy.

As their body slowly relaxed and fell asleep, none of them knew that Blaise still lay awake, pondering the enigma that was Harry Potter.

Blaise Zabini never acted without thinking. It was a habit that had served him well all his life, particularly now that he'd been Sorted into Slytherin House. It was not an inclination he wished to discard.

And yet...

The problem was, he had nothing to act on. All he had were vague suspicions that felt more like a thick mental fog than anything useful. Clearly, something was wrong with Harry Potter. But what that something was, Blaise hadn't the faintest.

The childish laughter last night after curfew had been only the last event in the string of several perplexing actions. The way Harry's voice changed sometimes. The way he palled around with Granger, the swot in Ravenclaw with too much hair and too many books. The times Blaise could have sworn there was someone else behind those slightly befuddled green eyes, someone watching him with an intensity that bordered on creepy. Even the way Harry's handwriting changed from class to class, sometimes sprawling and messy, other times neat and cramped.

But there was nothing truly concrete, nothing he could really point to and proclaim its oddity to anyone else, and it frustrated him.

Even now, as he walked to Potions with Potter, who looked grainy-eyed with exhaustion and kept fidgeting with his fringe, Blaise realized that something was off. His friend's voice was pitched just a little too high, particularly with his overall state of tiredness, and his eyes were downcast, not up and peering around like they normally did.

But what could he do? He trusted the Headmaster about as much as he trusted a dead newt. Professor Snape? But his Head of House would want proof, and as of yet, Blaise could give him none.

So instead, he resolved to watch and wait and see what happened. He would figure out what lay behind those cloudy green eyes and ragged mop of black hair if it was the last thing he did. A Zabini did not give up.

~*~*~ 

The system was not having a good day.

For one, they were utterly exhausted and felt like the body could topple over at any moment, soundly asleep. What little sleep they'd gotten had been broken and filled with nightmares.

For two, somehow, the nightmares had stirred up Kitten. She kept pacing inside, looking outside with her customary seductive pout firmly on red-stained lips. She didn't want to wait until they were alone to come out. She wanted to meet the Professor. She wanted to have fun. If she couldn't have fun at Hogwarts, she wanted to go home. Uncle Vernon would provide her with all the fun she wanted, and the thought of that made everyone else feel sick.

Let me out, she insisted for the nth time. Raven was currently the one fronting, doing her best to write her Potions notes legibly and not fall asleep drooped over the table. Professor Snape would kill her if she did that. She'd already seen what had happened to a hapless Gryffindor first year when he'd had the misfortune to doze off. In the middle of the lecture, Snape had stalked over, dropped a handful of very heavy books right next to the boy's head and informed him icily, when he'd leapt up in fright, that he had a week's worth of detention.

No, Tom stated, just as firmly back. He was at his wits' end with the sultry teenager. She couldn't be allowed to front, he knew that. Her appearance couldn't be hidden, and there would be far too many questions. But she was wearing on the frayed edge of his last nerve.

All right, he finally said when he could control his temper enough not to shout at her. It wasn't her fault that she was bored and wanted an outlet. She was used to coming out every week at the barest minimum. And she'd accustomed herself to things that made even him feel sick.

You can come out this evening, when we go down to the lake, he continued. As long as we are by ourselves. Do I make myself clear?

Perfectly, Kitten said, pursing her lips in a flirtatious manner before sauntering off to her usual corner. Tom rubbed his forehead and sighed. He was getting one wicked migraine...

Thankfully, Raven's fearful predictions of falling asleep in class did not come true, and they actually managed a fitful nap before dinner. Although Blue ended up the one out to pick at it with the edge of her fork and hover nervously at the end of the bench, no one else seemed to notice Harry's slightly odd behaviour. Even Blaise seemed distracted this evening, having an animated conversation with a third-year Ravenclaw at their table.

Good, Tom sighed in relief. It made it that much simpler to slip away for a bit of private time outside. When they had finished their dinner and slid off the bench and out of the Great Hall, no one noticed they'd even left.

No one, that is, but the regularly hawk-eyed Potions professor.

~*~*~ 

Kitten sat down underneath a slightly bent tree and sighed in pleasure, kicking off the already worn and slightly tattered boys' sneakers with a wince of disgust, and letting her bare feet luxuriate in the grass. It had been forever since she'd gotten to come out, and it was pleasant this time, being by herself. She so rarely was. And Uncle Vernie, as she affectionately referred to him, usually preferred her in either the cupboard or a dusty corner of the basement. Not outside, with the cool night air and the gentle rustle of the leaves.

Unbuttoning the first several buttons of their uniform shirt, Kitten leaned back against the tree, content to simply lie there and soak in the sight of the sun setting over the lake. It was beautiful, and Kitten liked beautiful things. Even Uncle Vernie had picked up on that. He'd once gotten her a vivid pink headband and a matching lingerie set, stuffed in a brown paper sack and thrust into the cupboard when no one else was looking. It had made her squeal in delight as she'd tried the things on. They still fit all right, even though she was in such a painfully small boy's body, instead of her own. It's like he'd known. A warm blush suffused her cheeks at the memory and she stretched, feeling every muscle across her chest and back twinge.

Everyone else was still at dinner, so Kitten had the whole lake-side to herself. Something she greatly appreciated, since otherwise, Tom would be after her to go back inside again. She scoffed, rolling her bottom lip between her teeth. There was nothing wrong with her being out. She knew how to act appropriately. Well-mostly. She wouldn't embarrass them, if that's what Tom was afraid of. She was fourteen, after all.

"Why are you out here by yourself, Potter?" Snape's cold tones drawled from right above her head, and Kitten barely stifled a shriek of surprise, leaping back and scraping her back painfully against the tree trunk. The stinging pain kept anyone else from fronting for a moment, leaving Kitten on her own.

"Just wanted some peace and quiet," Kitten managed to reply, peering up at the man. He was more handsome than she'd realized, his profile quite austere, yet striking. She bit her lip in a frown at the realization she had nothing to work with in this body. Wrong parts, flat chest, scruffy black hair instead of the longer, flowing red she was accustomed to, and slightly shabby robes instead of her preferred short skirts and heels. It was entirely not fair, and she had to squeeze her eyes tightly shut to hold back a few angry tears.

"Kindly find peace and quiet inside," Snape emphasized, slightly less harshly. "The perpetrators may have been caught, but no one knows if there are others who sympathize with them. It would be unwise to linger in deserted places alone."

"Sorry, sir," Kitten said, climbing slowly to her feet. She looked around for the detested shoes and found them a scant few inches away. "Sir, could you? Please?" She blushed as she placed her hands on his outstretched forearms, holding herself steady as she slipped her sneakers back on. His arms were warm, almost burning, beneath the sturdy black fabric, and she could hear her heart thumping painfully loud in her ears. As soon as both shoes were firmly on, she stepped back a bit, staring at the ground as if it were the most fascinating thing she'd seen in the world.

"Thank you, sir," she whispered and chanced a peek up. Professor Snape looked utterly baffled.

"To the castle, Potter," he finally said, and Kitten followed delicately behind him, her robes held up by one arm. 

Severus Snape was perplexed. It was not an emotion that he particularly enjoyed. He'd known that Harry Potter was nothing like his father. James Potter had been a brash, fame-seeking bully. He may have matured when he graduated Hogwarts, but his over-the-top, Gryffindor personality had grated on Severus's nerves like a chainsaw. Harry Potter was also very unlike Lily. He had acquired some of her studious ways and a bit of her sweetness, but he was far too withdrawn most of the time to be like his social butterfly of a mum. It pained Snape, but he knew better than to cling to a lie, no matter how beautiful it may be.

So he was his own person, and that was fine, albeit unusual. The thing Severus couldn't figure out was what kind of person was he? It seemed like it not only changed from day to day, but hour to hour! Accustomed to the quicksilver changes of children as the Potions Master was, Harry Potter was just a little too different. Changed a little too much.

Like now, for instance, Severus thought as he accompanied the boy back to the dungeons. He had not expected to find the first year outside, sprawled in the grass with his shoes off. His mouth had nearly dropped open in shock when Potter used him as a stepping post to put said shoes back on. It was a gesture only girls seemed to do, yet Potter was a boy.

Although he hadn't intended for one of their sessions to take place until the next night, it occurred to Severus that right now might be a perfect opportunity to get a better glimpse into the contradiction that was Harry Potter. As such, he directed the boy to his office, taking a secondary route that bypassed the corridor in which he'd been attacked.

"In here, Potter," he said perfunctorily, slipping in ahead, with a wave of his wand to the sconces set in the wall. They glowed brightly, chasing away the shadows that clung in grim persistence to the corners of the shelves and the slightly dusty edges of the walls.

"Yes, sir," Potter answered, and climbed up on one of Snape's guest chairs. As a general matter, the chairs in Severus's office were relatively comfortable. He only changed them to hard, wooden ones when he'd a particularly egregious miscreant sat in front of him. Still, the softness of the chair seemed no reason for the soft sigh of pleasure that escaped Potter's lips. If it hadn't been nearly deathly quiet in the office, he never would have heard it. As it was, he stared at the eleven-year-old hard, willing the puzzle to reassemble itself into anything approaching sense.

Since it didn't, Snape instead opened the conversation, striving to let Potter know that for these twice-weekly sessions, it was to be considered a safe space. While Snape would act on anything that went against the rules in any sort of overt manner, it was still a place for Potter to speak out about things that concerned him, and his own thoughts and feelings regarding the assault earlier in the year. Violent and profane language was allowed and to some extent, even encouraged.

As he spoke, Severus intently watched the boy. He'd begun to fidget, hooking his feet around the legs of his chair, and behaving, in nearly all respects, like someone entirely different from the child who'd sauntered into the dungeons with him. What was the matter with this boy? In frustration, Snape nearly snapped out for Potter to simply tell him what was wrong with him, but he swallowed it back with Slytherin-born instincts. Nothing would be gained and in all likelihood, quite a bit would be lost by him blundering ahead like a foolhardy Gryffindor.

"Do you understand, Potter?" Severus concluded and sat back, steepling his fingers in front of him. Potter nodded once, his gaze firmly directed at the floor. The stiff line of his shoulders bespoke a world of tension, and if Severus hadn't known better, he would have claimed that an aura of fear lay about the first year like a carefully gathered shroud.

"Well, then. We may as well get started. I do not wish to leap into any specifics, unless you wish to go into them yourself, Mr. Potter. But, perhaps this may do as a start. How do you feel about what took place earlier this year? Either the assault itself, the aftermath, or the revealing of the perpetrators?"

The change was extraordinary. The shoulders loosened, the feet casually unhooked themselves, and the face came up. Eyes brimming with both anger and a curious sort of arrogance.

"How the fuck do you think I feel?" Harry Potter retorted and smiled.

Severus blinked. The world rearranged itself briefly. For just a moment, a thought danced along the edges of his mind. The changes in behaviour, in personality, in appearance, they all meant something, but what? What? The thought skittered tantalizingly against his brain, then vanished. Nothing. No matter. He would find out, regardless of how long it took. At another time. Now, he had a very angry-looking eleven-year-old boy to handle. And that, he was more than capable of doing.

Really? Tom raged at Jay the entire time they walked back to Slytherin quarters. Jay couldn't stop smirking, an expression that even curled their lips outside. Could you not see he's already getting suspicious? Do you WANT to get caught?

Relax, Jay said dismissively as they slipped inside the common room. No one was around but a few older years in a corner, pretending to study. He went up to bed, performing the usual locking spell on their curtains and adding a warning alarm for when someone entered the room. He doesn't know a thing. No one does. Remember? Harry Potter is normal. A derisive snort escaped as he flopped back on the pillow, spreading his arms wide. Their earlier exhaustion had returned with a vengeance, and it felt good to simply lie down.

Dumbledore believes that, but Snape isn't that blind, Tom retorted. He sees more than most. Particularly being the Head of this House. We have to be careful. We've been far too lax with switching in front of other people, and it's going to bite us in the arse sooner or later.

My money's on later, Jay said lazily. Besides, it was fun. It's fun to fuck with him.

Be that as it may, Tom sighed. He knew talking about it any further was pointless. Jay was too busy riding the high of shocking the Potions professor to actually bother to calm down and listen to him. It had been a bit of fun, but at what cost? Tom was right. He knew he was. Snape was suspicious. The other professors might be soon, but he doubted it. Not unless something startling happened. But Snape was their Head of House. He had a knack for noticing what others didn't.

For that matter, he was fairly sure some of their friends had noticed something was off, as well. Not Theodore, that boy was oblivious (how had he made it in here again?), but Blaise. Possibly Hermione, although he doubted Hermione cared, even if she'd noticed. She had precious few friends, even among the studious bookworms of her own kind, and cherished the few friendships she did have.

He couldn't keep as tight a hold here. Vernon wasn't here. Petunia wasn't here. They weren't being abused anymore (although the ever-present threat of returning to the Dursleys was always there, staining their thoughts), and so the system was growing a bit wild. Pushing the boundaries, testing what was okay and what wasn't. It was unacceptable and couldn't be allowed to continue.

You could tell someone, the thought crossed Tom's mind, but he firmly rejected it. No. Perhaps if there was no other choice, he'd attempt to explain it to someone, but until then?

The world could stay convinced that Harry Potter was normal.

That night, they dreamed. Badly.

Harry is four years old when his uncle hits him for the first time. Before this, Harry's punishment has been relegated to Aunt Petunia, who scolds him with harsh words that scour his ears and who throws him in his cupboard. He's lived in the cupboard since he was two, and is quite used to it by now, although he wishes it didn't smell so badly of cleaning products. Sometimes, Aunt Petunia also takes his food away and tells him only good little boys get food. Dudley is the size of a baby walrus, so Harry supposes that Dudley must be extra good to make up for his badness.

But when Harry accidentally knocks over one of Dudley's toys and breaks a tiny bit off the corner, it seems he has gone too far. He looks up, fright drying his throat, as Uncle Vernon lumbers out of his fat, squashy armchair, his face gone nearly purple in rage. Harry cowers, his back pressing uncomfortably against the corner of the wall, but it only seems to enflame Uncle Vernon more.

"Worthless freak," Vernon rumbles, and somehow, this tone is even more scary than his usual, half-drunken yell. His hand flies up, and suddenly, there is a bright flash of pain in Harry's face, and then another, as the hand makes a return trip. Tears spill down his face, catching in his eyelashes and soaking his collar, but he knows better than to make a sound.

Hush little baby, don't you cry, Mama's gonna sing you a lullaby...The fragile, sweet strains echo brokenly in his head, and for a moment, he can imagine his mum is right there with him instead, lifting him up into her arms and smoothing his sweaty hair back, kissing the tears away.

Instead, his uncle shoves him, knocking him against the wall and leaving a rapidly darkening indentation down his spine. This bruise will be noticed by a neighbour the next day when Harry is out to help carry in the shopping, and Aunt Petunia has to do some fast talking, making up something about Harry having poor balance. The fact that someone noticed, that they were questioned as if they were bad parents! leads to another slap across the face. Harry always remains silent.

Harry is five years old when his uncle uses his belt on him. He has let a plate slip from nerveless fingers when Dudley kicked him. But of course, that does not matter to the bristly-mustached monster who styled himself Harry's uncle. His belt is looped around a meaty fist and flailing against Harry, wherever he can catch him, so quickly, Harry has time scarcely enough to blink. It hurts, it feels like Uncle Vernon is flaying his skin off in strips, but Harry still doesn't make a sound. His bottom lip caught between his teeth, he writhes and jerks in his uncle's grip until finally, the man's anger is satisfied and Harry is flung into his cupboard. He is not allowed to leave the house for three days.

More fragments of memory sliding past all of them like a fractured kaleidoscope. Somewhere deep inside the system, Freak stirred. Lost in the chaotic world of nightmares, Tom failed to notice as the boy unconsciously slipped past him to front. The body twisted and turned on the bed, tangling the sheets into a sweat-slimed mess.

Freak awoke, shivering like mad from the sweat drying on his skin. Tears already spurted from his eyes, dripping down red, raw cheeks. He had no idea where he was, he only knew that he should not be in a bed. Not a bed like this, in particular! It was so soft and warm. The blanket was a deep, emerald green, and Freak stroked it once with hesitant, slightly grubby fingers before realising what a bold move that was.

Peeping out from the bed curtains, he saw he was in a large dormitory-style room, with several other beds and presumably occupants. Everyone else seemed to be asleep. Still shivering in fear, looking around cautiously for Uncle, Freak grabbed a pillow and the lowest sheet, sliding under the bed to sleep. It seemed as good a place as any, and at least this way, he was out of the way. It wouldn't be easy for Uncle to find him and kick him awake like he usually did under the smirking pretense of "I didn't see you there."

Curling up tightly around his pillow, thumb tucked securely in his mouth, Freak tried to fall asleep again.

More nightmares. Always more nightmares.

When Harry is eight, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia think it will be funny to make him believe he's been abandoned at the supermarket. They leave him there in the parking lot for almost an hour before they come back. Uncle Vernon is laughing, one of those deep belly laughs that makes his whole body shake, and for a moment, Harry thinks he hates him. He stands there shivering, the sleeves of his sweatshirt pulled over his hands, and finally climbs into the car, curling his body against the door when it shuts, and trying to ignore Dudley's smirking, taunting face.

At ten, Harry finds himself trapped in a corner of the basement, ludicrously dressed in a satiny pink girl's outfit. It is too big for him and droops around his starving, unwashed body. Uncle Vernon approaches, but he holds no belt, has no clenched fist. His smile is vulpine and Harry feels like crying for a moment before Kitten takes over, sashaying toward Uncle Vernie with a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. Hi baby, I missed you, she whispers, and then Uncle Vernon's arms are around her, stroking down the pale line of her back, rucking up the satiny outfit in rustly bunches.

When the Hogwarts letter comes, Harry is sure he's finally gone mad. It couldn't be possible. Even though Hagrid has explained it to him ten times over, he cannot believe it. When the next day comes and he still has his things, his wand and books and even his speckled white owl (who has been inexplicably named Hedwig), he finally believes that it is real, and that magic is real, and that he is going to escape, he is going to be free, and the tears soak his shirt until Aunt Petunia raps hard on the door and tells him to get up and make breakfast before Vernon gives him a good thwack for being lazy, and he jumps up in a hurry, spilling his new school books all over the floor. It takes five minutes to pick up and Uncle Vernon delivers the aforementioned thwack to his shoulder, impressing a vivid blue-purple bruise into the skin (although he can't remember it), but the smile never leaves his face.

And so he might have kept smiling, until the alarm went off and suddenly, he was being pulled out into the dim light of the dormitory, blinking and thrashing. And Blaise was there, asking what on earth he was doing under the bed, and Harry had no answer. No answer at all.

As Tom looked up at Blaise's concerned face and Theo's inquisitive one, he realised that sometimes, the best way to lie is to mix in a bit of the truth. Allowing Harry's nervousness to show through in a quick bite of his bottom lip, Tom struggled to his feet, sitting on the edge of the bed, with his friends beside him. Judging by the look in Blaise's eyes, Jay's half-formed thought of passing it off as a personality quirk was ill-advised.

"Why were you sleeping under the bed?" Blaise questioned. His voice held a hard note that Tom inwardly approved of, although he couldn't let it show. He let his feet swing against the bed, thumping against the polished wood of the frame for a moment, thinking.

"I'm used to it," he finally answered, keeping it simple. "The Dursleys-the people I live with-they aren't very nice to people with magic. Until I got my letter, I didn't even know I hadmagic." (Which was more or less the truth, at least for Harry.)

"So they made you sleep on the floor?" Theo piped up, his eyes round and owl-like. Tom shrugged, swinging his feet harder.

"Not...exactly," he prevaricated. "It just feels safer sometimes. They could get awfully loud. I mean, they never really hurt me or anything. But it isn't very pleasant."

Blaise looked like he didn't believe a word out of "Harry's" mouth. Theo looked more trusting, yet still worried his lip between his teeth in confused thought. Damn it. Tom didn't want to let any more of the cat escape out of the bag. Run your mouth off too much, after all, and you'd end up blurting out everything.

"I think you're not telling the whole truth," Blaise finally said. "And I don't like that. But..." the boy hesitated. "I hope you know you can tell me or Theo anything."

"Of course," Tom nodded, trying to look as much like Harry as he could. He'd never been more acutely aware of the differences between them. Even sleep-rumpled and just out of bed, he was more alert, more on edge than their perpetually befuddled host.

Blaise stared at him for a long moment, his dark eyes making the system as a whole feel exposed and uncomfortable, before he nodded and gracefully got up. Theo bounced up next to him, nearly smacking his head on a bed post.

"In that case, can we get ready and go to breakfast? I'm starved," Theo grinned. With a slight smile of relief, Tom faded back in and let Jay take over, who was soon dressed and out of there with a ready-made smirk and a near-strut in his steps. They'd put off the inevitable, at least for a bit. But now Tom knew that Blaise, for certain, was suspicious. And if they couldn't fob off an eleven-year-old, no matter how cunning, how could they hope to hide this from the entirety of the wizarding world for any length of time?

It was a sobering thought, and a wholly unpleasant one. They were scarcely two months into the school term, and already, the secrecy was falling apart before their eyes. At least Harry still hadn't the faintest what was going on in his own head, but it wasn't really a relief when you realised that all Blaise had to do was open his mouth when Harry was out, and their host would be thrown into more turmoil than he knew how to deal with. And wouldn't that be a fun job to clean up.

Conflicted as he was, Tom ended up letting Jay front for the entirety of classes, only regretting it a few times when Jay decided it would be fun to bewitch Professor Binns' desk to keep creeping, ever so slowly, around the perimeter of the classroom, and when he thought it a brilliant plan to turn Seamus Finnegan's hair blue. For his twin, he explained oh so innocently when Tom discovered what was going on and glared at him. It had been amusing to watch the perplexity grow on Binns' mostly transparent face, and Seamus hadn't even noticed for nearly twenty minutes (despite surreptitious, muffled giggling), so Tom subsided and merely admonished Jay to remember to be discreet.

Discretness was not a trait they possessed that evening, however, when they entered the Great Hall and realised it was already Halloween. Somehow, they'd been so lost in their own thoughts they'd forgotten.

The decorations were outstanding, although even Jay could have done without a live bat accidentally splashing down into his pumpkin juice. Even Harry, switching out somewhere in the middle for a good helping of sweet potato mash and a lively discussion on the levitation charm with Theo, found himself amused and delighted by the Halloween spirit that had infected the whole of the Great Hall. The only dark spot on the night was the recollection that this was when Harry became an orphan. Never before had Harry had a proper time to mourn, and surrounded by witches and wizards, juvenile as they may be, it all crowded back.

When it became too much, Tom came back out. He knew that he himself had been forced into Harry's body on this night, separated from his other self, but it wasn't a subject that troubled him very badly. The fact that Hermione was missing from the Ravenclaw table did and judicious questioning uncovered the fact that Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas had been mercilessly teasing her (apparently taking up where Weasley left off) and she'd taken refuge in the girls' loo. Raven wanted to leap up from the table right then and there and go in search of her, but Tom gently persuaded her into calming and understanding that was a bad idea.

We'll find her after the Feast, all right? Tom reassured Raven, who finally looked at him with big eyes and nodded, her countenance troubled. We'll even bring her a dessert or two, wrapped up in a napkin, he added, and watched Raven's face light up. That was better.

And that was their plan until Professor Quirrell stumbled through the main doors, babbled something about a troll, and promptly fainted onto the floor.

The entire room was in an uproar, panic spreading over the students like a wildfire, before Dumbledore got to his feet and ordered calm, detailing what was to be done.

Sure, send the Slytherins and the 'Puffs to their dorms when their dorms are in the bloody dungeons with the troll! Jay added scathingly. Tom couldn't help but agree with this assessment. It would have been much safer to keep the children in the Great Hall, ward the doors, and set off with a few professors to find the troll, leaving the rest behind to guard the student body.

Perhaps the rest of Slytherin House also sensed this, because none of them seemed very willing to move, only grudgingly budging up when the prefects started chivvying them along. Tom got up obediently with the rest, then froze when Raven's panicked thought spread through the system.

Hermione didn't know about the troll.

Making a lightning-quick decision, Jay forced himself out and began edging his way toward the opposite door, hoping that Blue or Raven could help him find the girl's lavatory. A hand clamped down on his wrist, and Leigh nearly ended up catapulted out. Jay glanced up and found Blaise, a strange dogged look in his eyes.

"Where are you going?" Blaise demanded. Jay shook his head. There was no time for this. His twin and Raven were both clamouring at him, and the ensuing noise made him want to clap his hands over his ears.

"Granger," he finally said, impatient. "She doesn't know about the bloody troll, and Flitwick's sodded off with the rest of the professors, so I've no one to tell."

"Good point," Blaise acknowledged. "Oi! Theo!"

Theodore Nott clambered over a blockage of chairs.

"Yeah?" he asked breathlessly.

"Come on," Blaise decreed. "We're going to find Granger. Where is she, d'you know?" He directed this last bit at Jay, who bristled at the near-effortless way the taller boy had taken command.

"The loo," he answered shortly. Theo's eyes widened, but the trio ended up sliding out of another door, ignoring the ruckus that was swiftly spreading throughout the rest of the building.

The corridor the girl's loo was located in was a lot quieter, and Jay took a moment to soak in the silence as they walked. His wand was out, gripped tightly in his fist. He doubted they would find the troll. It was supposed to be in the dungeons, at least a floor away. But it didn't feel right, even to him, to leave Granger weeping and moaning in a lavatory, entirely unaware of the potential danger.

This is so stupid, so bad, we're gonna get caught, we're gonna be in trouble, we're gonna get caught! Freak constantly whimpered in his head, a breathless litany of terror that made him feel slightly weak-kneed. He ignored it, though. They weren't going to get caught, and they certainly weren't going to end up in trouble. Not if he had any say about it.

"Do you...smell something?" Theo asked, crinkling his nose. Jay smelled it at the same time, a disgusting mixture of unwashed socks and molding food.

Troll! Tom nearly yelled in alarm, coming out and pulling both companions to his side, out of way in a nearby alcove. Not a moment too soon, for the troll came slowly into view around the bend, only twenty or so feet away.

It was a monstrous creature, the system thought, peeking round the wall at it. Standing over seven feet tall, looking like a mass of boulders come to life. Beady eyes scanned the hallway for signs of life, but it didn't appear too bright, at least.

The only problem-as all three children realised simultaneously-was that it was standing inches away from the girl's bathroom.

There are some things you do without a plan, without thinking, and only while doing them do you realise how utterly stupid they are.

Which was the precise conclusion Jay came to as he erupted from behind the corner, straight into the troll's line of sight, while making a variety of loud and unpleasant noises.

"What are you doing, Potter, get back here!" Blaise hissed, grabbing at him, but his hand slid off Jay's arm. The troll had come to a halt, blinking in shock at him. He could see Hermione's shocked and slowly-turning-to-terror face behind the troll, framed in the doorway of the bathroom, and he jerked his head at her, trying with all his might to get her to stay in the damned room. It seemed to work, because the next glance he threw in that direction revealed nothing but an empty doorway.

Slowly, the troll began to lumber toward him as he jogged backwards, raising its club in one moss-infested hand. Thin, grimy lips peeled back from broken, yellowed teeth as the troll did its best to grin at him. Of course. He must seem a veritable treat, running around like this. Blaise and Theo were still pressed against the wall. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying went, and even as the troll went past them, it didn't notice the two first years. Only Jay. Of course.

"Oi, fuckface! Come on," Jay taunted. He tossed a quick glance over his shoulder, seeing the wall coming up fast. When he turned back around, the troll's club was headed right for his face. Shit, he thought and dodged to one side, crashing into the wall as the club just missed him. Chips of stone peppered his face and neck, dirtying his robes with grey dust. The troll stopped for a moment, seemingly baffled at the fact the heavy club had not smashed in a noisy human's skull, then tugged it free from the masonry.

Jay pelted back down the hallway he'd just jogged down, making his way straight for the girls' loo, where Blaise, Theo, and Granger had all clustered. Hermione looked ready to faint, and Theo didn't look much better. Blaise just looked angry, and Jay knew he'd been in for it when this was over. Well, if they were all alive by then.

"Quick, in, in!" Jay panted, and shoved past them into the lavatory as they slammed and locked the door behind him. It wasn't much of a barrier, but it should provide at least a small hindrance to the small-brained mountain troll.

"Now what?" Hermione hissed at him. Her face was so pale, it was a miracle she hadn't keeled over already, but at least her wand was held in a minimally-shaking hand. "We're trapped in here now! With that-that thing out there!"

"But he's not in here yet, that's the point," Blaise informed her, terse. "And maybe he won't be able to come in here..." His eyes darted around the relatively small room. "Here. D'you know how to rip a door off?"

"What?" Hermione blinked. Jay knew at once what Blaise was getting at and with the rest of the system's help, managed to unscrew one of the stall doors and jammed it up against the door. Makeshift barricade, at your service.

The troll's bellow echoed down the corridor outside, and the foursome mutually blanched. Despite Jay's daredevil stupidity out there, he did not want to face a full-grown mountain troll any longer than he had to.

"Hurry!" Theo gasped. Sweat rolled down his face in large, shiny droplets as he and Hermione struggled to pull off another stall door. It clattered to the floor, and they could almost hear the troll renew its interest in this room. Shit.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Hermione whispered, flicking her wand at the door, which rose up unsteadily and stacked itself against the entrance. Just in time, since the club smashed through the top half of the door not ten seconds later.

Hermione screamed and backed up, nearly smashing her head on the exposed hinges of one of the stalls. The others didn't scream, but looked just about as petrified. Jay stood out in front of the other three, feeling utterly stupid as he held up his wand. The troll's face briefly shoved itself through the top bit of the splintered door, snarling as wooden fragments pattered down around it.

Oh, this has gone far enough, Tom snarled, and pushed his way out. Lifting up his wand, he murmured, "Stupefy!" and red light blasted the troll in the face. It disappeared with a ground-shaking thud, and the rest of the door pushed itself in a bit with the impact.

"What was that?" Blaise blinked in surprise.

"I read ahead in Defense," Tom shrugged and sat down on abruptly shaky legs. Outside, they could hear a lot of noise, as the teachers had apparently finally realised where the troll had gone off to, and were doing their best to put the corridor to rights. Finally, the door was heaved out of its frame, and Professor Snape filled it. He looked impossibly angry.

"And just what do you think you all were doing?" he snapped.

"Looking for Hermione," Tom spoke up. "She didn't know about the troll, you'd all left, none of the prefects would have been able to listen in that din. Weren't expecting the troll to come up here, though!"

Blaise and Theo nodded, while Hermione flushed a startlingly red colour.

"That was...unbelievably foolish, Potter," Snape said in scathing tones. "However-I suppose most first years, when trying to assist a friend, could not have come up with better. And you are all still alive." His dark eyes scanned the room, surprisingly clean for the near-battle it had just endured. "Fifteen points from Slytherin, five from Ravenclaw, and all of you are to go to to the Hospital Wing at once for a check-up."

"Yes, sir," all four chorused, relief brightening their voices. Snape nodded once at them and then turned to leave.

"Is he...limping?" Theo whispered, pointing at the man's dragging leg. His robes swirled around them the wrong way just once, and they all saw a rather bloodied gash down the front.

"I wonder what that's from," Hermione murmured, her curiousity coming back full force now that she wasn't ready to be smashed into the nearest wall by a mountain troll.

"We'll find out sooner or later," Tom said, and led the way out of the room, straight for Madam Pomfrey. Another hospital visit, another expenditure of magic to hide their overall condition. That at least was easy. Far easier than considering why their Head of House looked like he'd been in a fight with a bear and lost.

And even more easy compared to trying to explain away their flinches and personality changes and vocal differences to their ever-sharp-eyed friends.

Hermione Granger had never been one for friends.

In primary school, she'd been isolated. Her books kept her company. Her mum and dad were always prodding her to go and talk to people, trying to arrange play dates all the time, but they were awkward and nearly silent. She would end up bursting out with odd tidbits of information gleaned from her newest pile of library books, and that would usually be that. Oh, she had a few friends, carefully acquired from the scant handful of others who liked learning as much as she did. But until Hogwarts, Hermione had always been more than content to spend life tucked away in a library or a classroom, learning as much as she could, and always by herself. When she'd been Sorted into Ravenclaw, she'd almost been assured the trend would continue.

And then Harry Potter had come along while she was sniffling into a library book, and that assurance shattered.

She'd never had a friend like that before. A friend who challenged her. Harry was smart. He could have passed for a Ravenclaw at times. But it was more than that. None of her primary school friends would have sat there and hugged her while she cried and given her their own handkerchief when hers was soggy and joked about what could be done with Weasley or the other Gryffindor bullies who tended to plague her because she was smart and liked giving the answers. None of her primary school friends would have cajoled her into eating proper meals because they cared, or actually helped her with her homework, because they would have assumed she already knew the answers, and never realized that sometimes, Hermione hadn't the faintest.

Until Harry came along, Hermione had never had a friend, and she didn't take that lightly. When Harry had been attacked in the corridor and stuck in the hospital wing for days, Hermione had cried herself to sleep every night until he was safe in the Slytherin dormitory. She'd also visited him every day, although she didn't always stick around until he was awake. She felt too embarrassed.

But regardless of transient feelings of embarrassment, Hermione had a fierce loyalty toward her first real friend and that is why, the morning after Halloween, she resolved to find out what was wrong with him at all costs.

Because something had to be wrong.

He was too...different. His voice, his eyes, his mannerisms, they would all change in the blink of an eye. And they were subtle changes, was the thing. Hermione had pushed them away for ages, convinced that they could be merely chalked up to the differences inherent in an eleven-year-old's growing up process. But then last night happened.

The way he'd taken charge like that, leading the troll down the hallway, then barking out orders about the barricade-he'd been a Harry Hermione had never known. Almost like a bloody Gryffindor, to be honest, dashing about like that, never caring what might happen next. But then, he'd changed utterly. His face had looked cold, remote. The anger on it had cooled, solidifying into a sheer, icy sort of rage that made Hermione quiver in her shoes. And Stunning the troll? Harry might be damned good at Defense, but he wasn't that good. Both he and Hermione had already studied the theory, but they weren't up to practising it yet, even if they could finagle a professor into assisting them. ...Again.

But if Harry hadn't learnt Stupefy with her, where had he learned it? A prickle of hurt lined her throat at the thought of him going off and learning spells without her. That wasn't what friends did, was it? Not proper friends at any rate. Blaise wouldn't do that to Harry. Or Theo. She didn't know either of them very well yet, but she knew that. Did that mean he didn't want to be her friend anymore?

He'd been friendly enough at breakfast, though. Giving her an enthusiastic wave and a beaming smile, wriggling about on the bench like a half-mad eel. That didn't seem to be the actions of someone who didn't want to be friends. No, there had to be something wrong with him, and Hermione was determined to find out what it was. With that in mind, she headed straight to the library. The other day, she was sure she'd seen a muggle Psychology section. Perhaps that would be a good place to start. One way or the other, she was going to figure out what was going on with Harry Potter and help him if it killed her.

The library had precious little on Muggle Psychology, and most of it had to do with mood disorders or ADHD. Still, there were a few books on more than simple mood disturbances, and it was on these that Hermione focused most of her time. Schizophrenia? But Harry didn't seem psychotic. He didn't hear voices or see things, did he? He'd never mentioned anything of the sort to her at least. OCD was right out, that sounded nothing like Harry.

It was only a footnote, really, that Hermione spotted and that was more a bit of luck than anything else, as her patience was growing thin, and she'd been skimming the last few chapters. Just a footnote on the bottom of the page.

A footnote about a mental condition known as Dissociative Identity Disorder.

It was when Hermione was busy hustling out of the library, intent on actually making it to dinner on time for once, that she ran smack into Professor Snape, tumbling backward and smacking her head on the wall with a dull thump. Her vision swam and for a moment, it seemed like two stern-faced professors were leaning down to ensure that she was all right.

"Miss Granger?" the professor's voice broke through the fog that had infiltrated her senses as she felt her head gently tugged forward and his hand cup the back of her skull, checking for bumps and bruises. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir," she murmured, slightly breathless. Her cheeks flushed brilliantly in embarassment. Even moreso when she realised her stack of library books had also tumbled around his feet. Including the books on muggle mental disorders. Great. Now her Potions professor was likely to think her barmy.

He said nothing, however, merely inclined his head in a way that told her to stay put for a moment, and gathered together her books for her, piling them in a neat stack and placing them on the floor next to her.

"You've a nasty bump on the back of your head, Miss Granger," Snape informed her. "I'd prefer you go to the Hospital Wing for it. Either before or after dinner, but before bed tonight. I'll inform your Head of House as well to keep an eye on you overnight. Concussions can be unpleasant things, and Madam Pomfrey cannot heal one in the snap of her fingers."

"Yes, sir," Hermione mumbled, struggling to her feet despite his squinted glare. He hesitated before standing as well.

"You don't need to answer, Miss Granger, you are not in trouble but I was curious-why so many Muggle psychology books? On mental disorders, no less?"

She bit her lip, indecisive. It's not like she knew, after all. She wasn't a psychologist. Or any kind of doctor at all! But he was Harry's Head of House. And she could tell sometimes that he cared about Harry, even if he didn't seem to want to admit it. He didn't like admitting he cared about any student, Hermione thought. And maybe he could help Harry when she couldn't. That thought more than anything else swayed her as she carefully plumped back down, pulling her robes tight around her knees.

"It's Harry, sir," she began softly, and it all came spilling out. The gestures, the vocal changes, the Stupefy! In particular, she kept coming back to Harry stunning the troll, Harry using a far-too-advanced-for-his-year defense spell. The way his personality changed in an instant. Her research, tentative and scanty though it was. The condition known as Dissociative Identity Disorder, or "multiple personalities."

"I don't know, sir, but I thought you should know," she finally finished, twisting her hands anxiously in her lap. She had almost entirely missed dinner now, and she knew Harry would be worried, but this was important. "I'm really worried about Harry and I don't want anything bad to happen to him, and if he does have that, that means his family might be the ones who hurt him, and..." Tears bubbled to the surface as she voiced the thing that concerned her above all others. If he did have this condition, this DID, how did he get it?

"Thank you for telling me your concerns, Miss Granger," Snape noted. His hand patted her shoulder in a clumsy gesture of comfort. "I had noted some peculiarities but chalked them up to normal adolescence. I will keep an eye on Mister Potter, you can be assured of that! Now, go down to dinner and then to the Hospital Wing. That's an order," he said, but the lines crinkled around his eyes belied it. A shaky smile spread across Hermione's lips as she rose again to her feet, slightly unsteady, but manageable.

"And five points to Ravenclaw for helping a friend," she thought she heard him say, but when she turned around, he was gone.

Harry, or rather, Raven, had indeed noted Hermione's absence but at the moment, they had their own problems. A chance argument Harry had stumbled on in the courtyard had set off a rather nasty chain reaction inside and it was all anyone could do to stop Freak from fronting. As it was, Tom's hands kept trembling and his shoulders hunched every time someone raised their voice or made the slightest movement toward him.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it, we should be above this! He couldn't help but think. This was Hogwarts, not Privet Drive. There were no Dursleys here. No Uncle Vernon with his blustering tomato-red face and well-worn belt, no Aunt Petunia to aim a soapy frying pan. No Dudley, all bluster and swinging fists. The professors might be strict, some to the point of irritation, but so far, not even Snape had truly, properly yelled at them.

Nor did it help to hear Raven's constant anxious queries inside about where Hermione was. Tom ended up snapping he hadn't the faintest and felt a moment's abashment when Raven cringed back inside, looking chastened.

I'm sorry, Raven, Tom instantly apologized. It's just...it's getting to me. I'm sorry.

It's all right, she accepted, but she still looked terrified and he knew it wasn't. Shit. At the moment, he was nearly ready to say fuck it and let Freak front anyway, but just then, Hermione hurried into the room, looking none the worse for wear, save the way her hand kept stealing up to rub at the back of her head.

Still, the smile she flashed their way was bright enough. It certainly cheered Raven, and prevented her incessant worrying, a fact that pleased Tom to no end, no matter how the guilt bit at him. It was good for them to have a friend. A proper friend. And at least she never looked at them in that particular searching way Blaise had, or cornered them in the dorm to probe about their home life. A true friend, Tom thought in blissful ignorance of the conversation that Hermione and their Head of House had held not ten minutes before. Knows to keep her nose out of our business! It didn't help much, but it quelled the perpetual panic attack they had going on, pushing it aside for a later time, a safer time.

When lights-out took place and Tom sat cross-legged in the bed, silencing spells up and multi-layered, locking spell on the curtains firmly in place, the system fell apart.

A week passed. The sessions with Professor Snape proceeded as always, but there was a particularly piercing look in his eyes now when he looked at Harry that made the whole system acutely uncomfortable. It wasn't a sleazy sort of look-nothing like how Uncle Vernon looked at Kitten, thank Merlin!-but nevertheless, it was unsettling. And new. They didn't like new things. New things tended to herald "bad."

Hermione kept looking at them oddly, as well. If she wasn't looking at them like they were a new and fascinating sort of bug, she was staring at them with such naked pity in her eyes, even Tom felt uneasy. She kept rushing off at odd times, her arms full of muggle psychology books. If Tom didn't know better, he'd say she was cracking under the strain of exams, but this was Hermione he was talking about. She thrived on academic stress, much like Raven did. The two really were destined to become the best of friends, he'd thought wryly more than once.

If Hermione had been in Slytherin, Tom would have thought perhaps Blaise had confided in her the snippets he'd let drop about their home life. But she was in Ravenclaw, and Blaise preferred to keep secrets like that in-House, no matter how chummy he might be with someone. And they weren't really friends, anyway. They were Harry's friends, which made them friendly, but they weren't real friends. So Tom was stumped, and with him, the whole system.

But they persisted and went about their life as best as they could until one gloomy, overcast Wednesday morning when Ron Weasley returned to Hogwarts.

Harry was completely unprepared for the suspension to be up, and he stood stock still in the Entrance Hall, watching the red-headed boy gingerly slip in with a slightly dumpy woman with frizzy red hair who must be his mum. She was lecturing him in a low enough tone that Harry couldn't hear it, straightening Ron's collar and flattening his hair.

"And be good!" Harry heard the parting admonition as Ron's mum straightened up, pulled her coat around her, and left.

Though there were many students milling through the Hall on the way to lunch, Harry felt like he was the only one, trapped in a spotlight with the Gryffindor first year. The one who'd participated in assaulting him. Who'd nearly thrown up on his shoes after landing the first punch. He felt sick. His stomach burned like it was on fire. Ron hadn't seen him yet, was too busy scanning the Hall for fellow Gryffindors, messing up his hair with a careless hand and pulling his trunk forward.

"Ron!" Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan bounded forward and Harry melted into the shadows by the staircase, feeling like he was going to sick up on his shoes at any moment. It was too much, and Tom neatly slipped forward, taking control of the body and keeping it hidden. He was quite interested to know how the return of Weasley would be received.

Very well, apparently, at least by his fellow House members. Finnegan clapped him on the back and Thomas smiled so widely, it looked like his face would split. Other Gryffindors passing by gave him at least a friendly nod. All is forgiven in Gryffindor House, is that right? Tom thought viciously, his fingernails digging into his palms. Never mind how he clearly exemplified his House traits by conspiring to beat up another student and then couldn't even handle what he'd done. Running away like a bloody coward. Perfect Lion, indeed. A snort escaped him, but no one heard it. They were well-hidden behind the heavy banister.

Ron looked around, much as a king might survey his kingdom, then turned toward Gryffindor Tower, Thomas helping him push along his trunk. It seemed nothing much had changed at all, save for an extra spattering of freckles on the boy's face.

Lovely, Tom slumped against the stairs when Weasel was out of sight, heaving a heavy sigh and scrubbing his hand through their untidy mop of hair roughly. The same arse he'd always been, at least at first glance. Clearly the suspension had done him good. Tom had never met Molly Weasley, but he knew that she'd lost family in the first war with Voldemort. Perhaps it was her fault Ron held such a casual, long-standing grudge against Slytherin House. In that case, spending two months home with her would have only served to further strengthen his prejudice and uphold his belief that he was in the right for hating Harry.

We don't fucking need this, Jay stated the obvious. He looked angry inside, tension thrumming through every muscle. No, but what choice did they have? It's not like they could leave Hogwarts. The Dursleys was a choice worse than Hell.

We could tell? Blue suggested tentatively. But Tom had already thought of it and discarded that consideration as swiftly as it had been born. No. No one could know that Harry Potter wasn't who he seemed. That his mind had shattered like a broken window. Perhaps if he trusted someone, he could consider it, but then again, he was a Slytherin.

And he knew they couldn't trust anyone.

Contrary to Harry's gloomy thoughts, Ron Weasley felt nothing but sick and ashamed upon his return to Hogwarts. He tried to cover it up with as much blustering and bravado as he could manage, but as soon as he was left alone in the dormitory by Seamus and Dean, who had to return to class, he slumped on his bed and let the facade drop.

He hadn't seen Harry in the Entrance Hall. Wasn't sure he'd wanted to, to be honest. How do you look a boy in the eyes after you've punched him? After you've participated in a gang assault that left said boy unconscious and bleeding in a dark corridor? How do you look a person in the face after you've nearly killed them? He didn't have the courage, and it made him feel sick. Some Gryffindor he was. All that so-called bravery had deserted him.

Ron didn't understand why Seamus and Dean were so glad to see him. Clapping him on the back, blurting out all that had happened during his suspension. Like nothing had happened. Like he'd merely been off sick, or perhaps on vacation. Even older Gryffindors seemed content to nod or smile at him, acknowledging him in their own lofty sort of way. He wanted to scream at them. To tell them to stop it, that they should hate him. Revile him. He was a monster, wasn't he?

His mum had certainly seemed to think so, especially at first. He'd never seen her so angry. She couldn't even speak to him for two days, his father had to pass on her wishes instead.

His mum had never touted Gryffindor's superiority. Never asserted that Slytherins were bad or evil, the 'slimy snakes' that started the war. No, that honour fell solely to his father, who filled his ears with tales when they were alone. Which wasn't often, considering his work at the Ministry and the fact that Ron was the second-youngest of seven children. There simply wasn't enough time in the day. So when Arthur took Ron along to mow the grass with a mostly-broken lawn mower he had "fixed up" with a few spells, or popped him up on the counter while Arthur fiddled with a Muggle this or that, he would tell the solemn red-headed child all about Hogwarts. And the Houses. And why Gryffindor was the best House (although of course, Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff weren't too shabby), and why he should never, ever end up in Slytherin.

"But why, Daddy?" Ron had piped up the first time he heard this, confused. Hogwarts was brilliant, wasn't it?

"Because Slytherin's where You Know Who came out of," Arthur had dictated, trying to fit a plug into a child's counting toy. "Bad witches and wizards are in Slytherin, Ronald. Without fail. If someone's in Slytherin, you know they're going to turn out rotten. Remember that, Ronnie. It's important."

And so Ron did remember it, remembered every word his father spoke, and when he came to Hogwarts and sat on the train with Harry Potter of all people, he was bedazzled and delighted beyond words, even if the Boy Who Lived seemed a bit...different than what he'd expected. A lot quieter, for one thing. Like he was shy. But why would the wizarding world's saviour be shy? Still, it's not like it mattered. He was Harry bloody Potter and Ron was friends with him!

And then the Sorting happened, and thus came the most massive sense of betrayal Ron had ever felt. Slytherin? How could Harry be in Slytherin? The Sorting Hat must have made a mistake! Only...the Sorting Hat didn't make mistakes. And faced between losing his first school friend and rejecting the only teaching his father had really seen fit to pass on, well, the choice was an easy one, wasn't it?

Only it wasn't so easy. Oh, it felt easy enough when Potter made a fool out of him at breakfast, and everyone laughed at him. It even felt easy when he overheard some older boys talking about how they'd like to "get" Harry and how he'd slyly slipped up to them, feeling clever, feeling like he was going to get the best of a slimy no-good snake. A Slytherin who had probably only defeated You Know Who because he didn't want the competition!

And then it had actually happened and he'd felt the impact of his fist sinking into Harry's side, and seen the blood slicking the boy's teeth and the way his eyes wobbled around, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't take it. His stomach heaved, he nearly vomited noisily all over his shoes, and he ran. Like a coward. A bloody coward who ended up dashing straight back to his room and hiding in the bed-curtains until the sour taste vanished from his mouth and he stopped trembling. And then the recriminations set in. How could he do that? How could he leave a classmate there like that? Monster.

His mother had called him a monster. She'd paled after she said it, and tried to take it back, but he knew the truth. He was. He was a monster. He'd hurt Harry Potter. Participated in attempted murder. For nothing but the sole "crime" of him being Sorted in a different House.

At least his dad had not escaped Molly Weasley's wrath. They'd nearly divorced when Molly found out the kind of lies Arthur had been filling her children's ears with. Ginny had watched, wide-eyed, as her world crumbled around her. But it was fine now. There was still a formal stiffness in the air, in the way the two interacted, but they would get through it.

Ron wasn't so sure that he could get through it himself. If they'd had the money, he would have begged for a school transfer, but as it was, they were lucky to afford Hogwarts. So he was stuck here. And stuck through Christmas holidays as well, because his parents were taking a trip by themselves to try and rekindle their marriage.

With my luck, Ron thought as he pushed himself up from the bed and began to pace around the room. Dinner could not come soon enough. I'll end up spending winter break with Harry Potter his-bloody-self.

Despite Blaise's sharp expression upon them, Tom felt nothing but relief as he signed the list that ensured they would be staying at Hogwarts over the winter holidays. To not have to see the Dursleys until summer break was the most exquisite Christmas present they could ever receive. Not even the knowledge that Ron Weasley would be staying at the castle over break as well, with all of his siblings, could shatter that sense of relief. They could ignore him. His fellow conspirators were expelled, and the trial of some was coming up in a month (and what a nerve-wracking experience that would be, even with Snape preparing them). He'd tried to deliver a clumsy, awkward apology the day after he returned, but Jay had told him to kindly sod off, attempted murderers weren't welcome. Blunt and a trifle cruel, but Weasel got the point and bumbled away. Blue had felt bad and wondered if he'd been genuine, but her twin had explained to her that in all likelihood, it was a forced gesture by Weasel's mum. And in any case, Ron had tried to kill them, so apology or not, he could fuck off.

Hermione was also staying at Hogwarts over break, something Raven kept babbling about inside with high-pitched excitement. According to her, they could spend the entire break studying and reading and more studying and reading ahead and more studying and... Implausible but cute, and Tom didn't have the heart to quiet her. She'd had precious little to be excited about, and her first real friend being there for Christmas was more than enough reason to be happy.

Blaise and Theo were going home. The only Slytherin first year that seemed to be staying was a very reticent girl named Millicent Bulstrode. She looked hulking and vaguely unpleasant, but from their limited interaction with her, Tom knew most of that was merely shyness. The girl had a crippling phobia of talking around people, a fact that more than one older student had decided to use to humiliate a "slimy snake firstie" who couldn't fight back. They'd all done their best to protect her, but there was only so much a fellow first year could do, even one with loads of other people in his head, including a remnant of You Know Who, and the girl looked more and more harried every day. Break would hopefully be a more pleasant experience for her-and would be, if Tom and Jay had anything to say about it.

Snape had told Tom that for the duration of winter break, their sessions were canceled, a fact that they all appreciated. While they had been quite helpful in preparing the system for the upcoming trial (although having to fix Harry's memory for them grew tiring), Snape's odd behaviour had continued and in fact, grown even stronger. A few times, Jay had seen himwith muggle psychology books, as well. If he'd been more paranoid, he would have assumed they were in an attempt to discover more about Harry, but that couldn't be it, could it? After all, Snape was the Head of Slytherin House. He probably had a lot of weird mental shit to deal with in his students. And Hermione was well, Hermione. Not a surprise at all for her to grow fascinated with a subject like that.

The first day of holiday dawned grey and chill. The morning was noisy and boisterous, with exuberant farewells shouted everywhere as students queued up to either travel back via the Hogwarts Express or in a few cases, travel directly by fireplace. But by mid-afternoon, an eerie silence had descended over the castle and Harry found himself wandering the corridors aimlessly, marveling at the thick air of isolation that had dampened even his footsteps. He knew there were other people there, but even when he came across one, it seemed off. Cold and silent. It gave him the creeps and although he hated it, he preferred this idle wandering to sitting alone in his common room or dormitory. Millie was staying behind as well, but she seemed to have decided the best course of action was staying locked up in her dorm, and boys weren't allowed in the girls' side.

Hermione was cooped up in the library as usual, but Harry didn't want to read. He'd had enough of studying for the year, and couldn't understand why Hermione wasn't the same way. Surely the girl took a break once in a while? But no, she seemed to actually like studying for its own sake and while Harry didn't mind learning or even picking up a book or two for fun, he couldn't identify with the single-minded devotion Hermione paid to her studies.

So it was a fairly gloomy-minded Slytherin first year who trailed down the echoing corridors until finally, he stumbled across a locked door. He stopped, brow creased in puzzlement. That was unusual. It was only the third-floor corridor. Most of the locked rooms were on the higher floors, spiraling up into the towers. Harry looked around. The torches flickered merrily, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. Nobody was around, and for once, Harry felt a tug of bravery flare to life.

He wanted to find out what was behind the locked door.

Tugging on it produced no results. He'd try to kick it in, but he was far too weak and anyway, the noise it would create would bring loads of attention. He was about to give it up for the day when a spell slipped through his mind. It was one he was almost certain he'd never seen before, though oddly familiar. Bringing his wand up with almost dreamy slowness, Harry pointed it at the lock and whispered, "Alohomora!"

And the door creaked open.

A thrill of delighted excitement shivered down Harry's spine and he pushed it further open, slipping inside and pausing to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

Only to soon wish he hadn't because there was an enormous dog with three heads in the room, overpowering the room honestly, and all three of its heads were now fixated on Harry. Thick ropes of slobber splattered against the floor and the rusted bronze ring of a trapdoor set almost directly beneath the dog. Cerberus, his mind supplied helpfully, only how was that meant to be helpful? Knowing what was about to bloody kill him!

A slow snarl rattled out of the dog's chest, enough to break Harry's paralysis. He turned, grabbed the door open, and sprinted out, slamming it shut against the ragged trio of howls and a massive paw that slipped out for a brief second, one claw snagging the hem of his robes and dragging a shallow, narrow gash down his leg. Collapsing against the wall, Harry sobbed for breath, wincing with pain as the sting of the dog's scratch made itself known. He pulled his robes up and gasped. It was messy. Bloody, but not too deep. He tore off a strip from the now tattered bottom of his robes and wound it around his leg, knowing that he should go to the Hospital Wing and knowing that he wouldn't. It was just a scratch, after all. Nothing big.

Still, he thought as he pulled himself to his feet and began to make his way shakily back to his dormitory, he'd had more than enough of exploring for one day!

As the days of Christmas break progressed, the system started to feel increasingly ill. At first, it was simply that odd, thick-headed feeling you get right before a cold or a bout of the flu. Then the aches and pains came, sinking rusty-edged teeth into Harry's joints and making him feel like a creaky old man when he got out of bed or a low-slung armchair. The chills occurred on Christmas Eve, enough for Harry to wrap up tightly in all of his ragged sweaters in an effort to keep warm. Nobody paid much attention to it, attributing it all to a cold. Unpleasant, but not life-threatening.

Besides, nothing could keep them from Christmas.

It was an excited Lily who woke up Christmas morning. For once, she did not have to censor her childish exclamations or stifle the shout of surprise she gave upon seeing the small, awkward pile of wrapped presents at the foot of the bed. Presents! They had presents! Just like Dudley, she thought and beamed, scrambling to open them in a burst of energy that swamped even the chills, pains, and low-grade fever. Tom had ensured they got their friends gifts, even Millicent and Draco (although it pained him to give Malfoy a present), but they hadn't been expecting much for themselves.

But presents they surely were, and addressed to "Harry Potter," no less. From his position inside, Tom cast a few discreet spells to ensure nothing was dangerous (he was not a Slytherin for nothing, after all), and let Lily have at it.

They got a book from Hermione. Of course. It was a book on the lineage of magic, and was quite interesting to Raven, although Lily found it boring and set it aside after a few moments. Tom could see Raven's fingers itching to pick it up and skim through it, and he consoled her to wait until Lily was done. She'd had precious few gifts, after all.

From Hagrid, strangely enough, they got a roughly carved wooden flute. Lily blew a few, out-of-tune notes on it and giggled at the raucous sound, clapping her hands and setting it on their pillow with more reverence. Theo had gotten them a very large box of Chocolate Frogs, and Blaise had selected a quill-and-ink set that was quite fancy, even by Tom's standards. The ink was poison green, and delightfully befitting Slytherin House.

Draco had sent them a generic-looking House scarf. Lily's nose wrinkled in distaste as she pushed it aside with her foot into the pile of crumpled wrapping paper. Tom couldn't hide his internal snort. It was something, however, and a gesture from Malfoy that spoke volumes. If even he was willing to send the Boy Who Lived a Christmas gift...

The Weasley twins had put together a very interesting-looking box full of school-boy pranks, and Jay nearly shoved Lily aside in his attempt to front and check them out before Tom once again rebuked him. Lily paid no attention, too interested in the last package, at the bottom of the pile (if you did not count the Dursleys' pathetic attempt at a present of a fifty-pence piece taped to an index card. No thanks.) It was fairly large and squashy, but there was no note attached to the outside.

Finally, Lily attacked it with childish exuberance, ripping off the paper and spilling what looked like a cloak made of starlight and water into her lap.

"Ooooh," she gasped, her eyes rounded in surprise and delight. "Pretty!" She held it up, shaking a bit, and a note fell out of the folds. Picking it up, she read: Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well. The writing was oddly curlicued, completely unrecognisable, and there was no signature.

"What's this?" Lily questioned the empty room. She bounded to her feet and twirled the cloak around, pulling it around her shoulders and giggling at the feel of it against her skin. It was an oddly watery, floaty texture that gave her chills. It wasn't until she happened to skip past the mirror that she realised and skidded to a stop.

Everywhere the cloak covered, her reflection vanished.

"You can't see me!" Lily gasped and pulled it completely over her head, peeking out at the mirror through the fabric. She'd vanished.

Inside, Tom was wobbly with shock. That's an invisibility cloak! he finally croaked out. Who had given them a bloody invisibility cloak? Tom finally coaxed Lily back in, with the promise of time spent out in the evening with her dolls and several chocolate frogs if she were good, and took control of the front himself. It was definitely an invisibility cloak, he thought, stroking the fabric and carefully folding it back up, stowing it in their trunk for the time being, beneath several layers of Dursley rags.

Your father left this in my possession before he died... James Potter had owned an invisibility cloak? Who would he have given it to? More importantly, who thought giving something as valuable as this to an eleven-year-old was a good idea? Tom kept as best of reins as he could on the system, but they were still impulsive, brash, hasty. Prone to making stupid decisions. Just like any other first year. There was an enormous chance they'd tear it, lose it, get it stolen...any manner of things. So why give them the cloak now?

He couldn't help but think it was part of some greater manipulation, but on whose part, he couldn't tell. Dumbledore's? But would the Headmaster actually give a child an invisibility cloak, Boy Who Lived or not? Tom would like to think the old git wouldn't, but he knew from personal experience how ill-conceived the man's plans could be, all in the name of "the greater good." It was possible.

Snape? No, that was a laugh. Snape would sooner pull out his own eyeball than give a first year an item that had such great potential for misuse. It was a puzzle, and Tom didn't like puzzles. Not like this. There was no denying the cloak could come in handy (particularly when allowing certain alters more freedom!), but its overall purpose in their Christmas presents was still a mystery.

No matter, he shook off the feelings and returned to properly getting dressed. A package that had fallen to the floor by accident revealed a very thick green wool sweater, apparently from the Weasley family matriarch, and he pulled it on with thanks. Being friends with the twins had its advantages, even if their younger brother was an utter twit, he thought with faint humour, collecting the small box full of keepsake keys for Millicent. They'd noticed ages ago that she liked to collect such things, and he'd thought it more fitting to hand her their present himself, rather than sending it by owl.

Millie was seated by the fire in the common room when he approached, her feet tucked up under her and a gloomy expression on her face. She had one of her spare blankets pulled round her shoulders. Tom sat down next to her, watching her start with surprise and look up at him.

"Sorry," he looked guilty. "Didn't mean to frighten you. You all right?"

"I suppose," she said, looking at the floor. "You?"

"Best Christmas ever," his mouth quirked in a wry smile. "Got your Christmas present here," he added and proffered the wrapped box. Her mouth fell open in shock.

"You did? Oh, blast, I'm sorry, I didn't get anything for you," she babbled apologies, fumbling for a chocolate frog out of her pocket. He waved it off.

"It's all right," Tom smiled. "Just wanted to get you something, is all. Go on, open it!"

For a moment, he thought she was going to burst into tears when she saw the antique keys laid out in the small velvety box. Her eyes were certainly a bit watery, and her smile trembled.

But she managed a thank you, and gently tucked away the box, her fingers lingering on the edges with a soft sweetness that made Tom smile. Made all of them smile, really.

"I noticed you collected keys," he offered, a bit awkwardly. "Saw those and well, I had to."

Millie smiled again, more genuinely, and pushed her hair behind her ears.

"I wasn't really okay," she said abruptly. "My mum-my mum and I don't get along. Never have. Never will. She doesn't think I'm girly enough. Not feminine enough for her tastes. You know? Apparently her best Christmas idea was to send me a giant box of makeup and fripperies and tell me if I don't learn how to be a proper girl, I might as well not bother calling myself her daughter." Now the tears overflowed, spilling down her cheeks in salty runnels, and before Tom could think about it, Blue had slipped out and was pulling the girl into a clumsy hug.

"I'm sorry," Blue said earnestly. "That's really wrong of your mum. You're a girl no matter if you wear makeup or not! And I...I'll always be your friend, if you'd like me to."

"I'd like that very much," Millie said, and smiled again.

It might not be the most traditional Christmas, Tom thought as the two girls settled into a proper chatting session, one of the house elves bringing them cups of hot chocolate. But it was certainly a good one. And they still had Christmas dinner to go!

Blue and Millie ended up chatting away until dinner. The system was surprised at the similarities Millie shared to their own home life. Her mum never actually struck her, but the emotional barbs she chose to hurl must have struck even more painfully. Tomboyish and so awkward it was painful, Millie never fit into the proper, pampered princess mould her mother had decided she should, and was endlessly punished for it. She hid her most prized possessions under a loose floorboard to keep her mum from "accidentally" tossing them (Tom started uncomfortably at this tidbit inside, well aware of their own loose, slightly creaky floorboard just under the bed). Her father, a distant workaholic, did his best, but he had no idea what to do with a daughter as it was, never mind one as clumsy and boyish as Millie. He left her upkeep to his wife, not noticing or perhaps not caring the damage the woman was doing to the eleven-year-old with a crippling social phobia and an abhorrence of all things 'pink.'

"But it's gotten better," Millie said, curling up tighter on the sofa and pinning a slightly anxious smile on her face. "She was ever so pleased when I was Sorted into Slytherin. It was her House, you know? I guess she wanted Hogwarts to turn me into a little lady, but..." Her shoulders slanted in a stiff shrug. "You can see how well that's working out."

"Yeah..." Blue trailed off. "I hate how everyone treats you," she confided in a burst of friendship-driven passion. "There's nothing wrong with being shy! W-I am, too! It's scary talking to people sometimes, you never know if they're gonna hurt you..." She broke off and stared down into her lap, her cheeks stained red with embarrassment. Beside her, Millie gave her a very appraising sort of look, dimly aware of just how much Blue had unconsciously revealed about her own life.

"Anyway," Millie thoughtfully changed the subject. "I've got you now, yeah? So all the bullies can sod off. And Snape sets things right in the end, he always does. Mum thinks he's a right tosser, but I think it's because when she was a sixth year, he caught her behind the greenhouse with Angus Fletchley, snogging his brains out, and he told a professor and she got two months of detention." Millie snickered, and Blue couldn't help but join in.

"I wonder if my mum and dad ever got caught snogging," Blue wondered wistfully. "They were in Gryffindor, I know that. And I think my dad played Quidditch..."

"Oh!" Millie exclaimed, leaping up from the couch. "That reminds me!"

"What?" Blue asked, baffled, cringing back into the sofa cushions before catching herself. "What is it?"

"Come with me," Millie said excitedly, catching up Blue's hand and nearly sprinting to the entrance, pulling her out into the dungeons proper with a bit more decorum. "I saw your da's name on a trophy somewhere, where was it..."

It took nearly twenty minutes and getting horribly lost on the second floor, but finally, Millie was prodding a glass case with one enthused, if slightly grubby, finger.

"There! You see?" she asked, pointing.

A large trophy shaped like the Quaffle stood proudly in the center, and Blue's eyes picked out the inscription: To James Potter, the best Chaser Gryffindor's ever seen!

Warmth spread through her body, through the whole system, and she realised with a start that it was pride. They were proud of their father, they knew something about their father, and it was one of the best feelings Blue had ever had. Even more than discovering they were magic and going to Hogwarts, and wasn't that something!

They should have known it was too good to last.

Christmas dinner went off splendidly, despite Ronald Weasley there on the other side of the table, moodily pushing around his food with his fork and sneaking hurried glances over at Harry. Jay shared the front with Blue so that she didn't start too badly at the sound of the wizarding crackers and more than once, he was tempted to snap at Ron and ask if he was really as stupid as he kept portraying himself. The only reason he didn't is because it would scare Blue. Well, and Snape would probably haul his arse off for a detention on Christmas, and did he really want to provoke that?

He shared a wizarding cracker with Millie and a full-fledged wizarding chess set popped out, attracting interest from Tom and making Millie grin and confide that she'd always wanted to play.

"Me, too," Blue said shyly under cover of the rather loud and rambunctious conversations going on around them as the others opened their own wizarding crackers. "I don't know how to play, though. We'll have to find someone to help."

"I know how to play," Ron leaned over the table. Jay wanted to hex him for butting in, but Blue saw the look of almost desperate longing on the redheaded boy's face and stopped him.

"Can you teach us without being a git?" Millie asked bluntly.

"Yes," Ron nodded, looking painfully eager. His whole face was brilliant red, up to the tips of his ears. "I can. Promise. It's not hard once you get the hang of it."

"All right," Blue said. "You want to go and play now? Dinner's pretty well over and all..." She gestured around to the confetti and glitter heaped around the table, and the tableau at the head of it, where Hagrid was boldly kissing a pink-faced Professor McGonagall on the cheek.

"Yeah, all right, sounds good," Ron said awkwardly, stuffing the blue felted hat he'd received from a cracker into his back pocket and clambering up from the table. Blue and Millie followed more decorously, slipping out the doors and deciding that the best place to go for a good game of wizard's chess was the small antechamber off the library. People normally used it to study in, but it would be empty during winter break.

"Listen, Harry," Ron mumbled as they strode along, Millie slightly ahead of them, although she kept casting suspicious glances over her shoulder and Blue noticed her fingering her wand in a meant-to-be-subtle sort of way. "I really am sorry, I just...Mum straightened me out while I was home, my da's been...teaching me some pretty wrong things, and I know that doesn't make up for it! But I just-I really wanted to let you know that I am sorry, I'm not just saying that 'cause someone's making me. I shouldn't have ever done any of that. Not even told you that you were You Know Who's heir or something, there's nothing wrong with being in Slytherin, it was wrong of me to say those things." The boy's face looked sunburnt by now, positively glowing with embarrassment, and Blue's jaw dropped in shock. Collective shock. Of all the apologies for the Weasel to make, that had not been expected.

"Thank-thank you for that," Blue managed to stammer out. "It's...really appreciated. I think Millie's getting impatient up there, we should probably hurry up," she changed the subject and walked a little faster. Millie nodded at Ron with what looked like approval in her dark eyes, and Ron's smile was shaky with relief.

Wizarding chess was a much more convoluted game than Blue or Millie had ever supposed. It didn't help that Ron had his family's chessmen with him (always carried out in the chance of a quick game, he'd explained with an embarrassed grin), and the chessmen that came with the set liked to shout contradicting advice at the two girls, confusing them massively and allowing Ron to overtake them time and time again.

But he taught them at the same time, too, quite well, in fact. Blue was a little surprised at how well Ronald knew the game. In this, it seemed, he excelled and knew it. They occasionally got a bit rowdy, but there was no real need to keep it down, anyway, and besides, they were having fun. Blue kept leaning over the chessboard, ignoring the way her breath kept catching in her throat and the way her cheeks felt nearly inflamed, as she directed a pawn to move to this square and a knight to move there.

They'd been feeling poorly all evening, but the enthusiasm for the chess game overwhelmed everything else until finally, with a slight, pained sigh, Blue fainted, toppling over neatly on the floor at the shocked feet of Millicent Bulstrode and Ronald Weasley.

As was swiftly becoming par for the course, they woke up in the Hospital Wing.

This time, both Ron and Millie were at their bedside, although both of them were sound asleep. Ron's head had slumped over on Millie's shoulder, a fact Jay found quite amusing. Looking around, he spied Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey by her office, having a hushed conversation.

So what the fuck happened? Jay inquired inside, but before anyone could reply, Madam Pomfrey had noticed they were awake and hurried over, Snape discreetly trailing behind.

"Mr. Potter!" she hissed, looking both delighted and infuriated. "You're awake."

"Yeah..." Jay replied slightly cautiously. The chills and random aches were gone, as was the maddening itch that had liked to appear on their leg. The entire system had forgotten about the scratch inflicted by the three-headed dog.

So it was quite a shock for Madam Pomfrey to inform them that said scratch had gotten badly infected and that they had nearly died.

And the fact that they'd been in the Hospital Wing for three days, Ron and Millie only leaving them when either Madam Pomfrey or Professor Snape would chase them off for proper meals and some better rest than they could gather in the cramped hospital chairs.

"What?" Jay's mouth dropped open.

"And that's not all we have to talk about, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey informed him with a gimlet stare. "I'll wait until we're alone, for your privacy, but you've got quite a bit of explanation about your home life to do."

...Shit.

Jay prodded Tom anxiously inside. Had he managed to hide anything? At all? Still dazed, Tom replied that no, he hadn't. He hadn't been aware anything was seriously wrong until Blue keeled over while playing chess, and by then, it was too late.

Double shit.

Jay attempted a more winning smile, but it came out more ghastly than anything. It was probably a good thing Pomfrey was ignoring them as she fussed over her diagnostics and then gently woke Ron and Millie, telling them that yes, Harry was awake, but please don't rush him. He still has a lot of recovering to do.

I feel fine, Jay grumbled. I could leave now, if she'd fuck off!

And then you'd end up falling flat on your face, or didn't you notice how weak we are? Tom said in as acerbic a tone as he could muster. Because of the infection and how long we apparently let it progress, we're weak as a newborn kitten right now. But go ahead, try your heroics if you must.

Shut up, Jay snarled, mouth twisting in a scowl.

Ron and Millie fussed over him for a few minutes and he did his best to reassure them. Well, Millie more than Ron. His twin might appreciate Ron's company, but Jay still couldn't stand the boy. He did his best to be civil, but was fairly sure at least a bit of his animosity had leaked through. Hopefully it would just be blamed on their invalid state, and he could stop feeling like an arse who'd taken away one of Blue's friends.

"Mr. Potter needs rest now," Madam Pomfrey stated in a tone that brooked no disagreement. Jay started to protest, but subsided at a warning glare from the mediwitch. Ron also looked ready to argue, but said nothing, shuffling his feet on the floor and loping off with Millie following a sedate distance behind.

"Now, Mr. Potter, I do believe it's time to have that chat," she said sternly, drawing a curtain around them, as Professor Snape came forward as well, conjuring a chair and planting it firmly by their bedside.

"I thought you said we'd be alone," Jay said, pointing a finger at Snape. "But he's here, isn't he?"

"Severus is your Head of House and while the school year is in session, acts in loco parentis to all of his students," Pomfrey replied. "He stays."

In loco whatsis? Jay asked in confusion.

It means that he acts in place of our parents or guardians, Tom supplied. While we're at school, he acts in a guardian-like fashion for all of the Slytherins because he's our Head of House. Really, Jay, it's not that difficult.

Shut up, Jay snapped back.

"So, Mr. Potter...Harry," Madam Pomfrey began. "How long have you been able to hide severe malnutrition, exhaustion, the remnants of several old injuries, and the fact that you have extensive scarring over most of your back? Not to mention how many bones have improperly healed and yet somehow I failed to notice them before now?"

"Not my fault you can't do your job," Jay scowled, hating this bed, hating this conversation, hating everything. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He directed a baleful glare at their leg. If it wasn't for a stupid bloody scratch! That Harry got of all people. Host barely bloody comes out and manages this.

"Mind your tone, Potter," Snape barked at him.

"Fine," Jay said sullenly, picking at a loose thread in the sleeve of his hospital gown. "I don't know. A while." He shrugged.

"Why?" Now her tone had gentled, but Jay didn't trust it. Why should he? Not like anyone had ever helped them before. The school nurse in primary had tried to help, hadn't she, and look how that had ended up! Vernon had broken their fucking leg and blamed it all on the most transparent of all lies-Harry had "fallen down the stairs." And of course, nothing was done. By this point, Harry's system almost didn't want anything to be done. They were surviving, weren't they? It was difficult, but manageable. They didn't need any bloody adults mucking things up as usual.

"Pretty sure you can guess why," Jay finally replied, reluctant to say anything. He wasn't good at this, wasn't good at this gentle confrontation, the probing questions. Tom was, but they were afraid to switch in front of the two, afraid that they would somehow be able to guess at this, too. They'd never run across anything in the magical world that sounded anything like this. What if this made Harry even more freaky? No, thanks.

"Who did those things to you?" Pomfrey asked, her tone so gentle, it was like she assumed they were a frightened horse, ready to bolt. Jay straightened up further in the bed, slanting her a sullen glare from beneath his eyelashes. He was not scared. Annoyed. Angry, maybe. Not afraid.

"Again, pretty sure you can guess."

"The Dursleys?" Snape spoke up, sounding neutral. Jay swiveled around rapidly to stare at the man, panic buzzing in his ears. Of course his Head of House would know who their family was. Of course.

"I'm not saying anything," Jay snapped, anger bristling in every bit of him.

"Of course not," Snape sighed. "In that case..."

In an instant, the man's wand was pointed between their eyes, and Jay heard, "Legilimens!"

Chaos. Mind-numbing, swirling chaos. Severus found himself lost in Harry Potter's mind, which was the most confusing, most complex mind he'd peeked into since he'd accidentally seen the Dark Lord's. Everything slithered away from his touch (this time, unbeknownst to Severus, Tom was awake and more than willing to Occlude the hell out of everything he could), but finally, he managed to take hold of one small, slick bit of memory and found himself thrust into it.

A five-year-old Harry, cowering away from a red-faced walrus with a belt. Bellowing words at Harry, spit flying from livery lips. Freak, Severus read in that blasting, piercing voice. FREAK.

A ten-year-old Harry, drawing a birthday cake in the dust of the most dilapidated, old shack Severus had ever seen. The scrawny boy shivering on the floor with a thin, tattered blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Three-year-old Harry confused and cowering away from his aunt, forcing him back into the cupboard under the stairs and throwing a bucket at him, nearly catching the small boy in the head.

Years of little food, little sleep, but all the shouted words and otherwise ill treatment a child could want. Severus felt sick at merely the glimpses he received, blaming his inability to keep hold of anything solid on the fact the boy was upset and still partially medicated on pain draughts. After all, how could a first year know Occlumency?

Finally, he made his way through the blackened swirls and found himself in what looked like a normal living room, done up in green and silver. Slytherin colours, he realised with surprise. Harry himself seemed to be standing there, but this mental Harry was a lot taller. And older-looking, for that matter. He looked, Severus reflected uneasily, rather like a younger Voldemort.

"Get out of my mind!" Harry yelled at him, and the force of this exhalation fragmented everything, tearing it apart like shattering a dream, and Severus found himself back outside of Potter's mind, slumped over in the chair and wholly confused.

Harry had drawn his knees up tightly against his chest and was eyeing Severus with naked mistrust.

"In loco parentis or not, that was certainly not authorised," Harry said coldly. "Stay out of my mind, sir."

Severus rubbed at his temples, wondering where it had all gone so wrong. Harry wasn't even meant to have really noticed that he'd done anything, never mind managed to throw him out of his own mind. The child must be a natural Occlumens, he realised. It was the only possible explanation. And of course his first introduction to it would have to be now, when he felt threatened and mistrusting of everything.

Harry threw back the covers and stood up on slightly wobbly legs. Madam Pomfrey rushed forward, but he gave her a look just as icy that stopped her in her tracks.

"I'd like to finish recuperating in my dormitory, if you please," he stated. The words were polite, but the tone was not. Madam Pomfrey gave him a thoughtful, slightly ashamed look before nodding and fetching his belongings, putting up a privacy screen so he could change.

"If you feel worse in any way, please come back to the Hospital Wing, though," she gently admonished. Harry nodded, and Severus could see the tiredness in the droop of his shoulders, the way his legs kept trembling infinitesimally.

"Sir," Harry nodded to him, and was out the door.

"Well, that was a cock-up," Severus stated and sighed.

"On both our parts," Poppy sighed with him, settling down on the discarded bed and redoing her chignon. "I shouldn't have accused him like that, Severus. He's only a boy. And if our suspicions are correct-and I have no doubt they are-a badly abused, traumatised boy. And I yelled at him," her voice thickened with regret. "It's just baffling how an eleven-year-old managed to hide things for so long."

"Natural at concealment? And healing magic?" Severus guessed, rubbing the bridge of his overly large nose. "He's a natural Occlumens, that's for sure. He was not happy about me entering his mind, I can tell you that much."

"Nor should he be!" Poppy scolded. "Severus, I've told you more than once, Legilimency cannot be your first response to things like this! What has Albus told you?"

"Only use it when required," Severus said and smirked. Poppy leaned forward and swatted his arm.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she said. "I'm just afraid that we've made a horrible mistake in handling it all. If he won't admit the abuse, there's not much we can fall back on. If he were any other child..." She trailed off wistfully. Severus knew what she meant. If he were any other child but the Boy Who Lived, Poppy could still begin an investigation and have him removed from his home. With Dumbledore involved, the Ministry interfering everywhere they could, and Merlin knew who wanting to get their custodial claws into him...the problem grew complicated.

"If he were any other child, that would be far too easy," Severus retorted and stood up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have potions to attend to."

As they made their way back to the dormitory, Tom was furious. Icy rage coursed through his veins, sometimes the only thing that kept the proud boy upright as he stumbled his way toward Slytherin territory. He met nobody on the way, which was likely a good thing. The way he was feeling, he might have accidentally hexed them until they couldn't move anymore.

Snape had committed something unforgivable. So Tom thought and so he fervently believed. There was no excuse for dipping into a child's mind that way, for violating the sanctity of their internal thoughts for something so trivial. All right, so a lifetime of child abuse and neglect was not "trivial," but considering the circumstances, it was hardly needed to legilimize an eleven-year-old over one sullen "no."

Tom had managed to hide the others, had managed to hide the bulk of the memories, but there were still those snippets that slipped out, still those bits that Severus managed to find and examine. It made their cheeks burn in humiliation at the thought of him seeing Uncle Vernon punching them around, or Aunt Petunia's scathing words raining down on their head. Or the cupboard. He'd seen the bloody cupboard, and that was enough to make the whole system feel sick.

It was one thing to know that Madam Pomfrey had seen the evidence of the abuse, of the neglect. Of how bad their malnutrition really was, of the old fractures and sprains. Of the scars. But she had no proof of what had caused those things, and while she had no proof, they felt a bit safe. It was a false sense of safety, really, but it was something, and at this point, Tom would latch onto anything.

And then Snape had decided a good poke-around in Harry Potter's mind was the answer, and Tom's fury had erupted. He had scared himself in that first moment because all he could think and feel were Voldemort's thoughts and feelings, so great was his rage. By the time he had managed to calm himself, Severus had found his presumed sanctum, and all he could tell the man was to get out before expelling him from their mind as gently as he dared.

Tom? Raven asked hesitantly. We're not going the right way.

Tom looked around and cursed fluently. She was right. They were lost in a corner of the dungeons Tom had honestly never seen before. Unease flickered down his spine, taking the place of the anger, and he whirled around to see a blank wall where they had just come from.

Well, this was great.

Despite the panic starting to encroach upon him from the rest of the system, Tom took a moment to stop, look around, and think.

He'd never been in this section of the dungeons before. It looked quite old, and the musty smell that lingered made him crinkle his nose. There was only one path, and that led straight down, with not a single variation to the left or right. Well. He shrugged. Might as well keep going. They certainly couldn't go backward, that was well and truly closed off. He'd even attempted a revealing spell, only to have it thrown painfully back into his face.

The air was remarkably warm in this corridor, in stark contrast to the usual dungeon chill. If it weren't for the fact there were no windows down the overly bright hall, Tom would have assumed they were on another floor. Not a sound could be heard but the slightly gritting tone of their footsteps.

Where are we? Raven whispered inside, but Tom had no answers for her. Even with part of Voldemort's memory tucked away in his head, he couldn't recall this place at all. It was like they'd been transported to another world, so jarring was the disparity.

Finally, they came to the end, where a very large, embroidered tapestry hung on the wall. Tom examined it in mute fascination. Salazar Slytherin was embroidered there, petting the head of an enormous snake. Lamplight-golden eyes gleamed out at him, and he realised the snake was a basilisk. Slytherin's familiar had been a basilisk? he thought in shock and felt an answering sort of echo from his Voldy memories.

"Beautiful," he hissed aloud in appreciation, and had the enormous and slightly unpleasant shock of watching the basilisk's head swing round in the tapestry, Salazar's profile following.

"You are a Speaker?" he heard an older man's voice slip into his mind.

"I suppose," he answered guardedly. "How is this possible? You're not even a painting!"

Serpentine laughter echoed in his head, and he saw the man's embroidered features twist into a smirking smile.

"Old secrets, Speaker," Salazar finally answered. "You are a Slytherin, I take it?"

"I am," Tom nodded, feeling uncomfortably jostled as everyone but Harry tried to take a look at this new phenomenon. He swayed slightly on his feet, more than a bit dizzy and reminded that they really shouldn't be out of the Hospital Wing just yet. He was about to ask where they were when Salazar unwittingly answered it for him.

"How have you found my rooms?" Salazar asked, confusion creasing the threads of his brow.

"Your rooms? This is a bloody hallway," Tom pointed out, frustration creeping in. "And I have no idea. I got lost."

"Interesting," Salazar mused. The basilisk undulated beside him, her eyes somehow firmly shut so as not to harm the young Speaker before them. "That...should not have been possible."

"Well, I guess we-I'm just really good at achieving the impossible," Tom smirked.

"We?"

Tom sighed. Of course the bloody Founder of Slytherin House would pick up on his slip.

"It's not just me in here," he explained shortly. "I'm not sure what it's called-if it's even got a name! But I'm not the...first person in this body. That would be Harry. I'm Tom. There are a load of other people in here as well. The Dur-the people we live with hurt us. A lot. So we...split, I guess you could call it. To handle it. No one knows because let's face it, we're already weird, I'd rather not get locked up for being insane."

To his surprise, Salazar had begun chuckling.

"You aren't the only one...Tom, was it? No, you aren't the only one," Salazar said, smiling fondly at him.

"I-what?" Tom asked stupidly, feeling his legs wobble like they might give out at any moment.

"I can't recall what it's actually called off the top of my head, but it's an actual disorder, known in my day," Salazar nodded. "Not a common thing, but eminently treatable. Well, as long as one is removed from the harmful situation. Have you been?"

"Well...no," Tom admitted. "They know now, though. A bit. Bloody rude about it, too." He scowled at the memory of Pomfrey's accusations, of Snape legilimizing them without their consent.

"What do you mean?" Salazar prodded gently, and the story came pouring out, about their unintentional hospital stay, about how Tom had let the concealments lapse while unconscious, about Snape prying into their mind.

"That was unconscionable of him," Salazar agreed, stroking his chin and actually looking quite angry, even if in a cold sort of way. "You are a student in his care, and as such, there are rules he must follow."

"Thank you," Tom sighed in relief. "It's just, you know, it's hard enough trying to tell someone anything without someone trying to have a bloody great peek in our head!"

"Indeed," Salazar said before looking rather distracted. "Hmm. Others tell me that people are looking for you and becoming rather worried. I believe it is time for you to return to your dormitory."

"I would if I knew how," Tom retorted dryly. Salazar merely looked amused.

"Go back the way you came, turn around once counter-clockwise, and walk forward without opening your eyes," the man directed. "That should take you within a corridor or two. I believe you can find your way from there, Tom."

"Thank you," Tom said, making a short bow of respect toward the man, who could not conceal the delight in his carefully sewn eyes.

Following the Founder's directions, Tom soon found himself back in the dank chill of the dungeons, only a hall away from his dorm. He grinned and began to make his way forward, only to be stopped in his tracks by a toweringly angry Head of House.

"It's been six hours, where have you been?" Severus Snape demanded and Tom froze. For once, he had no answer at all.

Severus looked at the first year boy in front of him, looking none the worse for wear, despite being missing for several hours, and felt his anger boil over. He knew he was being unreasonable, knew that he was taking out his fear and frustration on an eleven-year-old child, but he couldn't seem to stop himself as he lurched forward, his hands clamping down on the boy's bony shoulders and squeezing, jerking the child toward him.

"Where. Have. You. Been?" he asked again, nearly guttural in rage.

And Harry Potter exploded.

"None of your fucking business, sir," he said in the angriest tones Severus had ever heard, shrugging out of the Potions professor's grip and backing up against the wall. His wand, Severus noticed to his eternal shame, held tightly in one hand. "But if you have to fucking know, instead of asking like a decent person and not a fucking git, I got lost in these fucking dungeons and only found my way back because of a painting guiding me. So if you've quite finished yelling at me and manhandling me like I'm a bloody slave, I'd like to go the fuck to sleep. Sir." The last word was thrown in Severus's face like the harshest of epithets, and the boy's eyes glinted like glass.

"Ten points from Slytherin for language," Severus said automatically, but his voice sounded weak and he'd sagged against the opposite wall without even realising it. "Potter, I-I'm sorry-"

"Save your bloody apology for someone who gives a fuck," Potter replied coldly and stormed into the common room. Severus remained outside, rubbing his temples and wondering how it had all just gone so fantastically wrong.

The anger spilling through their body, through the entire system, made Jay tremble as he slammed into his dormitory, throwing himself on the bed, tears spurting from the corners of his eyes.

Fucking bloody arsehole, how dare he, he raged, squeezing his hands into tight fists until the sting and the slight trickle of blood down his palms made him stop. Lucky he didn't bloody end up with Leigh out, taking a swing at him.

That was inexcusable, Tom agreed soberly. The boy everyone depended on for cold-headed logic looked more shaken than anyone had ever seen him. Granted, it is apparently very late, and we have been missing for longer than we thought. Some anger and concern is appropriate.

Yeah, but not grabbing us like fucking Vernon, Jay retorted, feeling the adrenaline rush still coursing through their body. Ain't that a corker? Head of House is turning out just like dear old Uncle. Don't that just bloody figure?

While the two of them argued like usual, Blue slipped out to front, curling her arms around her knees and huddling under the blankets. Tom had already cast locking and silencing spells around the bed, just in case Professor Snape came back, so she finally felt safe enough to properly cry, tears slipping down her face in a steady stream. It was too much. The infection. The realisation they'd been unconscious for days. The unpleasant discovery that Pomfrey and Snape had figured out their secret. The legilimency that had felt like it was ripping their mind in two. Getting lost in the dungeons that should have been their sanctuary. And the final straw, Snape grabbing them and shaking them like a terrier might shake its toy.

It was all too much, painfully too much, and as Blue lay there and cried, their mind fragmented again, splitting until finally, a boy about twelve years old slipped out, looking around the curtained bed with very mild interest.

Wait, who are you? Jay asked in shock, regarding the newcomer with wide eyes.

"Echo," the boy spoke aloud, sounding very placid. His eyes were guileless, green, and utterly blank. "I'm Echo."

What's your job? Tom asked, feeling even more shaken up than he'd already been. They'd split? Again? He hadn't even noticed!

"I don't feel anything," Echo replied. He straightened their body out in the bed and slid beneath the covers. "At all."

And with that, the boy fell asleep, leaving the rest of the system in a very uneasy turmoil.

Well, this is a cock-up, Tom thought, and sighed heavily.

Severus mentally castigated himself the entire way through the castle, with a brief stop at the Hospital Wing to inform Madam Pomfrey that Harry was safe and unharmed. Well, as safe and unharmed as he could be, with Severus snapping at him like that. Shame burned in his stomach as he finally made his way into his quarters and leaned against the door for a moment, head resting against the cool wood.

What was wrong with him? He'd never reacted this way to another student. Not even the Weasley twins, infuriating as they always were. Lectures, detentions, even trips to the Headmaster's office, but grabbing a student and shaking him? Even in this, Potter, it seemed, had to be unique.

Rubbing his forehead, Severus retrieved a headache potion from the bathroom and downed it in one quick swallow, grimacing at the taste but relaxing a bit as his headache began to recede. He knew he should talk to Potter sometime soon, but for now, leaving the boy alone was probably his best bet. His shoulders sagged in shame as he recalled the look of fear trembling on the boy's face behind the mask of rage. He'd scared an eleven-year-old child, an eleven-year-old abuse victim. Son of his childhood nemesis or not, that was reprehensible.

"You're damn right that was reprehensible," an unfamiliar voice said out of nowhere. Severus jumped in shock, wand falling into his hand, but there was no one around.

"Great," he muttered as he threw himself into his favourite armchair. "Now I'm hearing things."

"No, I'm very real, Severus," the voice retorted. "Look here. In the painting."

Jaw dropping, Severus looked at the massive painting of Salazar Slytherin, the Founder of his House, over the fireplace. The painted figure winked at him.

"You're...you've never talked to me before," Severus stammered, feeling uncomfortably like a first year, his face flushing.

"I've never had need to before," Salazar said, leaning against the edge of the frame. "You're being an idiot, Severus. I don't know why, but it stops now."

"I didn't mean to..." Severus fumbled to a stop. Why was he justifying himself to a painting? he thought irritably.

"If you aren't very, very careful, you're going to end up with another Dark Lord on your hands," Salazar said, ice creeping into his tone. "And it's not going to be because of his upbringing, although that plays a part in it. It's not even going to be your foolish Headmaster this time. It will be because of you. The boy was entrusted to your care and this is how you repay him? By breaking into his mind, attempting to steal his secrets, and then laying hands on him? Are you trying to resemble his abusers?"

"How do you kn-" Severus attempted to break in, but Salazar was on a roll, cold fury emanating from every painted line.

"He has more secrets than you know, than you will ever know at this rate, and unless you start thinking, you are going to end up with a very damaged, disillusioned child who has learned that he can expect nothing from the people who are supposed to take care of him and keep him safe. Sound familiar?"

"Yes," Severus whispered, thinking of the man he had followed for years. The Dark Mark itched on his arm, drawing painful attention to itself.

"Then use your mind for once, I know you have it, you wouldn't have been Sorted into my House without it," Salazar said acerbically. "Fix things."

"I don't know how," Severus admitted, dropping his head into his hands and wishing that he could take another headache reliever.

"Then you'd better find out how," Salazar said, grim-faced. "Or you're going to regret it."

And with that, the man was gone, stepped into another painting, leaving a very confused and distressed Potions professor behind.

Harry tossed and turned, alternately shivering and over-heating by turns as the blankets wrapped themselves around his slight, sweaty body. Nightmares tangled together in his brain, snippets of memory and flashes of horror combining. A monster's fist coming at them, a flash of brilliant green light, and the cruellest laugh any of them had ever heard (save, perhaps, Tom who immediately shoved that memory away).

Finally, Tom sat up with an explosive sigh, raking his hand through the sweaty spikes of hair, and decided sod it, sleep was overrated anyway.

The common room was utterly deserted at this time of night. Millie was presumably still tucked safe in her bed, and any of the older years were also sleeping. Curled up in a blanket from their bed, Tom sat, staring into the flickering yellow and orange flames and wishing desperately that life would properly align and make sense.

Growing up, the system had always assumed that if someone knew about the abuse, really knew, without Uncle Vernon's threats and Aunt Petunia's veiled verbal daggers, things would turn up all right, they'd be taken away, life would become happily ever after. Tom had always known that life didn't work that way, but even he had fallen prey to the fantasy. Harmless enough, wasn't it? It's not like it would ever come true.

Only now people did know, people who'd never even met the Dursleys. And their reaction was...lackluster, to say the least. Tom sneered, dislodging the blanket from his lap momentarily as he bent to prod at a log in the fireplace. It sputtered angry sparks at him, and he ignored them, settling back into the safe confines of the sofa.

It was worse than lackluster. Apathy, while painful, was easy to handle. Not so this. A morass of prickly anger. Pomfrey was angry at them, but he'd seen the shame glimmer in her eyes. She'd been caught off guard, unwilling to believe an eleven-year-old was capable of hiding injuries to such an extent.

Snape, though...Tom sighed. None of them knew how to handle their Head of House anymore. He had thought that the man was decent, that though he was not kind, not permissive like some of the other Heads of House, he at least was not like Uncle Vernon. And now, how could he be sure of that anymore?

I'll handle him if you like, Echo interjected into Tom's musings. Tom internally turned, seeing the boy standing there, inside. His eyes still bottle green and perfectly blank. It was like staring into a doll's face, so calm was his expression, and Tom had to suppress an atavistic shiver, lest the new alter interpret it as dislike. Not that he would care, Tom was sure. He didn't care about anything, that was the problem.

If you're careful, Tom finally answered reluctantly. Echo nodded, smiling placidly.

"Time to go back to bed," Tom muttered aloud, standing and pulling the blanket tight around himself. He didn't notice the painting over the fireplace, where Salazar Slytherin's eyes tracked his every movement, a worried frown creasing the painted features.

Despite their exhaustion, sleep was a long time in coming.

The rest of winter break passed slowly. Snape didn't approach them again, although more than once at mealtime, Tom or Jay caught the man looking at them, with a particularly considering look in his eyes. The Slytherin hourglass hadn't actually changed, which surprised all of them. Apparently Hogwarts itself had intervened. Or perhaps Salazar. After all, he was one of the Founders, and perhaps he didn't like points taken off his own House, even if warranted?

Echo continued to concern Tom. He didn't come out much around other people, certainly not around Millie, Ron, or Hermione (the four of them had formed a slightly uneasy study group after Ron had apologized just as sincerely to Hermione for bullying her so much). But around anyone in the slightest position of authority, Echo tended to push his way out. His blank mask was unsettling, yet no one seemed to have picked up on anything unusual.

It was a relief, of course, and yet slightly depressing. The system was crumbling even at their bastion of safety, and no one noticed. Typical.

The morning everyone came back was just as cold as the preceding ones, yet the sky was blue and hopeful as Jay trekked his way out to the grounds, awaiting the customary plume of smoke that signaled the train had puffed its way into Hogsmeade station. It was bitterly cold, and he found himself keeping his hands in his pockets to conserve warmth as much as possible.

"Harry!" he heard Hermione's voice behind him and turned, letting Raven come forward as he did so. She started bouncing on her toes excitedly, her face beaming at the sight of her friend.

"Hermione!" she said. "What are you doing out here?"

"Same as you," Hermione shrugged. Her hair was pulled back in an uncomfortable-looking ponytail. "Waiting for the train. It feels so empty with everyone gone."

"Yeah," Raven agreed, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. In the distance, she could see the Weasley twins pelting each other with snowballs, a few smacking Professor Quirrell in the back of the head. "But sometimes that's good. Like when you get more time in the library." She smiled and Hermione smiled back.

"True," Hermione admitted cheerfully. "By the way-Harry, you know that you can talk to me about anything, right?" The girl's gaze turned too meaningful, boring into Raven's, who immediately looked down, cheeks burning.

"Of course," Raven said, confused. What was Hermione going on about?

"Just...making sure," Hermione said, evasive. "Oh, look, the train!" she immediately changed the subject as the train's whistle split the morning air.

What was that all about? Jay wondered as the two girls made their way down the snow-covered hill.

I'm not sure, Tom answered, eyes watchful. But I have a feeling we're going to find out.

Brushing snow off his turban and robes with angry, slightly shaking fingers, Quirinus Quirrell scarcely noticed the Weasley idiots, although he did stutter out a customary points deduction. No, his attention was focused solely on the Potter boy, standing not fifty yards away with a Mudblood first year.

If only, he sighed wistfully, his fingers clenching in their thin gloves. The brat was so alone, so defenseless. All it would take was a few hastily muttered spells and Potter would be under his control. Honestly, it could take even less than that. After all, he was a professor, wasn't he? Who would suspect him? A stuttering pale-faced wretch who smelled of garlic even under the winter sun?

Of course, the garlic was essential. If one was busy smelling garlic, one would not notice the smell it covered up, that particular sickly stench of decay that the Dark Lord carried with him in a perpetual smog. Dreadfully unpleasant that smell, and Quirrell had to admit he preferred the garlic now.

The boy, his Master's voice whispered, and he smirked in acknowledgement. Yes, the boy. With the boy, he knew he could break through the Stone's protections. If nothing else, he could use the brat as a first line of defense against all challenges. An image of Potter at his feet, broken and bleeding, filled his head, and he had to bite his lip hard to stifle a genuine chuckle.

Soon, the Dark Lord promised him, and Quirrell nodded, mostly to himself, as he turned away from the temptation of the snow-dusted first year.

"Enjoying the winter weather, Quirinus?" Severus Snape's icy dark voice shattered his concentration and he nearly leaped into the air, stuttering out a semblance of a reply as he looked at his black-cloaked tormentor.

Snape's eyes were hard, angry as usual. Quirrell merely sneered in reply, but weakly, his upper lip trembling. He couldn't let anyone know that anything was not as it appeared. Snapesuspected, but suspicion is not the same as proof, not by a long shot.

"I b-b-believe I'll g-go b-b-back inside now, S-s-s-severus," he stammered out, gathering up his dignity like his thick cloak and walking inside. The sound of Snape's laughter burned.

I'll show you, he vowed as he slipped up to his quarters. He could use a stiff drink before the rest of the brats showed up. You won't be laughing when the Dark Lord's returned, Severus. I'll ensure that myself.

The castle felt different with everyone back, crowded and overly warm. Harry found himself escaping as soon as he could to a forgotten corner of the library, just for a bit of freedom. For once, no one came with him, and he settled back in the frayed plush with a sigh, pulling his robes around him for warmth and letting his book bag fall to the floor, freed from slightly trembling fingers.

Ron was busy catching up with his Housemates, as was Hermione. He wasn't sure where Millie, Blaise, or Theo were, but he assumed something similar. His Head of House was probably off trying to catch ne'er-do-wells in the dungeons, swooping around like the overgrown bat he portrayed. He was free to be alone, to be himself.

Or so he thought, as he curled up on the chair, his head resting against the wall. This bit of the library was deserted as always, although he could hear the low murmuring of a few industrious students who had already braved the slight chill to study or catch up on the homework from break. There was an enormous picture of Salazar Slytherin on one side of him, and an equally enormous picture of Rowena Ravenclaw on the other. They both seemed to be sleeping and with a slight smile on his lips, Harry snuggled into his chair to do the same.

For a few minutes, all was peaceful, and he found himself slipping into a doze. Then, a loud scuffle erupted from a bookcase only a few feet from him and acting on instinct, he dived beneath the table, listening to his heart thud a frantic tattoo against his ribs, his mind full of static.

"Careful!" Harry heard Hermione's voice squeak.

"I'm trying," Millie responded irritably. Harry peeked out from under the table and saw the two girls emerge from the stacks, angling toward a table not that far from him. They didn't even spare a glance for his cramped corner, a fact he was profoundly grateful for.

"So what's this about, Granger?" Millie asked, flopping gracelessly in a chair and scowling at the bushy-haired Ravenclaw. "You can't possibly want to study more, can you? Wait-you're a Ravenclaw. Of course you can."

"It's not about that!" Hermione defended, although even from under the table, Harry could see the guilty blush tinting her cheeks. "It's about, well, it's about Harry."

The boy in question cocked his head in confusion under the small end table. About him? Why? Whispers echoed in his thoughts, and he pushed his hands against his ears for a moment, nearly frantic. Not now. He couldn't go to sleep now.

"What about Harry?" Millie questioned. Hermione bit her lip, looking as nervous as Harry had ever seen her.

"Have you ever noticed that he acts, um, a bit different?" Hermione burst out, folding and re-folding her hands in front of her.

"How d'you mean?" Millie asked. Beneath the end table a few feet away, Harry felt cold then hot then cold again. The buzzing in his ears intensified.

"Well, you know," Hermione looked awkward. "How his voice changes. He walks different. His handwriting even changes sometimes! I'm worried."

"Sounds normal to me," Millie shrugged, but even from this distance, Harry could see her eyes had gone very flat. In her distraught state, Hermione didn't seem to notice.

"It doesn't to me," she insisted. "And have you seen how he picks at his meals? How he flinches if someone shouts around him? I'm worried about him...about his home life...about everything," she trailed off, biting her bottom lip even harder.

"Yeah, okay," Millie acknowledged. "But how does talking about it behind his back help anyone?"

Exactly, Harry thought, feeling the muscles in his legs cramp. Nothing's wrong, Hermione, let it go.

"I think he might have some kind of mental disorder," Hermione blurted out, and Harry lost control.

At first, Jay was slightly confused to find himself crouched under a table, hiding like a Hufflepuff. Then he realised what precisely was going on, and the anger that rose up in him in rivaled even that caused by Snape. The betrayal cut at everything, stinging like poison in an open wound.

But for once, the overly confronting boy did nothing. Merely sat there, listening to Hermione babble on and Millie offer up noncommittal responses.

She's a Slytherin, all right, Tom commented dryly. Jay started.

What do you mean? he asked, his fingernails digging into his palms.

Hermione may be a friend, but she's not in Slytherin. Millie isn't going to tell her a damned thing that she doesn't already know, because she's not one of us, Tom pointed out. Somehow, it didn't help much.

"Look, Granger, I get your point but again, talking about him behind his back doesn't exactly help with whatever he's got going on," Millie finally pointed out, as bluntly as she could. "Why not talk to him?"

Hermione flushed harder, staring down at the table like it held the answer.

"I'm afraid to," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

"Why? He's your friend, ain't he? Your best friend?"

"I know that!" Hermione snapped out, then instantly apologized. "I'm sorry, it's just...I don't know."

"Afraid of what you might find out?" Millie guessed shrewdly. Hermione's cheeks reddened to a painful-looking colour.

"Better to know, isn't it?" Millie continued. "Then play this guessing game and torture yourself. Ask him."

And with that, the Slytherin first year got up and left, leaving a very stunned-looking Hermione behind.

At first, Jay wanted to clamber out from under the table and confront her, demand to know why the fuck she was poking into their business, talking about them behind their back. But Tom demanded caution, demanded thought before action, and so instead, he sat there and stewed until the girl also packed up and left, and they were free to crawl back up into their cozy chair, now decidedly less comfy.

Why'd you stop me? Jay demanded.

Because you would have lost us our friend, Tom answered calmly.

So? She's a fucking backstabbing bitch! Jay exclaimed, eyes sparking with anger.

She is concerned about us and is going about it the wrong way, Tom countered. It is not the best of ways to handle things, but then again, she is eleven. Besides, think of Raven. Do you wish her to lose her only friend so soon?

Well...no, Jay admitted, looking at the girl inside. Her eyes were brimming with frightened tears, and she had the most imploring expression he'd ever seen on her face. But she shouldn't be talking about us like that!

And Millie already told her that, Tom said, heaving a sigh. There is nothing to be gained from confronting her, not like this. We would be much better off if we thought of a more appropriate course of action to deal with her, and Millie.

Fuck you for having a point, Jay scowled.

And now, Tom continued like Jay hadn't said anything. We may as well go back to the common room. It's not exactly relaxing being here anymore, and Blaise and Theo will be sure to wonder where we've vanished.

Fine, Jay said and bounced to his feet, slamming his book bag over his shoulder. The walk back to the dungeons seemed to take no time at all.

When they slipped through the wall, Millie was standing there, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the students.

"Hi, Harry," she said, but her eyes were still strange and flat. "So how long were you listening to me and Granger?"

Jay froze, staring dumbly at Millicent, until Tom finally had to take over, bending his head and coughing to cover the transition.

"A while," he finally said bluntly, seeing no reason to prevaricate. It was obvious that Millie had known they were there. Trying to lie now would ensure she knew they had something to hide.

"Let's get away from the crowd, shall we?" she suggested, jerking her head around at the rest of the returning students. Tom nodded, a bit grateful that she wasn't going to try and confront him in front of everyone, and he followed her lead to a small, barely-used classroom farther into the dungeons. The door closed behind him, and he had to fight a wince. It reminded him of a prison cell.

"Granger's worried about you," Millie said, tucking her hair briskly behind her ears and hopping up on a slightly dusty table. "Obviously. She's not the only one."

"What do you mean?" Tom asked. Now he was confused. Millie sighed and gave him a frank stare.

"Do you not remember passing out cold over Christmas break? Even Weasley's been concerned about you, and I didn't know it was possible for him to feel concern over anything besides missing dinner. You were in the hospital wing for days and when you finally came out, it was like you were a bloody shell of a person for ages. Not to mention, it's not like Granger was wrong in the things she's picked up on. You do act different in ways that seem a little more than your average firstie, you do flinch every time someone yells around you or drops a book, you think we don't notice? Because we do. I may not have been your friend for as long as Granger, but I notice. Only unlike her, I wanna actually talk to you about it."

Millie took a deep breath, crossing and uncrossing her legs and nearly glaring at him. Tom felt shell-shocked. It was a highly unpleasant feeling that made his stomach feel quite sick.

"I didn't know," he finally managed to say, feeling rather stupid. Of course he didn't know. That was probably the point.

"Obviously," Millie rolled her eyes. "I'm not saying this has to turn into confession hour and you have to spill all your secrets. Sod that. But you gotta admit, you aren't okay. I don't think you've been okay. I think your family treats you like shit, and the thought of going back to them at the end of the year makes you want to curl up and die in a hole. But I'm not you. I can't tell you what to do. I'm just saying. You can't hide it nearly as well as you think you can."

"You-are right," Tom admitted. He hated to be this open about their life, but what other choice did he have? Nervously, he chewed on his bottom lip, a gesture that he rarely made. Millie watched him with carefully blank eyes.

"Our relatives-our aunt and uncle-they don't like magic. They don't like me. They never have. I don't know why," he shrugged. "I suppose you could call them abusive. I'd rather face the Da-You Know Who again than see them this summer." Inwardly, Tom snorted at himself. Face the Dark Lord? Really? Not to mention the hubris of challenging who was technically yourself...but never mind that, Millie was speaking again, and he forced himself to concentrate.

"Have you talked to Snape?" she asked hesitantly. "He might be able to help..." She trailed off as his face darkened.

"Professor Snape," he said with icy courtesy, "can also sod off into a hole. Considering he'd rather try to invade my mind without my permission, scream at me, and slam me against a wall for daring to become lost. I think a Dementor would be a better choice of assistance," he sneered, unaware of how much, in that moment, he looked like Tom Riddle.

"Scratch that thought then," Millie said dryly as she hopped off the table. "I take it you have similar feelings about going to Dumbledore?"

"Indeed," Tom said, sure the look of contempt in his eyes matched the look in Millie's.

"We'll figure out something," Millie insisted. "Dunno what. But something. Now come on, Blaise and Theo were looking for you earlier."

Tom let himself be guided out of the room, both of them completely unaware of the small painting of the House Founder that sat crookedly on the opposite wall.

Salazar had heard everything.

What he wanted more than anything else was a good stiff dose of firewhiskey, a cursory glance at his lesson plans so he could tell the Headmaster of course he'd gone over them, and bed. But of course, as always, it was not to be.

"I suppose you think you're being clever," the acid tones of his House Founder came from the painting above the small fireplace. Severus looked up and scowled, rubbing his forehead with one hand.

"I don't need to deal with this right now," he informed Salazar in rather a grumpy tone. "I've got a headache, I'm exhausted, surely this can wait."

"Well, if the welfare of your students is that far beneath you, then certainly," Salazar retorted snippily, leaning against the edge of the frame and looking at Snape with disdain. "Personally, I thought you were more than that."

"What are you talking about?" Severus asked in confusion, anger creeping into his mind. He did his best for the wretched brats, Slytherin House or no.

"Potter," Salazar drawled the word out. "Or had you forgotten you shattered his trust in adults? I believe I told you to fix things, did I not? Is this your version of fixing things? Avoid him at every possible opportunity, and pretend he doesn't exist the rest of the time?"

"I've been busy," Severus snapped out defensively. "You wouldn't understand. There are-things at this school..."

"Oh, you mean like the Sorcerer's Stone that the Headmaster, in his esteemed wisdom, is keeping under the third floor corridor?" Salazar sneered at Severus's look of surprise. "Oh, come on. Portraits are everywhere. We hear everything. I get around." The man shrugged. "Not to mention your DADA professor. Has no one noticed the stench of Dark magic around him? It's so heavy even I can smell it, and I don't have a working sense of smell anymore."

"It's delicate!" Severus said. "Of course Albus knows that something is wrong with the man...it's just...what."

"Well, I can't tell by who or what, but the man is almost certainly possessed," Salazar said conversationally as he brushed off his painted robes. "I'd start with that. Not to mention there is no question he's trying to steal the Sorcerer's Stone."

"Any idiot knows that," Severus said dryly.

"Indeed," Salazar smirked. "But that's not the problem at hand, now is it. The problem at hand would be what you're going to do with Harry Potter when at the present moment, he'd rather have a Dementor's assistance than yours."

Severus winced, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.

"That bad?" he asked, although he already knew the answer. Salazar merely nodded, looking rather grim for a painting.

"You know," Severus continued. "You never used to talk so much. Or get so involved with what was going on around the school."

"Things are changing, Snape," the Founder of Slytherin House said shortly. "Fate-destiny-call it what you will. I would be remiss in my duties as Founder were I to ignore them. The Potter boy is special. He has the power to change destiny."

"He's eleven years old, he barely has the power to change his pants!" Severus scowled. Instead of looking angry, as he had expected Slytherin to be at his outburst, the Founder merely looked amused.

"Indeed," Salazar nodded. "And you are one of the few people who sees him that way. As a child, not a legend. But even as a child, there are forces working to propel him to his destiny, and that is something you cannot change. What you can change, however, is the way you've been treating him. Apologise. Work to understand him. You, of all people, should know how it feels when familial abuse is disclosed."

Severus flushed a dull red before looking away, saying nothing. He didn't want to think about that, about when Madam Pomfrey had told the Headmaster, in stridently angry tones, of Tobias Snape and the effect his drunken temper had on one small, gangly, third-year Slytherin.

Of the way Albus Dumbledore had turned his head and done nothing.

"You of all people should know how it starts," Salazar continued softly. "Of wanting nothing more than to show them that they have no power to hurt you anymore. That you are safe. That you can...hurt them back...And if you let Harry Potter continue down that road, he will become a Dark Lord greater than Grindelwald."

"But I can't do anything," Severus whispered, staring down at his hands. "The boy hates me."

"Thinks he hates you," Salazar corrected. "He is angry. Lost, bereft. He thought he could depend on you, and you have frightened him, although he will never admit it. But there are other effects of abuse-and scars that simply won't heal-and you know as well as I do that the Granger girl is right."

"What?" Severus blinked, startled at the turn the conversation had taken. "What are you talking about?"

"She is concerned about her friend," Salazar said quietly. "I shall not betray the boy's trust, but I urge you-do not dismiss her concerns, her theories, merely because she is young."

"It sounds insane," Severus said, shaking his head. "How can one person...have other people in their head? It sounds like-something the Dark Lord would do." He shuddered, feeling the responding ache in the Dark Mark on his left arm.

Salazar shook his head, impatient, angry.

"No," he insisted, looking fiercer than Severus had ever seen him. "No, do not ever mistake this for the work of a Dark wizard or witch, it is brilliant. A way for a child to cope with unimaginable trauma. Unimaginable horrors. It is Light, through and through, no matter what fools may fear. Regardless of whether or not Harry Potter has it, do not ever think it is Dark, Severus Snape."

"I won't," Severus said slowly, startled at Slytherin's vehemence.

"Good," Salazar nodded. "Now-don't you think you have a meeting with a certain first year to coordinate?"

And with that, the House Founder disappeared from the portrait, leaving behind a still exhausted and very stunned Potions professor.

He had a lot of thinking to do.

It was a very subdued Harry who looked up three nights later and realised that he had five minutes until curfew to get from the library to the dorms. In the dungeons. He'd been trying to research what might cause black outs, but had come up completely empty. If he'd asked Madam Pince, she would have directed him to the books Hermione had been perusing, but Harry was more than used to not asking help from adults. They never tended to actually, well, help.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath as he slammed his books into his bag, crumpling his Transfiguration homework in the process. No matter, he'd fix it in the common room, Harry promised himself as he flung himself past the narrow-eyed librarian into the main corridor. It would be difficult, but he was sure if he slid down the banister and took the trick door to the left he'd make it with a minute to spare.

It might have worked, had a ghost not startled him, making him slip off at the wrong spot and end up cursing fluently at a patch of bare wall. Great. Now he was going to get in trouble with Professor Snape, and Harry was already sure the man hated him. His shoulders slumped. He wasn't sure which was worse, a detention or that look the bloody man gave you, like you were lower than the grit on the bottom of his shoe.

"But Master, I..." a desperate, quavering voice caught his attention from a classroom only a few yards away, and Harry froze, his heart thundering in his ears. That didn't sound good. That sounded very, very bad, and yet he couldn't help getting closer, his shoes treading as quietly as he could make them.

"I know, but the boy-" the voice continued, along with a low hissing that Harry couldn't properly make out. It reminded him of a snake, but he'd never heard a snake that sounded like that. It sounded ineffably wrong somehow, and made his whole body feel very weak and shivery.

"Snape poking around..." he heard the person grumble, and he perked up. Snape? What about Snape? He couldn't tell if Snape poking around was good or bad. The classroom's doorknob turned a few minutes later and Harry leaped back, scrambling to hide behind a very rusty-looking knight and barely managing it.

Just in time to see Professor Quirrell straighten his turban with shaking hands, glare around at the shadows, and stride off, not looking a bit like his normal stuttering self.

What was that all about? Harry thought in confusion, before remembering that curfew had already passed, and he had to get down to the common room post haste. In the ensuing rush, he almost managed to forget his DADA professor's odd behaviour.

The others, however, didn't.

That was weird, Jay remarked later, after Harry had made his shame-faced way to bed. One of the prefects had given him a lecture, and warned him that he was lucky it wasn't more.

What? Tom asked, sliding out in control of the body as he brushed their teeth, changed into slightly ragged pyjamas, and cast a proper locking spell on their curtains. With Quirrell?

Yes, with Quirrell, who the fuck did you think I meant? The rusty knight? Jay rolled his eyes. He was arguing with someone, yeah? Then how come no one else followed him out?

Perhaps there is another exit, Raven suggested primly. A lot of the classrooms have more than one entrance. I know. It's in Hogwarts, a History.

You would know that, Jay scowled. But I doubt it. Besides, what was the hissing?

"It reminded me of someone," Tom said aloud, contemplative. "But I can't put my finger on who," he added in frustration. "Someone-unpleasant."

Uncle Vernon? Jay snickered.

"No, Jay," Tom said, sighing as he clambered beneath the covers. "Someone dangerous. More dangerous than our unfortunate uncle."

But who, Tom couldn't remember, and wasn't inclined to guess.

Their dreams that night were more fragmented than ever, and filled with the same odd, angry hissing that had punctuated Quirrell's sobbing. Tom woke up grainy-eyed, a migraine threatening his temples, and even more convinced he knew the source of the hissing.

Of course, that didn't matter anyway, because as soon as he stumbled into the common room, tie still undone and halfway through a gaping yawn, Professor Snape swooped down on him like a massive bat and informed him that he would be spending breakfast in his Head of House's quarters, whether he wanted to or not.

"I wanted to talk to you, Potter, for a number of reasons," Snape smiled at him, but the smile looked plastic. Fake. Tom shrugged, leaning back a bit.

"All right, what, sir?" he asked, nominally polite, save for the sneer underlying every word. Snape's eyes sparked in anger, but he said nothing about Tom's tone.

"I wanted to apologise actually," Professor Snape said. "I behaved abominably over winter break. I should not have shouted at you, or grabbed you the way I did. I was concerned for your safety while you were missing and reacted badly when I saw you were safe. I also should not have attempted Legilimency on you without your permission."

"Legilimency?" Tom asked curiously, more than aware of what it was, but wondering how precisely their Head of House was going to explain it.

"Eat," Snape pointed at their plate, now filled with all of Harry's favourite foods, and Tom reluctantly started on a piece of toast.

"Legilimency is essentially the art of mind reading," Snape continued, after a long, slurping gulp of tea. "A Legilimens is someone who is accomplished in this. There are ways to block a Legilimens from reading your mind-primarily Occlumency, which you have shown natural talent for. It is a difficult skill to learn, and most never do."

"What d'you mean a natural talent?" Tom asked, swallowing his mouthful of scrambled eggs in haste.

"In the Hospital Wing, you were rather adept at throwing me out of your mind," Snape explained with a slight smirk. "It's a good skill to have. Perhaps necessary for you, to be perfectly frank."

"Oh," Tom said, secretly pleased at the Potions professor's reaction. I should hope I was rather adept, he thought.

Someone's ego has puffed up to the size of a house, Jay said irritably inside. Now shut up and listen to the arse.

"-the hearing is also coming up next week," he heard Snape finish, and his stomach instantly dropped. Oh.

"Can we talk about that another time, sir?" Tom interrupted. He felt rather queasy. Snape peered at his face, then nodded slowly.

"Of course," Snape said. "Also-as to what occurred in the Hospital Wing-Madam Pomfrey and myself have been working together, in hopes of finding a proper solution to removing you from the Dursleys' care."

"...What?" Tom's mouth dropped open.

"You didn't think we would let you stay in the care of abusive people, did you?" Snape arched one eyebrow, and Tom sagged in his chair.

"The Headmaster certainly would, sir," he murmured bitterly, reflections of his old 'host's' experiences echoing through eyes that had gone nearly black.

"Leave the Headmaster to I, Potter," Snape sneered. "Now-I apologise if I seem to be rushing you, but breakfast is nearly over, and I would not like you to be late. So if you could hurry...?"

"I'm done, sir," Tom swallowed the last bit of toast quickly.

"Good, Potter," Snape almost smiled. "I shall speak with you later."

And within a few minutes, Tom was neatly out the door, book-bag slung over one shoulder and stomach still sloshing rather unpleasantly with the remnants of breakfast.

The 'greasy git' of the dungeons himself had apologised and offered his help. Would wonders never cease. He was sure that Hermione would babble inanities about professors and helping and all that rot.

It was too bad no one in their system believed a fucking word of it.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Tom slipped back inside and a few minutes later, Echo popped out. He knew they had Charms next, and he directed his steps accordingly. Charms first, Transfiguration second, then a break period. He liked break periods. He didn't have to try to fake facial expressions as much then. Unless some of their friends were around. He didn't mind their friends, he supposed, but it was hard to be around them. All of their emotions felt almost painful, rubbing and splattering against him. He would be just as well off if that didn't happen at all.

But Harry and Jay and Tom and Raven liked having friends, and he couldn't go against that. So when Blaise and Theo met them at the door to the Charms classroom, he forced a smile on his face (which felt wholly unnatural), and sat there and read the chapter and took notes-his handwriting was much more neat and cramped than Harry's was. And he endured Blaise's suspicious looks and Theo's guileless eyes, and when that was over, he did the same in the next class, and when rest period came, he hid in the back of the library and heaved a small sigh of relief.

It was hard pretending, and he didn't like it at all.

You are fucking creepy, you know that? Jay spoke up inside, half-spooked, half-admiring. Echo just shook his head. He wasn't creepy. At least, he didn't think he was.

No, you are, Jay insisted, before Blue knocked him over the head with a pillow and told him to knock it off.

He can't help being different! Blue said fiercely, and Jay had looked abashed for once.

Echo understood almost none of this.

Five minutes later, Professor Quirrell walked straight past them-they were more than half-hidden in a secluded corner-and even Echo noticed that the stuttering, nervous man looked completely different than usual.

"Where is it," Quirrell hissed to himself, no trace of his stammer in his voice, and from Echo's shadowed position, he saw the man pull out a singular, dusty book.

Magical Beasts and How to Tame Them.

"Thought it might help with that essay Professor McGonagall wants on animal transfiguration and why it's dangerous," Tom lied smoothly, and though Hermione's brows scrunched together, she didn't protest.

The problem was, Tom realised in frustration as he flipped through the pages, he had no idea why Professor Quirrell was interested in the damn book to begin with. It was all well and good to read it cover to cover, but without another clue, they were stuck.

At least it was a fairly entertaining read.

Professor Quirrell hissed in frustration and slammed the book down, only the knowledge of what Madam Pince would do to him for defiling one of her precious books stilling his wand from setting the blasted thing on fire. Yet another dead end. There had to be a book somewhere out there on what to do with three-headed dogs that did not involve having his face shredded and his arms left toothpicks for the wretched creature. Only his Lord's quick, though meagre, assistance had saved him the last three times he attempted to slip down the trapdoor, and his Master grew impatient.

"Unicorn blood is not enough, Quirinus," his Master's voice hissed aloud, filling the small, cramped quarters that the DADA professor lived in. When he was alone, the turban went by the wayside (with rather strong locking/warding charms on both door and fireplace, of course), which gave his Lord free reign to speak.

"I know, Master, I know," Quirrell whispered fretfully, rubbing at his temples. "But I do not know where else to search!"

"Are you giving up?" Voldemort hissed, the note of warning so strong, Quirrell blanched, his skin turning cold.

"O-Of course not, Lord!" he stammered. "I would never-ever-not for you, my Lord."

"Good," Voldemort whispered. The sensation of the spectre's lips moving on the back of Quirrell's head never failed to make him shudder. "Use the girl."

"Which girl?" Quirrell murmured in confusion. His headache intensified.

"The Mudblood, of course!" his Master's laughter made him feel queasy. "Hermione Granger. Use her."

"She is smart," Quirrell acknowledged, rather reluctantly. "But the boy-what if he notices?"

"Do it now," his Master urged him. "He will not notice. He is distracted with school and his other friends. You know what to use."

"Yes," Quirrell breathed, nodding. His movements were automatic as he swathed the noxious purple turban around his head, closing away the sight of his Master's face from the ill-educated general world. They would learn, of course. Oh yes, they would, but not yet.

As he left his rooms, he allowed himself one more moment for a smile that looked almost feral.

Hermione loved the library.

It was her favourite place to be in all of Hogwarts. The smell of books, that distinct paper and ink and the dust of centuries, wreathed her nostrils and always made her feel at home. After the rather odd meeting with Harry over the magical beasts book (and that dreadful excuse he gave her), she couldn't help but come to the library in search of more clues, related books, that sort of thing. It was a rather fascinating subject, after all.

101 Magical Animals, How To Deal With Doxies, Pixies, and Other Pests, even several books on dragon-tending, which was a bit unsettling! Dragon-keeping was illegal in Britain, though, so Hermione thought she could relax on that note, at least.

Ah, yes, a smile curled her mouth as she lifted a rather weighty book from the shelf. In faded gilt letters, it spelled out A Compendium of Magical Creatures.

"Imperio!" hissed a voice behind her, and Hermione's mind went absolutely blank.

She turned and saw Professor Quirrell, but it was a professor she scarcely recognised. His eyes were no longer cloudy or darting, but cold and full of such malevolence, she would have screamed if she was able to. As it was, her mind merely floated and she regarded him with perfectly enforced calm.

"Check out that book," the man indicated with the tip of his wand. "And come to my office. Now."

And then he was on his way out of the library, looking again, for all the world, like a stuttering, jumpy wreck. Hermione knew better, but she couldn't seem to stop herself as she brought the book up to the desk, checked it out with Madam Pince, smiling a bit daffily at the woman, but causing no real concern, and leaving the library-

Where she bumped straight into Harry.

"Sorry," she murmured automatically, every atom in her body urging her to go onward, go to Quirrell's office, go, go now!

"Are you all right, Hermione?" Harry asked, his eyes scanning her face with more clarity than she knew how to deal with.

"Of course," she said, wooden. The corners of her mouth tipped up in a smile as she willed him to see and understand and get someone's help. "I just have to see Professor Quirrell right now, that's all. I'll just be going, thanks, Harry," and before she slipped past him, before he turned away, she managed to mouth, "get Snape!" and continued placidly down the corridor, her fingers icy cold around the book.

Before she made it to the next corridor, Harry was pelting his way down to the dungeons.

In retrospect, Quirrell should have asked Granger if she'd bumped into anyone on the way. But his master was urging him on, and he could feel the thrill of using one of the Unforgivables in Hogwarts itself thrumming along his veins, and besides, it was such a short walk, wasn't it? He still thought the Dark Lord meant to question the Mudblood's encyclopaedic knowledge (what else would she be good for?) so it was a bit of a nasty shock when Voldemort hissed for him to retrieve the ceremonial dagger from under his bed instead.

"What is this for, my Lord?" Quirinus questioned as he tugged the blade free, watching it glisten in the dim light. The tip was still silvery from the last unicorn his Master had drunk from.

The Dark Lord's hissing laughter filled his quarters.

"The Mudblood, of course," Voldemort responded. "Innocent magical blood is powerful, Quirinus...especially with a spell I once knew..." Quirrell paled, feeling queasy. He didn't know why he was so sickened at the thought of stabbing the Mudblood girl through the heart, or slitting her throat for his Master to drink. But he was. She wasn't like Potter. She was...innocent.

Then again, that was the point.

A knock sounded on his door, and he slipped the dagger into the pocket of his robes, ensuring his turban was affixed into place. Hermione Granger stood on the other side, her face placid, though her eyes screamed.

"Come in," he ordered. She did so, woodenly stepping past him. The book in her arms was clutched so tightly to her chest, her fingers had turned white. "Relax," Quirrell said with exasperation. She blinked once, then sagged into the nearest chair, book landing on the thin carpet.

"You were never good at proper instructions, were you?" the Dark Lord's voice filled the crowded space, laced with sardonic amusement. Quirrell's face flushed as Hermione looked around in confusion, obviously trying to locate the source of the new voice. Goosebumps had pimpled up both of her arms.

Quirrell grinned rather nastily and slowly began to unwrap his turban, back facing Hermione. When his second face, so to speak, came into view, he heard her gasp, a quick intake of breath that left him saying as quickly as he could, "Don't scream!"

He could hear her lips slam shut. Voldemort laughed, a dark, oily sound that made Hermione's stomach churn.

"What a delightful little Mudblood you are," Voldemort said, examining the girl critically. "So young and already the top of your class! Pity the world won't see your tainted blood rise any farther."

"My blood's not tainted, thanks," Hermione spoke up, her voice wobbling and thready, but still there. "Who are you? What are you?"

"Ah yes, you wouldn't know, would you?" the Dark Lord mused. "Voldemort, Mudblood. You may know me as Voldemort."

"But...you're dead," Hermione gasped, her eyes round as saucers. "Harry-killed you-"

"A no doubt charming notion to the rest of your foolish world, but alas, dear Mudblood, you are incorrect," Voldemort hissed. "Mere shadow and vapour I was for so long-but as you can see, I am not deceased.

"Now, Quirinus...if you would?"

Quirrell nodded, slipping the dagger out of his pocket and turning. The Mudblood shrank back into the chair, her fingers scrabbling around her robes for her wand.

"Desist," he said calmly, and she left off at once, although the terror still made her eyes bulge. The tip of the dagger glittered.

"Where, my Lord?" Quirrell asked, tilting his head slightly to one side.

"The heart, aim for the heart. I'll tell you when," the Dark Lord hissed, murmuring words that didn't sound like Latin or anything Quirrell had ever heard. They sounded dark.

"Now!" Voldemort shouted, and Quirrell raised the dagger for its final plunge into the quivering first year beneath him...

When his door burst open with a tremendous clatter and Harry Potter, Severus Snape, and Albus Dumbledore himself dashed in.