Truth's Like Blood Underneath Your Fingernails by ChoicesWeMake
Summary: It is late in the evening, but Severus Snape is finally ready to sit back in his chair beside a steaming cup and contemplate. Because Merlin's beard, is there a lot to contemplate. He finally lets himself feel the emotions churning mutedly inside him as he stares into the flames hissing in his hearth. Nothing that happened today is what he expected, and he is not prepared, not at all prepared, for a Potter in his house...
Categories: Teacher Snape > Professor Snape Main Characters: .Snape and Harry (required), Blaise Zabini, Draco
Snape Flavour: Snape is Angry, Snape's a Bully, Canon Snape, Snape is Stern
Genres: Angst, General, Hurt/Comfort
Media Type: None
Tags: Alternate Universe, Slytherin!Harry
Takes Place: 1st Year
Warnings: Abusive Dursleys, Bullying, Neglect
Challenges: None
Series: None
Chapters: 9 Completed: Yes Word count: 27444 Read: 40890 Published: 31 Jan 2018 Updated: 28 Mar 2018
Chapter 1 by ChoicesWeMake
Harry hates coming off as callow, but he can't help the little gasp that makes its way out when they enter the Great Hall. It's everything he expected walking up that elaborate swirled stone staircase; whirling color and dripping shimmer and spiraling architecture, stretching from one end to the other. This is magic, this is fairytale, and Harry has to pull his shoulders in and remind himself to keep from gawking.

They're herded up near the front, and as the Sorting starts Harry can feel his insides winching tighter and tighter as each name is called. He still doesn't really understand what exactly is going on with all this sorting business, but he knows it's important, that whatever happens here will set his course in this new world.

He studies the Head Table cautiously, undeniably fascinated with these adults who act unlike any respectable adults he's ever known. Although that one… Harry focuses on a tall figure dressed in black, with a look on his face as sour as Uncle Vernon's, draped in a dark cloak and shrouded with a menacing aura that makes him ten times more intimidating.

He studies him a moment, wondering what in this enchanting place could possibly have put such a look on the man's face. Then the man's gaze meets his, and Harry shrinks back in his seat before he manages to steel himself. His eyes are blacker than Harry's ever seen, and some unspoken malice is swimming in their depths.

It unsettles him, and there's enough vitriol in that dark glower that the feeling of being in someone’s sights settle over him like a well worn jacket. His heart speeds, and his fingers curl, but he doesn't cower, doesn’t look away. He can’t help the feeling of relief though as the man's eyes move on.

Well. Another one to stay away from, then. Harry knows better than to question it. It's not so unusual for adults to hate him on sight so he shrugs it off and focuses back on the weasel-faced boy working his way up the front. Malfoy, Harry remembers - the one who'd been teasing the boy with the toad in the hall. He's sorted into Slytherin almost before the hat hits his head.

And then Professor McGonagall’s saying his name, and Harry bites his lip as he shuffles forward, ignoring the murmur going up from the tables as he settles himself uneasily on the stool.

The musty smell of old socks that wafts around him makes him wrinkle his nose as a crooked voice slithers into his ear.

"Well, well, what have we here then?"

Harry suppresses a shudder at the way the voices seemed to trickle down his spine, worming fingers into his skull. He wants nothing more than to reach up and wrench it off his head, but he doesn't. He clings stubbornly with white-knuckled hands to the edges of the stool, because if all the strangeness of the day hasn't stopped him so far, this stupid hat certainly won't.

"Lots of courage I see, a fair bit of cunning - but where to put you?"

Harry remains stubbornly silent, even in his head, as he feels the irritating prod against his mind.

"Slytherin would do well, help you on the path to greatness," the hat seems to be coaxing him, but for something that can read his mind, it sure doesn't seem to know him very well.

Harry doesn't want greatness. He doesn't need his name in lights and on everyone's lips. He wants meals, hot ones, whenever he wants, with people that he likes and that like him. Friends he can have adventures with, huddle under the blankets with at night and laugh with. People who might think… might think he's worth something.

And whatever he has to do to get that, he will. He's tolerated the Dursleys, he's outlasted his primary, and he'll get through the alarming unknowns of this new world, because if there is one thing Harry knows, it's that he is a survivor, and he's not giving up on what this place has given him - a hope, haunted and wary but still there, burning at the core of him.

"Well then, I think it will be SLYTHERIN," the hate booms out the last word and Harry blinks a little to clear his vision as he looks out to a Great Hall that has descended into hushed silence. Disconcerted, he scoots off the stool, nearly tripping over one ragged pant leg as he shuffles toward the green-bannered table.

He can hear one solitary person in the crowd start a hearty clap, that's followed by a trickle more less enthusiastic ones, but he keeps his head down, doesn't look up.

He squeezes himself onto the end of one of the long benches far away from Malfoy, who is already surrounded by a group of admirers, and closer to a placidly cheerful first year who moves over a little to make room for him.

"Ready to eat then?" the firstie says, his voice quiet but amicable, clearly tuning out the rest of the Sorting going on in the background. "Bet you haven't seen a feast like this one – wait 'til you try the pumpkin juice!"



Harry is fuller than he can ever remember being as he obediently follows the gaggle of green-clad firsties down winding hallways until they're stopped in front of a stone wall. The mealy-faces older student who shepherded them together crosses his arms, and glares at them down his beaky nose.

As he gives them a password, Harry can't decide whether to giggle or snort, because it seems so juvenile, like he's part of some secret kids club, but it's also very cool, because he taps his wand against the stone and says the password and the door grinds open, just like that.

Harry lets himself trail at the back of the group, eyes widening as he takes it in - the glistening panorama that spans the back wall, a window in the water speckled with quivery fronds of seaweed and lazy, drifting fish.

"Now, then…" The older boy starts blathering on about prefects and Head of Houses and some Professor Snape that Harry doesn't think he's met yet, but Harry's attention is helplessly drawn away. The light casts an eerie glow over the room, whose only other light is a few flickering candles and the gently roaring fireplace. Students sprawl over green velvet couches, while others are congregated at tables, talking excitedly over books in low tones, and the gentle hum of conversation fills the room like a melody. It is completely and utterly unlike the harsh white lines and showy knick-knacks of the Dursley home, and Harry immediately loves it.

“… got it?" Harry snaps his head back around to realize he's missed most of the lecture the sour student guide has been giving, but nods along with the other before the crowd of kids dissipates and they wander in clumps toward the dorms.

Harry's dorm is all cozy furs and dark brown leather, and he’s surprised to see his small trunk sitting at the end of one of the beds. The other beds have trunks at the end of theirs, too, one of which is unfortunately Malfoy’s… the git.

It has his name engraved in elaborate gold letters on the front and lid. Harry manages to ignore the fact that he's sharing a room with that sneering prat that reminds him altogether too much of Dudley in favor of reveling in his newfound possessions.

He feels so grown up as he surveys his tidy little cluster of assorted belongings, in front of a smooth, simple, elegant bed with a spread like velvet and a pillow that's so fluffy and white, Harry has to fight an impulse to bury his face in it, and he feels a sudden, fierce possessiveness seize him. These things are special, after all. They're his, only ever belonged to him.

It's worlds better than the Dursley's garden shed or the cupboard, but more than that, Harry thinks - and his heart feels strangely electric - it's home. Harry's never considered any place home before, but the word's snuck into his head before he can hardly blink, and it curls up and settles there in some lonely neglected space.

Harry's still thinking about it that night as he turns over and tries to shut his mind down for the millionth time. He can hear the other boys breathing, deep in sleep, but for Harry it won't come.

He slips quietly out from under the ridiculously feathery duvet, pads over to the half-covered window seat and settles himself on it, the stone cool against him. He's never belonged in anything as luxurious this, and he still feels a bit out of place.

I'll get used to it, he thinks. I will. He watches the strange assortment of sea creatures meandering past, the blue light shimmering over him and casting layers of shifting shadows on the smooth rock. It's silent in that way it only is in the early hours of the morning, with a cozy, blanketed hush over everything, and Harry feels safe.

He's not naive enough to believe it will stay that way, and he can't decide whether he's more excited or apprehensive about tomorrow. There's so many things that could go wrong, and they’re all playing on repeat in his head.

He can't help but hope this place might be more good than bad, though. He can't help but imagine himself with a new life, with this blank slate. He can't help but think that maybe, his life has finally taken a turn for the better.



It is late in the evening, but Severus Snape is finally ready to sit back in his chair beside a steaming cup and contemplate. Because Merlin's beard, is there a lot to contemplate. He finally lets himself feel the emotions churning mutedly inside him as he stares into the flames hissing in his hearth. Nothing that happened today is what he expected, and he is not prepared, not at all prepared, for a Potter in his house.

Snape can feel his upper lip pulling back of it's own volition and tries to relax the edges of his mouth. Of course the brat is a headache already.

Snape is going to have to deal with Minerva, possibly even the Headmaster, who somehow didn't blink an eye through the sorting. He's going to have to deal with his snakes…Merlin. Potter is one of his Snakes. The situation between the houses is rife with enough rivalries and rough play, without the much coveted eleven-year-old celebrity being sorted into the antagonized, hostile, outsider Slytherin.

For a moment, for just a moment, Snape feels a flash of resentment toward the boy for daring to be sorted into his house. Then it fades and he's left with his detestable common sense which sees fit to remind him it's hardly the fault of a small boy who – Snape lets his shoulders slump – could hardly choose where he was sorted into.

And then he straightens again in his chair, his eyes still lost in flame, his thoughts in his head. Snape is just going to have to deal with this like everything else, like he always has. He snorts. He's certainly had worse thrown at him.

He feels much better now that he's had time to really process the… problems Potter’s created. Not that he was expecting anything less. But he is, he admits to himself, curious, just a little.

How does Potter himself feel about the sorting? What will his reaction be? Snape was too wrapped up in his own shock to take much note - he can be excused for that, everyone was. But surely he isn't the only one who noticed that on the way up to the stool of the sorting hat, Potter's hands were trembling.
The End.


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