Harry starts awake, nearly falling off the windowsill before he catches himself. Steadying himself with a breath, he moves gingerly to dangle his feet off the edge and then drops to the floor, wincing a little at the movement.

Sleeping wedged awkwardly sitting up has only piled on to the ache he already feels from Dudley's last beating, and the results of Uncle Vernon's last temper. He grits his jaw though, forcing himself to keep moving until the worst of it wear off.

It's early, he knows that, and the other boys are still fast asleep. He debates whether to crawl into his bed - he feels a tickle of glee at the thought of it - or start for the shower. He chews his lip for a moment, before deciding he's probably not going to be able to get back to sleep anyway.

Besides, he's not exactly sure how it works here at a boarding school, but he's not too keen strip down in front of his classmates until after his minor bruises and welts have healed. There’s no reason after all to start shouting his weaknesses out to people like Malfoy.

By the time he's taken a long, luxurious, non-timed shower, with hot water - and no one at all to shout at him about using too much - most of the other boys are stirring. Malfoy is prissily combing his hair in front of a mirror, and Harry snickers as he comes back into the room. Malfoy swivels, eyes narrowing when he sees Harry.

"How dare you spy on me, you-"

"Malfoy, we're sharing a dorm." Harry says, side-eying him as he turns to his trunk to get his school books out.

Malfoy sniffs.

"Unfortunate."

"For me, too," Harry mumbles, checking his schedule before carefully stacking the correct books. He's got a lot of questions swirling in his head, but damned if he's going to ask them of Malfoy. He glances at the other beds, and Malfoy must have seen him because he smiles, all teeth in a way that tries to be intimidating and instead just looks slightly deranged on his narrow face.

“Nott's already gone to breakfast, Potty. No one here to protect you."

Nott? Harry tilts his head in confusion, then shakes it off with a snort.

"As if I needed protection from you."

And then he remembers that he might just actually need protection at some point, and that he's got a bit of a stupid habit of provoking bullies that usually ends in a beating. He eyes dart over, but Malfoy just sneers, grabs his bag.

"I'd be careful about insulting a Malfoy, Potter, my father could crush you. Have fun finding your way to the Hall!"

Harry feels like sticking his tongue out after his retreating figure for a minute, but finally crosses his arms and waits a minute to make sure it doesn’t look like he’s tailing after the git. He straightens his robes, careful and proud, and makes one more attempt to pat down his hair (which doesn't help at all, it gets all springy when it's damp) before taking a breath and making his way into the Common Room.

Conversation is bubbling, shouts and laughs flying across the room as people come out and in. There's a morning buzz that belies the quiet, organized cheerfulness of last night and Harry eases around it towards the wall where the stone door is hidden. A shove from his side sends him stumbling to the side, but before he can fall a hand catches his shoulder.

"Whoa there, firstie! Sorry, didn't see you there, you're so small!"

It's an older girl, with reddish brown hair and dark eyes, and she gives Harry a solid pat on the back and makes to move away. Harry's reached out before he can think and touched the girl’s arm.

"Um-"

Almost startled by his own initiative he pulls away, but the girl’s attention has been caught, and her eyes are bright as she turns, bouncing a little on her toes with barely contained manic energy - rather a ridiculous amount of energy for this early, Harry thinks.

"I..I-" he stammers, then stops and starts again, trying to gather his dignity around him.

"I was wondering if you could point me toward the Great Hall?"

Harry remembers some of the twists and turns from last night, but there were so many, and the corridors eerily shadowed.

The older students nods, unbothered.

"Sure, little guy. Take a right first outta the Common Room - make sure you know the password to get back in, yeah? You can ask one of the other firsties if you need - and then a left, right, up the stairs, left, follow the torches up to the main floor, and then it's straight past the hallway with that tapestry of Uldric the Insane, and you’re there!"

The directions are swimming in Harry's head, and he tries to organize them as they fly around.

"Thank you," he says gratefully, sure that the older girl is ready to move on. The student reaches over and ruffles Harry's hair with a smile. And then her hand freezes, and pulls back.

“You’re H…Harry Potter,” she says, face going still as she stares at his forehead.

Harry feels his breath hitch. He’s gotten used to everyone here knowing his name, but he's still not quite sure why they all react so differently.

The girl senses his uneasiness though, and recovers quickly.

"It's no problem. Archana Shetty.”

She introduces herself with an awkward little bow, then jitters towards the center of the room giving him a last distracted smile.

“If you have any other questions, let me know!"

Harry thinks he might hear a loud whispers involving his name from somewhere quite a ways behind them, but he ignores them and steps up to the wall, darting out as it slides open to let him through.

Harry gets lost, unsurprisingly, on his way to breakfast, and he's late. He has to make an entrance with whole tables of wide eyes following him, and then barely has enough time to grab enough to eat before he has to start out for classes.

The first is something called ‘Potions,’ and at least this time he can trail along behind his classmates. He stuff down the worry rising in his throat, hoping the rough start isn’t a portend.



It's spicy, dark and rich in a way that reminds Harry of the smell of Aunt Petunia's spice cupboard, and yet tantalizingly different, teasingly traced with some exotic element he can’t quite put his finger on. Some part of it sits in his nose like an aftertaste, thick and wet, pervasive and bitter in a way that makes him almost recoil, stopping him in his tracks.

Harry’s immediately fascinated. In the back of the room, there's an open, walk-in supply closet, multi-colored eccentric bottles and flasks lining the shelves, some murky and floating with unidentifiable bobbing things, some even luminescent. He tears his eyes away to realize he's standing alone - everyone else has taken seats.

A shadow of movement by the door makes him hurry to find an empty chair but before he can take two steps someone's foot has hooked around his and yanked, sending his chest and face slammed into unyielding flagstone, palms scraping against it in a futile effort to halt his stumbled plunge. He grits his teeth and pushes up, snatching his bag and hauling himself to his feet. His breaths are heaving as he glares at the black robes and scarlet-gold insignias that he's closest to, spine tingling with adrenaline. A few are tittering, but mostly the room is silent, as if suspended for his reaction.

If they're looking for a fight, they've picked the wrong person. Harry's not stupid, and he is not going to start something on his first day here. Besides, between Dudley and gang and primary school, Harry's learned his lesson. Physical challenge rarely ends in anything but a worse beating for him.

And with magic thrown into the deal? Already the unfamiliar environment has him wrong-footed, and everyone here seems to know more than him. Hands turning white as they grip his bag and robes, he turns away to his way to the Slytherin side.

"Well, what have we here?"

The voice is smooth and cool, and Harry freezes, inching his neck into a tilt to see an imposing figure dressed all in black behind him. The teacher from the banquet. Harry curses himself for getting caught off guard - that doesn't happen very often, but it's seeming to happen more and more in this place.

The man steps closer, and Harry leans away.

"Couldn't wait until class started to begin your troublemaking? Is your need for attention so great that you would waste class time, my time, dealing with your juvenile antics?"

His tone is barbed and biting, and Harry can hear a few titters from both sides.

Harry's jaw tightens and his eyes focus on some point behind the teacher, a tactic that always seems to work best with his primary teachers. First day, Harry reminds himself. Don’t make any trouble.

The teacher straightens, dark eyes survey him up and down, catch on his mussed robes with distaste.

"Five points from-" the man pauses, then seems to recover. "Detention, Pot-" his mouth snaps shut again. Harry glances up at him, trying to figure out what's going on.

Jaw working angrily for a moment, the man finally spits out,”Potter, sit down!"

Harry gladly hurries toward the one empty seat, feeling a bit like the last person standing in a game of musical chairs, but the attention is moved on from him as the teacher glides up to the front of the classroom, robes snapping out behind him, and starts in on some dramatic introduction. As he nears the chair he hears a w hisper from his front left.

"Here, Potter."

He was going to sit there anyway of course but he's glad for the invitation, and he slides into place without even looking as friendly firstie from the feast last night amiably scoots his legs out of the way. Harry's bag plops to the floor, drooping sadly a little.

"That was rotten," the boy remarks in an easy whisper, folding his arms together.

Harry shrugs.

"I'm sure someone from Slytherin would have stepped in against the Gryffs if the Professor hadn't been right there, “ the boy continues, and then his hand goes up and Harry stiffens, but it stays out, suspended in offering.

"Blaise Zabini."

Harry eyes him, and then reaches out and shakes it quickly.

"Thanks. Um - Harry. Potter. I mean, it's nice to meet you."

Harry risks a little smile, and Blaise grins back.

"An honor, I'm sure," Blaise mocks lightly back, with none of the sarcasm that Harry expects from those words.

"Well, Potter, since you seem to have so much to say, perhaps you wouldn't mind sharing with the class.”

The silky voice of the professor immediately wipes any remnant of the smile from his face, and it's so close to him. How does the man do that? He's had practice with Dudley's gang – he’s usually not that easy to sneak up on. Harry stares sharply into his eyes, determined not to be intimidated.

"No - I mean, yes. I'd...rather not."

"Then do us the courtesy, Potter, of not distracting people who actually have come here to learn and not to enforce their gigantic ego. And address me with respect – It's Professor or Sir."

Harry can feel his face flushing, and clenches his fists to tamp down his temper.

"Yes, sir,” He says shortly.

With one more piercing glare the man sweeps away, and Harry realizes that between his side talk with Blaise and his inner fuming, he's missed the whole welcome speech. Not that it was probably very welcoming, but there must have been something important in there that Harry missed, because everyone is pairing off and getting cauldrons and ingredients out while t he professor continues to eye everyone disdainfully.

"Boil cure potion is shockingly easy to make, which of course means that perhaps only three-quarters of you will turn it into a disastrous mess," he says haughtily, pacing weightily back and forth.

Thankfully there is some directions written out on the chalkboard, and Blaise somehow has things spread out on their desk before Harry can blink. He hands Harry some strange hard, dried pointed…are those teeth?

"Snake fangs," Blaise explains, handing him a large mortar and pestle. "Can you crush them? I'll weigh out the dried nettles."

Harry accepts the implements, finding that grinding and smashing is just right for his mood right now.

"Who is our teacher?" he asks quietly, careful to glance around first and make sure the man's not nearby.

"That's Professor Snape."

Harry nods like that means something but freezes at Blaises' casual next words.

"You know, our Head of House."

For just a moment, Harry feels his chest stop. And then he swallows something hard in his throat, and sucks in a breath.

"That…he's our Head of House?" he questions, his voice low and a bit hoarse. Blaise glances over at him, eyebrows raised in a way that's a little surprised, a little teasing, and a little genuinely confused.

"Well, yeah," he says, and Harry wants to shake him for being so cavalier about it. His pestle pauses in its pounding, but then he shifts, pulls himself up and lifts his head a little. He's not thinking about this. Not now. Focus…he needs to focus. He wants to learn.

He shoves his trembling insides together roughly, pinches his stomach in as if he could just suck everything back into place and it would stay there. He'll just have to careful. Not attract too much attention. Maybe it's like the Dursleys; if he acts compliant, maybe the man will just ignore him.

He feels something in him sinking as he glances at the man again. No. Not likely. Already the man's dark eyes have him pinned again from across the room.

Of all the crazy characters from the Welcome Feast to teach him, to be Head of House, it would have be him.

To be fair, it probably hadn't looked good when he had first come in, and Harry has been talking in class. He's just so used to being the delinquent shuffled to the back of class, the one who wasn’t even worth taking the time to call out. Most of his Primary teachers wouldn’t listen to him if he walked up and proposed to them while turning in his maths homework, unless they were especially keen on taking their frustrations out on someone that day. Although, Harry thinks dryly, him talking to other kids in class has never been an issue at all.

Well. At least he isn't going to have a problem being ignored here. This is suddenly much, much more attention than Harry is sure he can handle. But then he looks up, and Blaise is nudging his shoulder and giving him a genial little half-smile, and Harry takes a breath and remembers the fierce determination he felt under that sorting hat.

The other classes aren't so bad. He has magic. Things here aren’t so different. He can do this. He can.

"Head of House," he whispers to Blaise. "Is that-"

"Potter!" Snape spits out. Harry stills.

"Obviously you can't stand to work with others without diverting all attention away from the work and onto yourself. Since you are so confident that you have no need to focus, you can work on your own."

He sends Harry to a single desk in the back corner, a flip of his wand moving a new cauldron and several flying bags of ingredients with him. Malfoy jeers at him outright as Harry takes his place, sending Blaise an apologetic look. After all, now Blaise is having to work alone, too. Harry feels his gut burn for a moment. It's not really a harsh punishment at all, but it isn't fair to punish Blaise, too, for something Harry started.

Good job, Harry, he thinks as the cauldron thumps in front of him. Way to get rid of the only friend you've made so far.

The rest of class is pretty much the disaster Harry worried it was going to be. It’s not just him the professor picks on though - it’s the Gryffindors too, and Harry wonders what his deal is with them. Snape does seemed to have a disgusting fondness for Malfoy of all people, although Harry can't think of a reason why.

He spared from the professor’s snide, biting comments part way through class when one of the Gryffindor’s cauldrons explodes and causes a trip to the hospital wing - and Harry feels a little guilty at how glad he is that Snape’s attention has been diverted from him. When the class is over, he’s ready to get out of there as fast as he can, but a hand catches him on the way out. He spins. It’s Blaise. Harry’s breath hitches.

“Blaise, I’m sorry-“ he starts stiffly, but Blaise interrupts, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“You up for studying tonight, Potter?” he inquires, offhanded. "You c'n meet me at the far table in the Common Room.”

Every understanding inflection, every apology Harry was going to say sticks in his throat. He swallows.

“I-“

Dang. He hadn’t expected this from the other boy at all, and now he's not sure how to react. This isn't what happens, this never happens, so why…?

Blaise just looks at him, lips parting in a toothy, good-natured grin, and then he takes off ahead of Harry.

“After dinner! Far table, Potter!” he calls back, and Harry stares after him, battling shock and something gentler, soft and fragile and warm curling in the bottom of his stomach.

He finds a wall to lean against and closes his eyes. This place - it does fit him. Like the wand in his hand and his trunk by his bed, and his hair being ruffled by that fifth or sixth year this morning. Tall light flooding through crystalled windows onto smooth stone, tables as long as room, and even the strange, watery green light of the Common Room. He can feel his heart sending out strings and attaching itself to the rhythm of life here, and he's thinking of letting it.

He laughs, suddenly, strangely, and it's strangled like someone coming up from water and taking their first breath.

He'll make it here. This place will be a home for him, yet.