He was an idea, one that shifted from person to person like a chameleon.  Later in third year, he’d amend that to being like a boggart, but right now, pre-Hogwarts, a chameleon was what made the most sense.  

Petunia thought him a dullard, so that was what he was.  Every day, she had to tell him how to do things--the same things as the day before, and every day he purposefully left out at least two steps.

At school, his teacher assumed he was as stupid as the rumours suggested.  She asked him no questions, and he gave her no answers--unless staring blankly at her and then at the window was an answer.  It totally was an answer, but he didn’t bother sharing that titbit with her.  

He was an idea.  Harry Potter was a persona that he slipped on to deal with various situations, but the real him, the real Harry was nothing like anyone that he knew. 

His theory became even more pronounced after he found out he was a wizard.  The name, “Harry Potter,” was still just an idea within the wizarding world.  It might be more positive an idea than what he’d found in the muggle world, but it was still an idea that had little bearing on the actual truth.

. . .

Hagrid assumed the best of him based on his parentage, so he let him.  He nodded at the right spots and urged the large man to tell him of his mother and father, all the while letting the words slide past his ears with all the consistency of warm butter.  

What did he care of parents who never knew him?  What did he care of hearing about someone else’s ideas of how he should be based on what he’s never seen?  

The child of James and Lily Potter must be good, because they were.  It was upon that theory that he convinced Hagrid to let him leave on his own from Diagon Alley.  He did not need guidance, because as the child of James and Lily Potter, he was more than capable of navigating his way back to his vaunted home.  

The fact that he did not return to them was entirely inconsequential.  

Real Harry had no interest in returning to his existence as a dullard or a punching bag.   Real Harry saw the opportunity of staying in Diagon Alley as nothing more than an escape , and an opportunity in better understanding the wizarding world’s idea of Harry Potter.  

He had already decided that whatever the idea was, it was wrong, and he would do his best to be the opposite of it.

. . .

By the time he found his way onto platform 9 and ¾, he knew what he was not and what he would not be.  

According to the denizens of Diagon Alley--whom he very carefully polled--Harry Potter was a hero.  He would be in Gryffindor, which was where his parents were sorted, and which was where the Potters have historically always been.  

The Potters were very rich, and Harry Potter would flaunt those riches.  

James Potter was mouthy to the point of ugliness.  He had no interest in kowtowing to authority.  He made a joke out of everything, with the exception of his sacrifice to protecting Harry.  

Lily was blindingly intelligent.  Popular and friends with the right sorts, she was the kind of girl that most everyone liked.  Her teachers recalled nothing but the best from her, and no one was willing to tell him to his face that she was anything other than perfect.

The real Harry took all of this in with carefully disguised contempt.  His memories of the popular children in school were of vapid, uninteresting fools.  Children who had a backbone as long as there was a spotlight for them to bask in, but no real interest in doing what was right if there was no one around to see it.  

Harry decided that he would not be popular.  He didn’t think he could live with himself if he were.

He discovered that the Potters--that he--were very rich.  That didn’t mean that he planned on flaunting it.  He took the time to get the necessities, as well as updating his own image from that of destitute hoodlum to plain, regular student attire.  He bought trousers and dress shirts, but he also invested in a new pair of trainers (slightly bigger than he currently wore), because it was sensible and because he doesn’t plan on wearing his good shoes to slog through the mud or explore to in.  

Blending in was an important facet in not sticking out.  He remembered far too well the sea of nameless faces that regularly witnessed his suffering at the hands of Dudley and friends.  

He didn’t think he would be able to keep quiet should someone need help, but he also doesn’t think he would make a big deal of it, if at all possible.  

Flashy heroism was seemingly how his parents lost their lives to begin with.  He didn’t entirely understand how they could choose to let someone kill them instead of just handing him over, but he also acknowledged that humans were often capable of things that were unexpected.  

There had a been a teacher the year before that had seen through his lies of indifference and stupidity.  She had asked him questions that no one had ever voiced, and in turn, he had shared a little of real Harry with her.  With her, it was acceptable to be intelligent.  With her, it was acceptable not to agree with the crowd, and to want something different than the status quo.  

She had surprised him, and not in a bad way.  She was a teacher, and therefore should have been automatically in the crowd of people that he didn’t pay attention to, but yet she wasn’t anything like the rest of them.  

Ms. Engelbrecht had befuddled him, and she still did.

He didn’t mind being befuddled; it was just something that allowed him to see the world in shades of colours aside from black and white.

. . .

Ron Weasley was looking for a hero.  It was all too clear by the other boy’s goggling and impolite demand to sit with him and see if he had the scar.  He could hear the italics in the boy’s tone, and decided instantly that he had no interest in such worship.  

Fame was fickle.  He’d rather someone like him for himself, rather than the idea of Harry Potter.  

“Are you interested in the idea of Harry Potter or the person himself?”  He found himself asking.

“Huh?”  

“Harry Potter is a hero, yes?”

“Of course!”  Was Ron’s indignant reply.

“And if I told you that the real Harry Potter had no heroic tendencies?  That at the sight of trouble, he chose to walk the other way?”  Harry’s green eyes were calculating.

“The real Harry would never back down from the fight!”  Was Ron’s steadfast answer.

“I see,” Harry answered with a frown.  “Then, I suppose I have no idea who you are looking for.”

“But you’re Harry, aren’t you?”  Ron’s voice was bordering on shrill.

“Yes, I am a Harry, but I am not your Harry Potter.  I suggest you leave my compartment.”  

“But there’s nowhere else to sit!” More indignant spluttering.

Harry patted him lightly on the shoulder.  

“No fear, my dear sir.  Perhaps you will find your real Potter out there?”  He said, shooing him quietly out the door.  

Ron left and Harry slumped against the seat for a moment before straightening back up.

He had a feeling that James Potter had been a sloucher, and he had no interest in following in those footsteps, thank you very much.  

His next visitor was a girl who spoke much too fast and demanded to know his name without any real interest other than spouting out the books that he was supposedly mentioned in.  He cut her off with a slight smile.  

“Ah, but those books refer to the Harry Potter.  I’m not him.”

“But you said your name was Harry Potter,” She answered in an accusatory tone.

“It’s a rather common name,” He hedged.  “There’s probably three or four of us on here.  I wish you good luck on your search though?”  And he closed the door.  

Not more than half an hour had passed before his compartment was entered again without so much as a knock.  

“Are you him?”  The small blond boy demanded, two much larger boys standing in the corridor behind him.  

“Him?  Yes, I am a him,” Harry confirmed without so much as a grin.  

The boy rolled his eyes, and pushed on ahead.  

“Harry Potter.  The train is saying he’s around here somewhere.  He should be a first year.  Are you him?”  

He was mildly surprised by the wizarding world’s bluntness.  

“My name is Harry,” He answered instead.

“Yes, but are you him? ”  The other boy gritted out.  

“Him?”

“Potter .”  

“Why?  Do you want to be friends with him?”  

“I don’t want to be friends with him.  He’s going to want to be friends with me,”  The boy answered in as pompous a voice as Harry’s heard since moving permanently into the wizarding world.

It’s rather off putting, if Harry was honest with himself.  And the real Harry usually was.  

“I rather doubt that,” Harry answered, standing up and looking the boy straight in the eye.  “You see, I’m Harry Potter, and I don’t see any reason why I’d want to be your friend.  For one thing, your manners are atrocious.  You are supposed to knock.  That’s a rule both in the wizarding world and the reg--muggle.”

He knew.  He had looked it up.  

“For another, you don’t demand people to be friends with you.  You are supposed to ask.  Or at least have something in common before making such assumptions.  That’s the other issue I have with you.  You’re making assumptions based on too little information.  Try researching this Harry Potter thing some more, and then talk to me again.”  He said in a very calm voice.  

He patted the boy on the shoulder and then pushed him back out into the corridor with the other two boys.

As he did, he wondered whether those boys had been asked about whether they were his friends, or if the boy had just bullied them into it.  

He supposed he’d have to ask.  Especially if everyone else just assumed the answer.  

He didn’t much care for assumptions, himself.

Harry watched Draco with some interest.  

Aside from the frankly embarrassing exchange they’d had back on the train, Draco was an interesting specimen to watch in action.

Though unpolished, Draco’s mask was fairly sophisticated.  He dealt with their future peers with superiority, arrogance, and a certain style that intrigued him.  

Harry wondered whether the Draco he had met on the train was actually the real one.

Perhaps he wouldn’t write Draco off so completely after all.

. . .

The Sorting Hat was an enigma to him.

Did it sort students based on what their inner characteristics suggested would be their best house?  Or did it sort them on their outward masks?

“Or maybe, Mr Potter, it does a little of both,” The Sorting Hat stated plainly in his mind.  

The brim of the hat settled over his eyes, blocking the view of the rest of the peering eyes of the Great Hall.

“I’m not Mr Potter,” He objected.

“Ah, I do see that.  Well then, should I sort Potter or Harry?”  It asked.

“Maybe . . . maybe I’m neither of them,” Harry admitted, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Let me tell you what I think.  If you were Potter, I’d sort you into Gryffindor.  And if you were Harry . . . hmm, perhaps Hufflepuff.  Or even Slytherin.”

He couldn’t help it.  He snorted, his wild giggles threatening to break out of his chest and explode into the room at large.

“Then what am I?”

“Use your logic, child.  What’s left?”  

“You can’t be serious.  Why would you put the dullard in Ravenclaw!?”  He mentally exclaimed.

“You’ve never been stupid.  Far from it, I’d say.  I think you should do well in RAVENCLAW!”

The last word was shouted and he dragged the hat off his head and practically threw it at the older professor behind him.

He didn’t know what he had hoped for.  Maybe Slytherin.  Not Gryffindor, but he’d never in his wildest dreams . . .

A hand was nudging him the direction of the wildly cheering table replete with an visual overload of blues and golds.  His insides froze and he fought the urge to turn away.  

Real Potter would swagger to his spot at the table, reveling in the cheers.

Petunia’s Harry would do what he was told.  Maybe get lost on the way, but be ultimately obedient.

So what do I do?

He didn’t know.  He couldn’t just sit down on the floor and act like a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum.

He took a step.  And then another, his feet carrying him mindlessly to the Ravenclaw table.  His fingers found the polished wooden edge of the cheering table and he fell into a seat.  There was no smile on his face, but he managed a nod to some of his housemates.

“Hard to imagine Harry Potter not liking attention!”  One of his older housemates exclaimed in his ear.

He put his head in his hands.  Potter might like attention, but he sure as hell didn’t.

. . .

Dumbledore had watched Harry’s sorting with more than a little surprise.  The boy--and he was a boy--was so much smaller than the rest of the first years.  He looked so lost after being sorted.  Perhaps he had hoped to be in the same house as his parents.  Poor child.

The only other surprise that happened that evening was the sorting of the youngest Weasley boy.

Ron had been . . . surprised at Harry.  The other boy said he wasn’t a hero.  

But he was Harry Potter.  The sorting had proven that.  And somehow Harry Potter had been sorted in Ravenclaw.  

Ron gulped hard.  Harry Potter said he wasn’t a hero.  Harry Potter was a Ravenclaw.

These two truths made the reality of his life tilt hard to the side, creating a paradigm shift unlike anything he had ever experienced.  

His plan to follow Harry to the house of his family was no longer in place.  

“Oh, you are in a quandary, aren’t you?”

The voice in his head made Ron jump.  He hadn’t expected the hat to talk in his mind.  Idly, he wondered where the Hat kept its brains.

“A good thought.  Maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll tell you about it.”

He wasn’t entirely certain that he wanted to know.

“Before you met Harry, I’d wager that you would have been a Gryffindor.  It’s all here in your head, you see.”

“And now?”  

Harry wasn’t a Gryffindor.  He wasn’t a hero.  He didn’t like the attention.  

Ron saw the other boy freeze after being sorted.  He saw him find a seat blindly and then drop his head into his hands and hide his face.  What sort of hero did that?  

“It won’t be easy, you know.  This Harry, he isn’t going to be particularly popular.”

. . .

George and Fred looked at each other in confusion.  Other than Harry’s, this sorting was one of the longest they had ever seen.  How difficult could it be to sort another Weasley boy?

Beside them, Percy drummed his fingers on the table.  He had a hunch that Ron wasn’t going to be sorted into Gryffindor, but if not their house, then where?  Percy had long thought that calling Hufflepuff the ‘house of the leftovers’ was unfair.  Being loyal and hardworking weren’t exactly easy talents to possess in the face of dislike and peer pressure.  

Sure, anyone could wave a wand and pretend to be valiant, all while turning against those they didn’t agree with.  He’d seen Gryffindor house do it more than once.  Bravery, he had long scoffed, was overrated.  It was like getting rewarded for stupidity.  

Maybe--and this was a hope he had secretly harboured since learning that he was so different from the rest of his family--maybe Ron had seen that too.  Maybe Ron would be different too.  

Maybe.

. . .

“So I’m different now?  But all I did was get kicked out of a train compartment,” Ron argued.

“But he made you think, did he not?”  The Sorting Hat countered.

“I don’t . . . like how he made me think.”

“Wouldn’t you agree that before you met him, you hadn’t done much thinking at all?”

That, that galled him a bit.

“What about chess?”

“Do you ever apply those strategies in the rest of your life?  In arguments?  In Quidditch?  In planning revenge against your brothers?”  The Hat argued.  

“Revenge is . . . is bad.”  

His mother had said so, hadn’t she?

“Sometimes it is, and sometimes it’s not.  It depends on the situation and what you’re trying to get out of it.”

“Listen, can’t we discuss this later?  People are starting to talk,” Ron asked as the noise around them started to rise.

“If you’re friends with Harry, people will talk then as well.”

“He said I didn’t get to be friends with him,” Ron complained.

“He said that you didn’t to make assumptions about who he was. He was right.”

“He’s supposed to be a hero!” Ron argued, feeling offended all over again.

“He’s supposed to be a child.”

“Then what am I?”

“A child with a better childhood.”  

Ron laughed out loud, making the noise around them dip briefly and then swell again.

“Your assumptions are wrong about him.  Anything that you thought he was, he is not.  Still want to be friends with him?”

“ . . .”

“I’ll give you the option of a resorting in two years,”  The Hat offered.

He sighed.  He had a feeling that the Hat didn’t offer resortings very often.  Maybe not ever.

“Yes.  I still want to be friends.”

“Better be RAVENCLAW!”

A note arrived with a Prefect at the end of the meal.  The headmaster was requesting Harry’s presence in his office.

“I’m not going by myself,” He informed a mystified Ron.

“Well,” Ron looked at him and then at those around them.  “I’m not much use against the headmaster.  Maybe if I were Bill or Charlie . . .”

“Who?”

“My brothers.”

“Ah,” Harry answered, scanning those around them for some kind of clue.  

“What about the Prefect?”  Ron asked, jerking his head toward the girl now sitting only a few people down from them.  

“What about me?”  She called out, turning and staring at them.

“Who’s our head of house?”  Ron asked.

“Professor Flitwick.  Why?”

“What’s your name?”  Harry asked, leaning toward her.

“Stimpson.  Friends call me Mal,” Her eyes held a challenge in them.

“How do I talk to Professor Flitwick?”

“What, now?”  Stimpson asked, causing a few students near them to chortle.

“Yes.  Now,” Harry’s tone left no room for humour.

“Why?”  

He waved the piece of paper she had just given him.  

“Because Dumbledore wants me in his office after supper, and I’m not going in there by myself.”

“Ah, come on.  The headmaster is a big softie!” Another Ravenclaw argued from across Stimpson.

“Don’t care,” Harry answered stiffly, his jaw set in an uncompromising way.

Stimpson took another bite of her pie and then pointed her fork at him.  

“All right.  I’ll tell him for you, but it’s his prerogative if he goes in with you.  Understand?

“Perfectly.”

. . .

“Ah, Mr Potter.  Mal told me that you wished to be accompanied to the headmaster’s office?  I’m fairly certain that you aren’t in trouble.  It’s a bit too early in the year for that!”  Flitwick said brightly, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.  

He tried not to flinch at the name, ‘Potter,’ and instead focused on his surprisingly tiny professor.

Perhaps he wasn’t fed much as a child either.

“I wouldn’t know.  I’ve never met the man,” He countered in an even tone.  

“Will Mr Weasley be joining us as well?”  Flitwick questioned.

“Uh,” Was Ron’s inelegant response.

“No,” Harry answered decisively, glancing at him.

Ron shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and started to follow the rest of their housemates out of the Great Hall.

Harry wasn’t certain if the other boy was more annoyed or relieved by his response.  

“This way then, Mr Potter,” Flitwick interjected, breaking into Harry’s musings.

“Yes, sir,” He answered, following in silence.  

He studied his head of house as they walked.  Though the man was short, he was not spindly, and indeed, upon further inspection, seemed rather solid.  His footfalls were light, despite the relative thickness of his legs, and his shoulders and upper arms appeared to be rather muscular.  

Small, but mighty, his professor did not seem like the type to be easily cowed, and he let himself take some comfort in the thought that the man might be a good ally.  

They arrived at the gargoyle and he watched silently as Flitwick spoke a phrase to open the passageway.

Fizzing Whizbee?  What on earth--?

All too soon, Harry found himself standing in front of a large desk in the headmaster’s office.

“Thank you for bringing him, Filius.  I can take it from here,” Dumbledore said by way of greeting.

“If it’s all the same to you, Headmaster, I think I’ll stay,” Flitwick answered, hopping onto a squashy armchair.

A slight pause.

“If you’re certain, Filius?  I can’t imagine that this conversation will be of much interest to you,” Dumbledore replied, peering closely at the other man.

“I am, Albus.  Mr Potter, please have a seat,” Flitwick said, pointing a small hand at the chair nearest him.  

Harry carefully perched himself on the edge of the chair, not wanting to sink too far into its soft entrapping seat.  

“Now, can I offer either of you a lemon drop?”  

Wordlessly, Harry shook his head.  

He kept his eyes focused on the bit of wall just behind Dumbledore’s head.  Having the attention of two adults was deeply unsettling to him, and he briefly found himself wishing to return to his part of the dullard.  Idly, it occurred to him that if he were really the hero--really Harry Potter--this would be the sort of situation that he would have thrived in.

Dumbledore sighed and then rummaged around in one of the drawers of his massive desk, before pulling out a thin box.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore said.  “Why did you not take the wand that Ollivander matched to you?”  

“Because I didn’t want it,” He answered, crossing his arms in front of his chest defensively.   

Dumbledore blinked at his answer and stroked his fingers over his beard.

“Whyever not?”

If Harry had thought the headmaster’s gaze to be penetrating before, it was nothing compared to now.

“Because Ollivander said it was the brother to You-Know-Who’s wand.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore tutted.  “Lord Voldemort.  Surely you have heard his name?  Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

He heard Flitwick shifting restlessly in the chair next to him but didn’t spare his head of house a look.  He didn’t have the mental wherewithal to split his attention in such a tension thick conversation.

“I read in, ‘The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,’ that there were reasons for that fear, sir.  You-Know-Who cast a spell that would cause his followers to appear wherever his name was spoken,” Harry argued, shaking his head.

In front of him, Dumbledore tilted his head and stared at Harry as though he had never seen anything like him.

Harry was certain that Potter would have said the man’s name without any problem.  He probably wouldn’t have known about the taboo or maybe he wouldn’t have cared.  Voldemort was supposed to be dead, after all.

“Lord Voldemort has been gone for a decade now, my boy,” Dumbledore said.  “You needn’t fear an idea.”

Fear?  He thinks I’m afraid?  

“I’m not afraid,” He said, finally risking a glance at Dumbledore’s face.

The solemnity and pure power hidden behind the old visage was staggering and he nearly flinched backward at the sight.  Harry quickly redirected his eyes down to the toes of his school boots.

Maybe Potter would be used to disagreeing with powerful people, but he wasn’t.

“Well,” Dumbledore sighed, “Good.  Then why don’t you want your wand?”

Harry shook his head and ran a sweaty hand through his hair.

Why didn’t he want the wand?  

It was complicated.  It had more to do with the idea of what he was supposed to do as compared with what he was going to do.  The entire thing stunk to him. It was too easy.  Why did he have to be so difficult to fit for a wand?  And if Voldemort really was dead, then why was this esteemed old man so interested in his choice not to pick a wand tainted by the man?

“I don’t want anything to do with You-Know-Who,” He said after a moment of rapid mental warring.

“It’s a bit too late for that, Mr Potter,” Flitwick chuckled dryly.  

“Anything more then.  You-Know-Who is the reason for . . . my lot in life.”

The dullard.  Potter.  I just want to be me!

Flitwick nodded.  

“This wand has nothing to do with Voldemort.  They both have a tail feather from the same phoenix, but nothing else is shared between them.  Do you know what a phoenix is, Harry?”  Dumbledore pressed, standing up and walking around the desk toward him.

Harry thought about reeling off some of the information that he had learned from his research, but quickly decided against it.  Offering unasked for information was akin to revealing one’s hand too early, and he had no desire for Dumbledore to get further into his headspace than he already was.  He swallowed and ran his sweaty hands over his trousers, trying to ignore the tremble in his fingers.  

“Yes, sir.”  

“Then you know that they are one of the most pure creatures in existence.  It should be an honor to have a wand with the feather of a phoenix as its core,” Dumbledore said, hands behind his back as he walked toward Harry.

Too close too close too close!

Petunia’s dullard reacted, and Harry tripped on the edge of his robes as he scuttled backward away from threatening figure looming over him.  

“Are you all right, Mr Potter?”  Flitwick was the first to recover, hopping off his chair and walking slowly to where he lay panting on the floor.

“Fine, fine,” Harry muttered, picking himself up and pushing back until his backside hit the door.

Professor Flitwick shared a worried glance with Dumbledore before waving his hand at the seat Harry had just vacated.  

“Then come back.  Sit down,” Flitwick’s voice was a soothing timbre against the frantic pounding in his temple.

“I’d really rather not,” Harry swallowed hard.  “I’m uh,” He swallowed again, his heart pounding wildly in his throat.  “Isn’t it sort of late?  That train ride was rather long.  And, I still haven’t seen my dorm.  Or my bed.  And uh,” His fingers convulsively gripped the doorknob behind him, but he resisted the urge to twist.

He didn’t know what he would do if the doorknob didn’t turn.

“Of course, of course,” Dumbledore rumbled agreeably, moving back and dropping into his desk chair.  

Harry felt some of his fear drop a notch as the desk regained its place between them.  

“I assume this means you are wandless?”  Dumbledore asked gently.

“Ah,” Harry shook his head and managed to pry his hand off the doorknob.  “No.  I--I found one.  But, not,” He glanced at Flitwick a little desperately.

He wasn’t used to having conversations with adults at all.

“Did you get it from somewhere other than Ollivander’s?”  Flitwick eyes were shining.  

Expressing opinions was something that the dullard didn’t do. He did what he was told, more or less.  His words were limited to “Yes” or “No” answers.  

“Yes.  Yes, sir,” Harry nodded, carefully not letting any image of Dumbledore in his sight.

“Where?”  Dumbledore’s voice bit into their conversation and Harry flinched.  

Answering questions that were outside the realm of “Yes” or “No” invariably led to trouble.

“Kn-Kn-Knockturn Alley,” He stuttered.

“Did you go there by yourself?”  Flitwick asked, concern etched in every line of his face.

“Yes, sir.”  

“Did anyone try to hurt you?”  

“No, sir,” He said, shaking his head for emphasis.

He had reverted to his dullard mindset, and had drifted along unseen with the crowd.  It had been surprisingly uneventful.

“Mr Potter.  May I call you Harry?”  Flitwick asked, hands open and unthreatening.  

“If-f-f you want, sir.”

There was no way to tell him that he was neither of those names.  Certainly not in front of Dumbledore.  

“Harry,” Flitwick smiled, bright and easy.  “Will you show us your wand?”  

“Master Burnum also said that I was a difficult one to match, but he didn’t mention anything about You-Know-Who,” Harry whispered.

He lowered himself down onto one knee so he could be at eye level with his head of house.  Reaching into his sleeve, he pulled his wand out of the holster that Burnum had gifted him.  

“Twelve inches, somewhat bendy,” He said, holding his wand out for Flitwick to see.  “Australian Blackwood with the tailfeather of a Malham bird.”

“Very impressive, my boy,” Dumbledore interjected, making him jump and nearly drop his wand.

Harry’s hand twitched, and the wand went back up into the holster that was affixed to his arm.  

“May I go to bed now, Professor Flitwick?”  He asked, purposely ignoring the bright smile Dumbledore was sending his way.

“I should say so, lad,” Flitwick answered.  “Go wait at the bottom of the stairs while I ask the headmaster a question, please?  And then I’ll come down and show you where the Ravenclaw dorms are.”

“Yes, sir!”  Harry said, before scrambling to his feet and shooting out of the office.  

. . .

“I’d say you made a fairly good impression on him,” Albus said, smiling congenially.

“I’d say that you made a fairly terrible impression on him,” Filius answered with a scowl.  “I assume you know the significance of such a wand?  This is not a story tale and that child is not a knight in shining armour.  He is frightened and overwrought, and you have made it just that much more difficult to connect with him,” He spat, drawing himself up to his full height--such that it was.  

“If you need to talk with him again, you’ll do it with me present, or so help me, Albus, you’ll regret it.”

He dreamed of his first wand.  How it had sung to him!  How easy it would have been to give into the dream that it represented.  But he couldn’t.  Choosing the easy path was impossible.  

In his dream, it had attacked him after he turned away from him.  And when he had looked back, it had grown to gargantuan sizes until it loomed over him like Dumbledore.  

He awoke with a gasp and fought the urge to cry out.  Pressing the balls of hands to his eyes, he rubbed them until the tears dried, and the dream was nothing more than a dead weight in the pit of his stomach.  

He opened his curtains a hair and took a look out the nearest window.  It was still dark.  He lay back down and curled up in a fetal position.  

Slowly he forced himself to relax, going through each of the muscle groups until he could feel his mind begin to drift.  Without much thought, his thoughts meandered into a long held daydream.

He imagined what the real Potter’s world looked like.  The real Potter would have a room within a home , complete with parents.   Someone who would tuck him in, and someone who would ask him how his day had been.  

His fingers rose to pet the back of his head in a self-soothing motion as he imagined the kind touch of a mother or father.  His other arm went across his chest, and he gave himself a half-hug as he fell deeper into his dreamworld.  

Someone to touch his cheek and pet his hair.  Someone who would know not to scare him with the idea of Voldemort.  Someone to step up and rescue him from the Dursleys.  Someone who would care .

Tears dripped into his ears, but he didn’t mind.  

Potter would have all of that and more, and he wouldn’t appreciate any of it.  

The thought turned his stomach and the hand that had been petting his hair dropped down to cover his mouth, lest he cry aloud.

Petunia’s dullard was no more than an existence, and a paltry one at that.   He didn’t know that there was supposed to be more beyond a cupboard, morebeyond the back of a hand and the sound of a raised voice.  He didn’t know what a full belly felt like or a friendly face looked like.  

He didn’t know .

But the Freak could dream.  The Freak could want.  

And he did.  Gods, did he want.

More tears slipped from tightly closed eyelids.   He was the freak.  So aware of what he didn’t have and what he couldn’t have.  

The dullard could be happy.  Harry the dullard, Harry the dummy, Harry the nothing.  

He wasn’t that.  But he also wasn’t Potter.  He wasn’t the hero.  He wasn’t the prize.

Just the Freak.  And no one loved a Freak.  

“And they shouldn’t be made to,” He whispered to himself, throat full of tears.

That was Potter’s wand there in Ollivander’s shop.  Once he had realised that, it had been easy to let it go.  

Freaks didn’t take what wasn’t theirs.  They had to earn their things.  They had to fight for them.  Nothing was ever easy for a Freak.  

It was how the world worked.  If he knew nothing else, then he at least knew that.  

. . .

Albus was . . . puzzled over Filius’ reaction to Harry’s wand.  Wandlore not exactly being one of his many talents--aside from one particular wand--he had been forced to do some reading that evening to keep from further embarrassing himself the next day.  

He pulled his old copy of, “An Independent Wandmaker's Guide for the Magical World” out of his bookcase and began to rapidly skim it.  

“Australian Blackwood (Acacia melanoxylon) - This wood makes for a remarkably hardy wand.  Able to go through vast amounts of danger, and cast extremely complex and difficult spells over and over. Rather like Fir in other Wandmaker’s lore, Australian Blackwood is considered something of a Survivor’s wand, retaining Acacia’s tendency for subtler magics, alongside a strong desire to survive. Australian Blackwood wands tend to be some of the most battered wands seen, usually due to long years of heavy, regular use.”

“A survivor?”  Albus mused aloud.  “I could see why you gravitated to that wand, my boy.  But what of Malham feathers?  I seem to remember the Malham bird being called a different name,” He murmured, tapping his lips as he thought.

Fawkes trilled from across the room.  

“Yes, I know it’s a fire bird, dear boy.  But what of the other name?”

More trilling.

His eyes narrowed in abrupt focus.  

“Ah, yes!  The Hoyl bird.  You’re quite right, Fawkes.  How silly of me to forget your cousin in Mesopotamia,” He said with an indulgent smile.

Fawkes squawked disgruntledly, and then flipped his tail feathers up as he turned his back on the barmy old wizard.  

Albus snorted and then turned back to his book.  He turned a few more pages before finding what he was looking for.  His eyes narrowed as he read and the grin fell from his lips.

“Wands cored with the feathers of Malham birds have a tendency to select those with some measure of depression, though why has not yet been ascertained. In use, they are graceful casters, and incredibly adept at working with their wixes intent to create something unexpected.”

“I think I see what Filius meant, my dear boy,” Albus murmured to Fawkes.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly as Fawkes flew over to perch on the back of his chair.  A mournful trill made him turn toward his phoenix and sigh.  

“I do plan to keep an eye on him, of course, Fawkes,” He said, stroking his friend’s feathers gently.  

Fawkes trilled a question and he shook his head.  

“I doubt Minerva will be much help in this.  Harry needs someone a bit more reactive.”

Fawkes chirped and then began kneading his beard a bit too forcefully.

“Ow!  Fine then!  He needs someone more proactive!  Now get off me,” He huffed, pulling himself up to a stand.  “I am going to bed, and you are going to let me,” He announced, looking Fawkes in the eye with a serious expression.  

Another trill.

“Oh, very well.  I’ll go to bed after I feed you, but no later!  I am getting a bit old for this, don’t you think?  One of these days you are going to have to learn how to find food for yourself.”

. . .

The next day was hell on Harry’s nerves.

He quickly ditched the other Ravenclaw first years, even Ron, who spent most of breakfast trying to start a conversation with him.

Getting to classes wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d been alone.  Unfortunately for him, Potter was a big deal and they all seemed to expect his behavior to follow.  The portraits could give him directions, but they couldn’t make the other students hush or stop trying to touch him.  Thankfully, he finally found the DADA classroom and slipped into the back, on the side that was closest to the exit.  

He had guessed--rightly--that the other Ravenclaws would be eager to sit at the front of the room, and for the most part he was left alone by his housemates as they trickled in.

Ron, of course, was late, and barely made it into the room before the bell.   

A round faced boy with a Gryffindor tie, who had arrived only seconds before him, was slowly drifting in the direction of the open seat next to him.

“Is this seat taken?”  The boy asked him in a tremulous voice, blinking wet eyed at him.

“Sit,” He offered, waving his hand at the seat.  

In front of them, Ron pouted and flopped into an open chair near the front.

“What’s your name?”  He asked softly, keeping his eyes firmly on the odd looking man now standing in front of the classroom.

“L-L-Longbottom,” The other boy stuttered.

“What’s your given name?”  He pressed, not caring if it was polite or not.

“Neville,” He whispered, looking terrified when the man-- Quirrell --stared directly at them with a look of warning.

He waited until Quirrell turned to look at the other side of the classroom--mostly Gryffindors--before speaking again.

“S’nice to meet you,” He said, offering Neville a hand.  

Neville’s hand was warm and sweaty, but his handshake was firm, and he felt his estimation of the other boy rise slightly.

“And you’re Potter, right?”  

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.  

“Technically.”

“Harry?”  Neville tried again.

“Technically.”

“What do you call yourself?”  Neville asked, half-pleadingly.

“Nobody,” He answered with a shrug, carefully not looking at the other boy.  

A pause, as they scrambled to take the notes that Quirrell was putting onto the chalkboard.

“That’s . . . that’s my real name too,” Neville whispered hesitantly.

He blinked hard and looked at the other boy.  

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Neville’s chin quivered slightly.  “Yeah, that’s definitely what I’m sure of.”

He nodded, maybe a bit too quickly, and swallowed hard.  

“Even nicer to meet you then, I guess,” He said, patting Neville’s shoulder gently.

“Yeah.  Thanks.”  

Snape, he found Snape fascinating.  There were no other words that worked.  

The man himself was hardly a specimen of beauty, despite being dark and sleek and deadly.  He gave the dullard chills, but he absolutely fascinated the freak.

Never before had he met someone who hated Potter as much as he, but it seemed likely that Snape hated him just as much, if not more.

Of course, there was that unfortunate set of circumstances that made Snape think he was Potter, but that just meant that he would have to show him otherwise.  

Snape’s jibe about his being a celebrity made more than a few of the Hufflepuffs giggle nervously.  

His housemates looked at him in askance, but he shook his head.  It was difficult to become angry when he found himself in complete agreement with the man.  

He found himself thinking that if Snape wanted to find a way to make him feel bad about himself, then he was going about it the wrong way.  Not once during his litany of insults or subtle jibes regarding Harry’s intelligence did the man resort to curse words or physical violence--threatened or otherwise.

He wondered if that was intentional on Snape’s part, or perhaps due to a requirement of all teachers within Hogwarts.  He decided that he would need to find the school handbook--provided there was one, of course--and read it thoroughly.  It was important to him, to the freak, that he understood all that Snape was allowed to do to him.

After all, a threat without accompanying behavior was only empty words.  

Words--though they could malign and belittle--did not draw his blood or break his bones.

Of course they still could hurt.  He wasn’t dismissing the pain that words could draw; rather, he appreciated the chance that only words gave him to survive another day.  

Internally, the freak wondered if he were in some way broken.  

Probably, was his disheartening thought.

. . .

“It’s very nice to meet you, Professor Snape,” He said, offering his hand to the man at the end of class.  

He wasn’t overly offended when Snape didn’t take his hand, choosing instead to look at him as if he was somehow lacking mentally.  

Slowly he dropped his hand and cocked his head as the man spoke.

“Somehow, I very much doubt the veracity of your words, Potter,” The man spat.  “If you are somehow hoping for leniency on my part, then I can assure you, yours is a hopeless case.”  

He smiled, making Snape frown at him.

“I appreciate your bluntness, Professor.  I appreciate it when people are honest about how they feel about me.”

He very nearly said ‘Potter,’ but opted out at the last second.

“Don’t you have somewhere to go?  Another professor’s time to waste with your idiotic blunders?”  Snape sneered.  “I shan’t be writing you or your nasty little friends anything resembling a note, so don’t bother whinging for one.”

“I’d hardly say that I know you well enough to ask for such privileges, Professor.  As for friends,” He frowned.  “I can’t say that I know what having one of those feels like.  I’ll let you know.  Bye!”  

He ran out of the classroom.

Behind him, Snape stared at his retreating figure with a confused look.  

“Impertinent child,” He growled, stalking off toward his office.  

He had more important things to do than try to figure out the son of Potter.  He was all too certain that his colleagues were jumping at the chance to do so, and he wasn’t about to get riled up about the same.  

. . .

“Snape?  He terrifies me,” Neville whispered to him the next day during Charms.  

The other boy was white faced and shaking, a clear by-product of being around Snape’s imposing figure for an entire hour.  

“Yeah, but did he hit you?  Did he grab you and throw you across the room when he was angry at you?”  He pressed when his head of house wasn’t looking at them.

“N-N-No,” Neville stuttered.  “But he loomed.  And he got in my space.  And it felt like all the air in the room was being sucked out and that he was the one responsible.”

They weren’t able to talk again until after class as Flitwick spent the rest of the period having them practice rudimentary wand movements.

“Proximity,” He stated as they packed their bags up after class.

“I beg your pardon?”  Neville asked in confusion.

“You don’t like how close he is.  That’s your trigger.  Maybe we could talk to him?”  He suggested.

“Noooooo,” Neville moaned, thumping back down in his chair and covering his face with his hands.  

“Come on, I want to show you something in the library,” He suggested, pulling Neville by the arm when the other boy made no move to get up.

“Now you sound like Granger.”

“Who?”

“Granger,” Neville explained sedately on their way to the library, “Is a girl in Gryffindor who should have just been sorted into the Library and left there.”

Harry’s eyes were wide.  

“No, really,” His friend protested when he saw the look on Harry’s face.  “All she does is read, sleep and quote passages from books.”

He scratched his head as they came up on the entrance of the library.  

“Don’t imagine she’s going to be very popular,” He muttered in a low voice.

“None of the first years will sit with her, so she keeps sitting next to me--which is bad.”

He stopped in the middle of the stacks and stared at Neville knowingly.  He felt a chill go down his spine at the idea that Neville had experienced any of what he had.  It was an oddly comforting thought, horrific as it was.

“Let me guess, without her around, you can blend into the background, but when she sits next to you, you stick out like a sore thumb?”

Neville sighed morosely in response.  

He looked so glum that Harry had to stop and remember why they were there at all.  

“Come on,” Harry said, changing the subject as his memory regained its footing.  “I want to show you what I found.”  

“Sure,” Neville answered, quiet voice barely distinguishable amid the mild sounds of the library.

He gently dragged Neville through the general areas of the library until they got to the back wall.  Scanning the books in front of him, he soon grinned and pulled one down.  It was an old tome, and should have been too heavy for him to lift, but there seemed to be some kind of magic embedded between its pages that made it a workable weight.  

Carefully, he carried it over to the nearest table and presented it to Neville.

“‘Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon?’” Neville read out in a questioning tone.

“It’s the handbook for Hogwarts,” Harry explained.  “Madame Pince showed me where it was.”

Neville gave him an unimpressed look and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“The reason I’m showing you this is the section at the back.  Look here,” Harry said, flipping back to the appendix.  “Back in the, oh maybe late 1960s, Hogwarts adopted a stance against physical punishment.”

“Dumbledore became the headmaster sometime around then,” Neville pointed out, dropping his hands back down to his sides as he peered interestedly at the book.

“Well, it’s never been mandatory, but the professors here are encouraged to sign it.”

“How do you know?”  Neville asked, looking at him curiously.

He shrugged.  

“Madame Pince told me.”

“She hates first years.”

“Maybe it’s just Gryffindor first years?”  He countered.

“No, Percy Weasley told me it’s all first years,” Neville argued.

“Who?”

“The Gryffindor prefect.  He’s kind of like a smarmy older version of Granger.”

Harry covered his mouth to keep from snorting aloud.

“That’s terrible.”

Neville scowled.  

“You try getting pranked by the Weasley twins for sitting next to her.”

“Are they related to Percy the prefect?  And Ron in my house?”  He asked.

“Yes.”

“Is it mean stuff?”  

“Sometimes,” Neville looked uncomfortable.  “But everyone seems to like them and no one in Gryffindor ever reports them.”

It was Harry’s turn to scowl.  He hated bullies.  They didn’t care if he were Potter the freak or Potter the dullard.  They had always turned on him and often had gotten his classmates to do the same.  

Silently, he vowed to talk to Granger, but perhaps without Neville present.  

“Okay well, Madame Pince likes me for some reason,” He said, trying to get them back on topic.

Neville grinned evilly.  

“Maybe it’s because you’re Potter.”

He shuddered.  

“I hope not.  Look, she didn’t even use my name.  Didn’t try look at my scar either,” He added.  

He rather liked Madame Pince.  She treated him like a human.   

Maybe she can see the freak, he thought.  Maybe she likes freaks.

He hoped so.

“Anyway,” He tried again, giving the other boy a glare for getting them sidetracked.  “Look at the list of people who signed the code.”

He slid the book closer to Neville and watched as the other boy bent his head over it.

“Professor Snape!?” Neville spat out incredulously.  

“Shh!  Are you trying to get her upset?”  Harry hissed.

They stopped and looked around, feeling certain that they were about to be descended on by an irate librarian.  When no one appeared, they slowly began to relax.

“Professor Snape can’t hurt you,” Harry whispered, jabbing his finger at the page.  “He promised when he signed this.”

“He doesn’t have to do it himself.  He can get someone else to do it for him,” Neville shot back, voice also in a whisper.

“Hogwarts won’t let him.”

“What on earth does that mean?”  Neville demanded.

“It means,” Harry answered, raising his voice a slight amount.  “That if he hurts a student--directly or indirectly--then Hogwarts will know and cast him out.  Look, it happened in 1973 with the Arithmancy professor.  Hogwarts dumped him outside the wards and refused to let him back in.”

Neville’s eyebrows had disappeared under his bangs, so great was his surprise.  

“He can still loom.  And vanish my potion.  And threaten,” Neville argued slowly, awkwardly shoving his hands in his trouser pockets.

“Stop that,” Harry ordered, pulling the other boy’s hands out.  “You look ridiculous,” He added with a grin to show he wasn’t being mean.

“And everyone else will laugh when I fail,” Neville continued, looking at him balefully.  

“Why do you have to fail?”

“Because I’m worthless.  Nobody, right?”

Harry’s jaw clenched and his eyes watered at the mournful acceptance in Neville’s voice.  

“But, that’s what they think,” Harry argued desperately, grabbing Neville’s hands.  “Why do we have to let them be right?”

“Because they’re older and they outnumber us?”  Neville offered, staring down at their hands in wonder.

He squeezed Neville’s hands and then let go.  

“For now they outnumber us.  For now.  Come on, we gotta get to lunch.”