"You have entirely the wrong reasons, though," sighed the Sorting Hat. "SLYTHERIN!"

Harry grabbed the brim and lifted the Hat gingerly. The silence that permeated the Great Hall was deafening. Harry got to his feet, careful not to let his eyes focus on anyone, because he didn't want proof that everyone was staring at him, drawing their collective breath.

An interminable second later, someone from the table under the green banner shouted "Yes! The best for Slytherin! The best for the best house!" which was promptly drowned out by shouts of "Go Slytherin!", "We've got Potter, eat our hats!" and general loud agreement.

Harry went to the table, smiling timidly, unsure of where to sit, and was pulled over by an older girl to the bench between her and the rest of the freshly-sorted.

"Welcome, firstie," she said, giving him a small smile of her own.

His eyes flickered briefly across the Hall to the table where that bossy girl, Hermione, was already sitting. She wasn't smiling, but when their eyes met for a moment, she nodded and gave him the thumbs-up. Those of her peers, who noticed the gesture, gave her odd looks. The others were still whispering, repeating his name over and over, when the next kid went to sit under the Hat.

Now Harry was closer to the dais on which the faculty table stood. He threw a cautious look in its direction. Professor Snape sat off-centre, closer to their side, rubbing his temples and looking nowhere in particular. He wore black robes this time and seemed to be worse for wear since Harry had last seen him. At the centre of the table there was a large throne-like chair, gold at least in colour (it was hard to tell), in which sat the most imposing man yet with glittering silver hair and a long beard and moustache. Must be the headmaster. And at the far end, he noticed the giant man who had taken them over the lake. He was looking at Harry, scratching his beard and frowning.

Meanwhile, the Sorting went on quickly; their table acquired just one more student, while Hermione's got the two at the very end of the list.

"Even," commented a boy sitting on his other side. He had brown hair, thin features and somewhat detached air around him. "I've counted," he explained, noticing Harry's confused expression. A tiny bit of anxiety left Harry; deep down, he'd worried that his insistence had skewed the sorting layout and that it would be immediately obvious he was not in his place.

Just then, the headmaster stood from his chair and invited everyone to eat with an odd speech. Harry complied. It must be those thought patterns again.

The girl to his right introduced herself to the first-years as Prefect Deena Weaver. She called them all in turn by their first names, peeking at a scrap of parchment, and told them she was responsible for them for the next 3 years, so they should begin to get used to her. She was not unkind, with smooth features and dandelion-like short brown hair, but something in the set of her mouth told Harry they'd better get used to behaving, and soon.

After that, they were left to eat their fill.

.

They were descending deeper and deeper underground, led by Deena, who let the other students go ahead of them to avoid the crowd. The lights were getting dimmer as well, or, perhaps, that was Harry's imagination running wild.

The Dudley-esque boy by the name of Draco stumbled on the stairs for the second time and muttered something about his father, his Manor and decent windows. The brown-haired Theodore, who walked a step ahead of Harry, rolled his eyes and asked Draco's indignant back, “Malfoy, you do understand that the only windows we might have here would connect us to all the water in the lake, don't you?”

“I never asked your opinion, Nott,” the boy shot back, scowling.

.

Harry was still wondering what had motivated the person who had declared living in a dungeon to be a grand idea, when they took the stairs to the first-year dormitory. He imagined all-encompassing wars, reducing the entire castle to a pile of rubble above their heads, and couldn't help shuddering. Surprisingly though, the air of the common room and the dormitories was warm, as if the heat crept up from the depths of the Earth.

Their dormitory, done in calm greens and greys, was bigger than the biggest room back at the Dursleys'. Even Dudley in Smeltings probably wouldn't have a dorm like that, Harry gloated quietly. Right now, however, the loveliest aspect of the room was the availability of beds. Harry was quite ready to flop onto the nearest one, when Draco kicked his own trunk towards it and stood in his way.

“That one is mine. Crabbe, Goyle, take those. No, not at the same time –-”

Harry, whose spirits were still rather high, backed off with a shrug and went towards the farthest bed, just in case.

“Money can't buy you everything,” remarked Theodore levelly, as though to no one personally, dragging his trunk to the foot of the bed next to Harry's. He also ceded his first choice.

“Then you don't have nearly enough of it, Nott,” Draco replied anyway. With that, and a bundle of clothes and toiletries, he strolled out of the room. When the door closed behind him, one of the taller boys sighed.

“Don't be too mad at him, 'lright? He just doesn't know how to be equal to someone else. I'm Vincent, by the way. Vince.”

He leaned over Theodore's bed to offer his hand to him. “Theo,” the boy replied, pausing for a split second before accepting the handshake.

“Greg,” the other of the pair said, smiling crookedly at Harry and squeezing Harry's bony hand in his own, larger and warmer one. Harry had been slightly apprehensive of offering it to him, but it came back intact.

“Dad says it's good for the family image,” Greg added, “to hang out with Draco, be seen supporting him and stuff. And it makes sense, really.” He shrugged a bit. “He isn't a bad kid, just...”

“Very Malfoy?” Theo supplied, sounding amused.

“Yeah, he is that,” laughed Vincent; Greg grinned and nodded.

“It peeves him that everyone pays more attention to you, Harry. Neat of you to get into Slytherin, too – they were gaping like fish, I watched!”

“I really wish they didn't,” Harry said quickly, feeling the tips of his ears heat up uncomfortably. He had already got his tee and pyjama pants from the trunk and was eager to escape to the showers to scrub himself off of a long day.

“You wish for the impossible, Potter.” Theo was now rummaging in his trunk as well.

“Harry, please,” Harry corrected.

“Harry.” Theo finally emerged, holding a bundle to his chest. “Let's go see if Malfoy's turned himself into a prune yet.”

~HH~HH~HH~HH~HH~

“I knew it from the beginning,” said Ron.

“There's no way you did,” countered Seamus.

“I so did! I think I saw him on the train – didn't know that was him at the time – like, totally alone, just looking out of the window and planning something.”

“So what?”

“You don't understand! He was scaring people off with his... aura. I wasn't scared, of course. Just walked away.”

“What are you two even talking about? His parents were killed by You-Know-Who, you know,” Neville mumbled, already under the covers and yawning widely.

“Exactly!” grinned Seamus. “Now he wants revenge on everyone. Just like in those comic books; you know them, right, Dean?”

Dean pulled out an alarm clock from under a sheaf of posters on his bed.

“I'm still not sure how you've figured all that out just because Potter gets to attend the classes at different times and to sit at the other table during meals.”

“He was destined to go to Slytherin. Fred and George say his scar turns people into mindless slaves!” Ron dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “And don't say his name.”

Even Seamus scratched his nose skeptically at that.

“Look, Ron, I don't think we should be worried just now; nothing bad has happened yet. As for later — we'll watch him closely, and if he starts doing evil things, we'll go and fight him while he is still at school, and be heroes. How's that?”

The prospective hero pinked a bit. It would be something to show to his siblings, all right.

“Well, we might. Watch him, anyway. What do you think, Blaise?” he asked the boy in the bed next to his.

Blaise was picking out pyjamas from several pairs in different patterns.

“I think red goes well with my complexion,” he said, thoughtfully.

“It does,” Dean easily agreed.