His first morning in Hufflepuff did not get off to a rousing start.

The dorms in Hufflepuff were rectangular, rather than the all but circular shape of Gryffindor, which meant that the second year boys’ dorm had had four beds all along one wall. To add Harry’s bed in, the house-elves had simply placed it against the opposite wall, leaving Harry figuratively – and literally – the odd one out.

Of course, Harry hadn’t discovered this until almost everyone else had left the common room, as he hadn’t dared to go through the crowd to reach the dorms. Instead, he had hung around the entrance, feeling very conspicuous but not knowing what else to do.

By the time he reached the dorm, and discovered the new setup, although he was exhausted, the tension had kept Harry awake all night, afraid that one of the boys would do or say something to him. It was the worst night he’d ever had since coming to Hogwarts.

By the time dawn arrived, Harry had given up trying to sleep, and had decided to wait in the common room to follow some of the others to breakfast, hoping for a chance to snatch a quick word with Ron and Hermione.

Unfortunately, either the upper years he’d chosen to follow were in a rush, or they knew he was following and didn’t like it, as they went through corridor after corridor after corridor, before suddenly disappearing through what looked like a solid wall. Harry had no idea how to get into the secret passage – if it was one, and not just a way reserved for upper years – and now he also had no idea where on earth in the castle he was.

Except lost. That he knew.

By the time he finally stumbled his way out into the main corridor where the kitchens were, he was ten minutes late to his first lesson, and he made himself even later by automatically heading for the first Gryffindor lesson, before suddenly remembering that he wasn’t a Gryffindor anymore, but a Hufflepuff.

Typically, of course, his first lesson was Transfiguration, and his tardiness cost his new House ten points. McGonagall then took another five for not having his homework – despite the fact that she hadn’t set this particular homework for the Gryffindors yet, and therefore Harry couldn’t have known about it nor done it.

Protesting, however, would have only gotten him into more trouble, so he just ducked his head and stoically took the scolding and glares of his new Housemates.

That particular problem plagued him for the rest of the day. None of his homework matched up to the rest of the Hufflepuffs – either he’d already done it for Gryffindor, or it hadn’t been set for him yet.

Harry also hadn’t realised before that Houses didn’t have the same break times, so he didn’t even get to see his friends. He was desperate to see a friendly face, as none of the Hufflepuff second years were talking to him.

On the other hand, most of the first years, and even some third years, had taken to talking loudly around him about how far back they could trace their magical bloodlines. Harry had tried explaining that he didn’t care about that, but it just made them more frantic to assure him that they were very definitely, one hundred percent, pureblood.

“Whole school’s going bloody mental,” was Ron’s opinion when they finally met up outside the Great Hall just before dinner that night.

Hermione was frowning, as several of their Hufflepuff yearmates inched around them to get into the Hall without actually coming nearer to Harry than they had to.

Harry spotted this. “How am I supposed to ‘make amends’, when Justin won’t come near me?” he asked. “And just how do you make up for stopping an attack?”

“Kill ‘em?” Ron suggested.

“Somehow,” said Hermione, dryly, “I don’t think that will help.” She shook her head. “Come on,” she continued. “Let’s go and eat in the kitchens.”

Gratefully Harry agreed. It was nice to finally be able to chat to his friends, and they commiserated with him over the homework situation.

“It does seem very unfair,” said Hermione, frowning. “The professors know you’ve changed Houses, so why punish you on the very first day for something you can’t control?”

Harry poked at his mashed potatoes with his fork. “I don’t know,” he said, miserably. “Maybe McGonagall told them to – she was the first one to do it.”

“That . . . doesn’t seem likely, Harry,” Hermione said, gently. “I know she’s strict, but she’s usually fair—”

“Yeah, but I’m not one of her Lions anymore, am I?” Harry pointed out. “She couldn’t wait to get me out of Gryffindor last night.”

“Ohh . . .” Hermione couldn’t seem to find anything else to say to that, so she settled for absent-mindedly patting his hand, instead.

It was nearly curfew when they left the kitchens and reluctantly separated. Harry eyed the corridor turn-off with trepidation. He had absolutely no faith that he’d be able to find his new common room, so he’d made Ron and Hermione swear to send a teacher after him if he didn’t turn up the next morning.

It was well past curfew by the time he finally stumbled into the corridor that held the badger painting. Harry could have wept with joy to see it. How on earth did the first years manage, he wondered?

“Um, a badger’s home is their sett?” he said, tentatively, to the badgers, who were still – or again – gambolling around the meadow. The largest one paused, and gave him a dubious look. Harry felt his shoulders slump. Even the portrait didn’t want him in Hufflepuff!

Scraping the ground with a forepaw, the badger made a movement with its shoulders that looked almost like a shrug, and the portrait swung slowly open.

It felt like a repeat of the night before. Every single Hufflepuff seemed to be gathered in the common room. Professor Sprout was in the middle, and quite a lot of them were crying.

“Potter!” Sprout exclaimed, angrily, when she finally caught sight of him through the crowd. Everyone hurriedly backed away from him, leaving a clear path to the professor. “Where have you been?”

“I’m sorry, Professor, I got lost trying to find the common room,” Harry said, wondering if he was about to lose even more points.

“A likely excuse,” a fourth year muttered.

Sprout frowned at the boy. “I’ll deal with this, Tompkins,” she said, and strode towards Harry. Harry had to control an urge to cringe away from her. He hadn’t known the usually genial professor could be this fierce. “Come with me, Potter,” Sprout barked at him, and Harry stifled a sigh before following her back out of the portrait hole.

After a twisty, winding route that still seemed shorter than the original way she’d taken him, Sprout led Harry into the corridor and stopped in front of the gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore’s office. Harry had a split second of wondering whether he was going to get kicked out of another House, and then he heard the distant sound of Peeves yelling.

“ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!”

Harry’s spirits fell further. Someone else had been attacked.

“Ah, Harry,” said Dumbledore’s voice from further down the corridor. He nodded in dismissal to Sprout. “Thank you, Pomona.”

“I’ll be with my House, Headmaster,” Sprout said, wrinkling her nose as she looked at Harry. “They’ll need comforting tonight.”

Dumbledore inclined his head again. “Of course,” he said, and turned to the gargoyle. “Sherbet lemon,” he told it, and it obediently sprang aside.

Harry followed Dumbledore onto the revolving staircase. “Sir?” he asked, hesitantly. “Who was attacked this time?”

Dumbledore stepped off the staircase and entered his office, heading straight for his desk. He waved a hand, and a chair popped into existence. He gestured for Harry to take it. “Before we get into that, Harry, could you please tell me your whereabouts this evening? It was noted that you didn’t attend dinner in the Great Hall.” He seated himself, and gazed steadily at Harry.

Harry’s shoulders hunched again. “I was in the kitchens, with Ron and Hermione,” he muttered. “We stayed until just before curfew, then went back to our dorms. I got lost trying to find the Hufflepuff dorm.” He felt a blush creeping up his cheeks at that admittance. It sounded so stupid.

“I see,” Dumbledore murmured, stroking his beard with one hand. “I am afraid, Harry, that I must inform you that the victims of tonight’s attack were Sir Nicholas . . . and Mr Finch-Fletchley.”

“How can they possibly think it was you?” Hermione demanded, two days later as they made their way to the library.

“Apparently, because of that stupid incident with the snake at the duelling club, I ‘had it in for Justin’,” said Harry, kicking at a nearby wall. “He’s Muggle-born, apparently, so they’re all saying I took offense to him, and when one attack didn’t work, I used another.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Hermione was swelling up with indignation.

“Yeah,” added Ron. “Besides, you were with us until just before curfew.”

Harry scoffed. “But it took me so long to find my way back to Hufflepuff, and Justin was attacked on his way back to the dorm just before curfew, too. So they think I left you two and went looking for him, then doubled back and just pretended I got lost.”

“Honestly, this whole thing has been blown right out of proportion!” Hermione grumbled, scowling at a trio of first year Ravenclaws that were passing. Already wary about their proximity to Harry, this evidence of his friend’s displeasure with them caused them to squeak in alarm and double their pace until they were almost running.

“I wish I’d never told that snake to leave Justin alone,” said Harry, miserably. “Then I’d still be in Gryffindor, and not in this mess.”

“And Justin might be dead, rather than just Petrified,” Hermione pointed out. She pushed open the library doors, and the trio headed towards their usual table in the back. Dropping her bag on the table with a thud, Hermione gazed at the stacks for a moment. “I’m just going to—” she began as she wandered off. Ron and Harry stared after her, before glancing at each other and shrugging.

“I think she’s gone to look up exactly why you’ve been kicked out of Gryffindor,” said Ron, sitting down and rummaging in his own bag.

“What? Why?” asked Harry as he sat down too. A sudden thought struck him, and he straightened, feeling a breathless hope fill him. “Is she looking for a way to get me back in Gryffindor?”

Ron shrugged. “Dunno,” he grunted. “But I’m sure she’ll tell us.”

He was proved right when Hermione returned to their table fifteen minutes later, hugging a large, leather-bound book to her chest. She let it drop to the table with a bang that caused Madam Pince to “Shhhhhh!” at them, and the resulting cloud of dust had the boys coughing for another five minutes.

“It appears,” Hermione began, flipping through pages to find the one she wanted, “that when Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin quarrelled and Slytherin left, Gryffindor declared to everyone who’d listen that he wouldn’t have anything to do with the Dark Arts, and therefore neither should anyone who was in his House. In fact, he turned it into an official Hogwarts Law – and anybodye so found using the most Darkest of Arts shall henceforth be caste from the noble House of Gryffindor, never to darken thy door again,” she read.

Harry felt his heart sink again. “So does that mean I’ll never be allowed back into Gryffindor?” he asked.

Hermione shook her head. “No, it doesn’t. You see, Gryffindor’s grandson was practicing duelling with a friend, and he mispronounced a spell. The spell he’d intended to use was nothing more than a harmless household charm, but the mispronunciation turned it into a Dark curse instead. Gryffindor didn’t want to expel his own flesh and blood, but because of his own law, he had no choice.

“What he did manage to do,” she continued, flicking past another couple of pages, “was adjust the law, so that inadvertent use of the Dark Arts meant the person who’d used them only had to change Houses until they’d made amends to the person they’d accidentally cursed, and then, once they’d done something to prove themselves worthy of Gryffindor again, they were allowed to change back.” She looked triumphantly at Harry.

Harry, however, could see at least two glaring problems with this. “Even if I manage to make up to Justin for saving him—” he began.

“Provided that someone manages to unPetrify him first,” Ron muttered.

Harry glared at him. “Yes, provided that,” he agreed. “Say I manage to make amends . . . what am I supposed to do to prove that I’m a Gryffindor?”

After looking down at the book for a few moments, Hermione reluctantly closed it. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said, softly. “I just don’t know.”

The next morning, the castle began to empty as people went home for Christmas. Harry had put his name down to stay before the whole Duelling Club incident, and he hadn’t seen a reason to change that. There was only one other Hufflepuff who’d stayed behind – a seventh year girl, who wanted the peace and quiet for a bit more studying time before her N.E.W.T.s – but once she realised she’d be sharing the dorm with Harry, she had requested – and received – permission from Professor Sprout to temporarily move into the Ravenclaw dorm instead.

The isolation didn’t help Harry’s mood. Nor did the fact that, when he tried to accompany Ron and Hermione into the Gryffindor common room for a little while, the Fat Lady had refused to let him in. She had been apologetic, but the magic dictating the rules had been unbreakable.

Anyone who had used something Dark was not allowed in Gryffindor territory. At all.

Harry had left them standing forlornly in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait, Hermione almost in tears, and slouched his way down to the Great Hall.

Unfortunately, nobody in the Great Hall looked willing to acknowledge him, never mind do something like play a game of wizard’s chess with him. Heartily cursing that snake in his mind – and Draco Malfoy, for good measure – Harry reluctantly took himself off into the maze that led to the Hufflepuff dorm.

Once he finally got there, he spent all of about two seconds glorying in the quiet, before he admitted the truth to himself. It was basically a bigger version of his cupboard at the Dursleys’.

The next few days weren’t any different, either. The only thing that was different was that Dudley wasn’t there, and considering the hulking third year brute from Gryffindor who had stayed behind and took great delight in letting Harry know he was a disgrace and not wanted by polite Wizarding folk, then really, it was as if Dudley were there anyway.

“Harry, you have to tell someone!” Hermione demanded, when she noticed him limping as they went into the library. This and the kitchens were the only places they could spend any time together anymore – they’d been categorically shunned when they’d attempted to sit near one of the fireplaces in the Great Hall. “McLaggen can’t be allowed to get away with it!”

“There’s no point in telling anyone,” sighed Harry, trying to discreetly massage his hip when she wasn’t looking. “The professors don’t care.”

“Of course they care!” exclaimed Hermione, looking scandalised. “That’s their job, it’s what they do!”

“Except they don’t – not when it’s me,” Harry corrected. “Look, just forget about it, okay? I’ve had worse.” Hermione didn’t look at all happy about that, but Harry rushed on before she could say anything else. “How much longer before the—” he looked around, carefully “—potion is ready?”

Hermione gave him a gimlet-eyed stare, before reluctantly allowing the change of subject. “It’s almost done,” she informed them. “We just need something from Crabbe and Goyle.”

“Have to wait until they come back, then,” Ron guessed, and Hermione nodded at him.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” she agreed. “But in the meantime, why don’t we go over this essay for Professor Binns. . . .”

“Honestly, Potter, are you colour blind that you can’t tell the difference between turquoise and aqua?” Snape tutted. “Five points from Gryff— no, from Hufflepuff,” he finished, a victorious sneer curling his mouth.

Harry looked down into his cauldron as his Housemates glared at him. Snape had been doing this for weeks, delighting in emphasising just what House he was – and was not – a member of. He fully expected Snape to take points for breathing too loudly by the following week.

The Ravenclaws who shared their double period weren’t happy with Harry, either. Snape had taken to asking him all the questions, completely ignoring anybody else who wanted to answer. Whether Harry actually could answer the questions or not apparently made no difference.

On the bright side, he had finally caught up with the Hufflepuff’s homework schedule, so at least he wasn’t constantly losing points for that. Nor was he having to do assignments twice, as Sprout had made him do. He couldn’t tell whether Sprout was just worried about Justin, or offended on Justin’s behalf because of the snake incident, or whether she really did dislike having him in her House that much, but Sprout had become almost as vicious in her interactions with Harry as Snape was.

Harry hadn’t known that was even possible, but the usually easy-going professor was doing it.

To make matters worse, Hermione had figured out something about what was attacking people, but on her way back from the library had been attacked herself, along with a fifth-year Ravenclaw prefect. The two of them had been placed with the other Petrified victims.

As a result, the castle was all but on lockdown. The professors were escorting students to every class, and nobody was allowed out of the dorms after dinner. This had severely curtailed the amount of time he’d been able to spend with Ron, and Harry’s spirits were flagging. Nobody seemed to stop and think that of course Harry wouldn’t have attacked Hermione, because she was his friend.

Instead, everyone seemed to regard this newest attack as a warning not to get too close to him.

So nobody did.

It would have been laughable, how quickly a gap always opened up around him, if it hadn’t been so very pathetic.

Quidditch had, of course, been cancelled, which was apparently another reason to hate Harry’s existence. He’d heard several people whispering about how he was furious at not being automatically put on the Hufflepuff team, after being kicked off the Gryffindor team, and so had arranged matters to ensure nobody else could play, either.

The final straw came when one of the upper year Hufflepuff’s casually dropped the Daily Prophet on top of Harry’s breakfast one morning with the muttered comment of, “Secret’s out now, huh, Potter.” Glancing around, Harry realised that people were reading the paper, then looking up at him, then turning back to the paper, whispering excitedly with their friends.

He didn’t need to read further than the headline – Have We Been Fêting The Next Dark Lord?! by Rita Skeeter, which took up a good quarter of the whole page – to know that it was bad.

Swallowing around the urge to cry, Harry looked around the Great Hall again. Aside from Ron and his twin brothers, there wasn’t a friendly face in the entire room. Even the professors looked as if they fully agreed with the article.

I can’t do this anymore! Harry thought, his thoughts bordering on hysterical. Even the Dursleys are better than this!

And with that thought, a vague idea solidified, and he nodded firmly to himself.