Harry is flushed a deep red as he storms out of the castle and down the path through the grounds; Hagrid had sent him a short note earlier asking him down to tea, though the script had been hesitant and slightly crumpled, as if Hagrid had done it and redone it a few times. He doesn't mind, and he's not going to complain about it: “There isn't a wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin.” sticks in his mind, but Hagrid had invited him nonetheless, and it would only be rude not to go down.

Still though, he goes alone, and when he knocks on Hagrid’s door the other man lets him in immediately, an uncertain and cautious expression fading from his overlarge features when he gets a glance at Harry’s humiliated one.

“Wha’s wrong?” comes the immediate question as he ushers Harry to sit down and begins to make him a cup of tea, and Harry huffs out a noise, holding back the distinct and sudden wish to cry.

“Snape.” That’s not strictly true – it’s not just Snape. Snape had only been the end of it; that morning, Frank Richelieu had said lightly that Severus Snape, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin, tended to favour Slytherin house more than the others, but the fact remained that one oughtn’t provoke him all the same. Severus Snape had not favoured Harry at all. He’d bombarded him with questions as soon as he’d sat down, and Harry hadn’t gotten any of them right – he’d only had time to study his new books from the prefects, and hadn’t thought to memorize the bloody textbook.

Ron Weasley had snickered at this in Potions, and even Hermione Granger had turned her nose up at him when he'd glanced her way – the Slytherins were mostly weird, with all kinds of social rules Harry just didn’t bloody know, so he’d ended up partnered with Neville Longbottom in Potions--

And before all that it had been Draco Malfoy, who had mirthfully crowed that Harry had been raised by Muggles when he quietly asked what wizarding magazines there were, (though Afifa Lanjwani had cuffed him hard upside the head, which had shut him up). Draco's difficult to get his head around - sometimes he's perfectly nice, and other times he just acts like a complete pillock, mostly when there's an audience to play to.

He tells Hagrid all of this in a rapid and messy fashion, rushed and emotional, and Hagrid, to his credit, listens as if Harry hadn’t just been sorted into the house “all dark wizards come from”.

“Well, yer in Slytherin now, Harry.” Hagrid says sagely, with the same tone of someone pointing out that you had chosen to live with several dozen scorpions in your bed. He's not unsympathetic, though. “Snakes are vicious. Er… How’d yeh get on in yer lessons?” He pushes a cup of tea into Harry’s hands, which are shaking with anxiety or anger or he doesn’t know what, but Harry drinks, and it’s so sweet he almost smiles. Hagrid's trying, after all.

“They were okay. Hermione was a bit snippy with me," Harry says quietly. "I thought she'd not have as much of a problem, but..." He trails off, not sure what else to say. Ron had been sat on the other side of the room, so Harry hadn't tried talking to him yet, though he's almost dreading it. Ron had been so nice on the train, and now he seems to be completely uninterested in even talking to Harry.

“The Muggleborn lass, black girl with the curly hair?” Harry nods, and Hagrid gives a quiet hum. He looks like he's carefully considering his next words, and Harry looks up at him expectantly, sipping at his tea. “Seems to me she’ll think yeh’ll be a purist, Harry. Given yer, er, house an’ all.”

They talk for a while longer – it’s only when Harry notices the newspaper clipping, from Vault 713, that Hagrid hurriedly suggests he go up to the castle again – but not before firmly insisting Harry is welcome to visit when he pleases.

At least someone at Hogwarts likes him.

---

"You alright, Ron?" Harry asks as he comes into the Great Hall. It's early afternoon, and the Slytherins and Gryffindors have an hour of free time before another Potions class starts. Ron is sat with two other Gryffindor boys, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, and the three of them are hunched around a set of Exploding Snap cards. Harry hasn't played a game yet: he'd watched the boys in Slytherin play last night, insisting he witness the process before he actually join in, and it had looked... Well. Blaise had had to get Sarah Donovan in the Sixth Year to heal a burn on the palm of his hand, but they'd seemed to have fun.

Ron, Dean and Seamus all turn to look at him, their expressions sour. "What do you want?" Ron demands.

"I just asked how you were," Harry says, "What, because I was sorted into Slytherin we can't be friends?" Seamus outright laughs, and Harry feels his cheeks tinge slowly into a pink, and then into red.

"Uh, yeah, Potter," Ron says harshly, "There's no one good in Slytherin, everyone knows that."

"Oh, sorry, Ron," Harry retorts, "Didn't realize you hated your Merlin Chocolate Frog card so much." Ron bristles, turning as red as Harry is, but before he can reply, Harry stalks out of the room again, not wanting to be snapped at any more. He doesn't get it. Even if Ron thinks all Slytherins are bad, he'd talked to Harry on the train, and they'd gotten on, they'd laughed, they'd shared all those sweets - Harry just doesn't understand why being in Slytherin after Ron had met him could cause such a difference to how Harry is as a person.

He heads up to the library, thinking of getting some work done and maybe starting the Charms essay Professor Flitwick had set them that morning, but he stops short in the doorway, staring across the room. Hermione Granger is surrounded by books, concentrating hard on the piece of parchment in front of her, and Harry is determined as he walks across the room. Hermione had met him too, and she's Muggleborn, so why should she hate him based on his house? He's not a blood purist, and he'll tell her so.

Harry sits, with resolution evident on his features, across from Hermione in the library, meeting her unimpressed gaze with a squared chin. He hangs his bag on the back of his chair, straightens himself up and looks right at her. Hermione is silent for a few seconds, her lips pressed together

“There is no difference, you know,” Hermione says in a superior tone, not looking up from the thick, leatherbound volume opened on the table in front of her. The books stacked around her are varied, and half of them are open to different pages. “Monkswood and Wolfsbane are the same.”

“Also known as aconite,” Harry agrees. “I know that now.” Granger humphs, and Harry pauses, not sure what to say to defend himself. So, he says, “Not everyone has relatives that like their magic, you know. My Aunt and Uncle knew about it but kept me in the dark, then tried to lock me up so I couldn’t get my letter.” This sort of honesty is blunt and awkward on his tongue, difficult to admit; he’s never talked about his relatives to anyone in terms of how they actually are, but he is determined to be friends with Hermione Granger, and she won’t talk to him if she thinks of him as some arrogant famous Slytherin, as if Harry cares about all that stuff.

Hermione Granger is quiet, and she tears her gaze away from her book to stare at him, her lips parting, eyes widened. She hesitates, and then asks, “How do I know you’re not lying? George Weasley says Slytherins lie all the time.”

“Francois Richelieu says the Weasley twins bully Slytherin kids, and enjoy making chaos. Besides, why would I lie?” Harry demands.

“Because you want to copy my homework.” Harry scoffs.

“I don’t want to copy your homework! I want to be your friend. We talked just fine together on the train, and you didn't seem to hate me then, and nothing's changed. I've just been sorted into a different house, and you've already met me, right? You’re smart – smarter than any of the other Gryffindors, so I don't see why you should refuse to talk to me because of the dorm I sleep in, and you're actually quite nice, when you're not busy being so full of yourself.” She looks furious.

“Full of myself!?” Hermione demands, and Harry huffs right back to her.

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see it then!” Harry says, mimicking the snooty tone she'd used on the train, and she falters, anger fading for a minute. “I just want to be your friend, Hermione. I don't need to copy your homework.” She looks at him suspiciously, and he says, “I'll beat you to the top of the class, I bet.” She rolls her eyes, looking like she doesn't believe him – Harry doesn't actually believe himself, but it doesn't mean he can't foster the competitive nature of Gryffindors, and she has to be friends with someone. She doesn’t have any other friends in Gryffindor – she was alone all their first day, and even now, two days later, Ron Weasley seems to hate her and no one else seems to like her. Harry wants friends – he’s never really had friends before, not for long, and she might be headstrong, but she seemed decent on the train, and why should he just be friends with Slytherins?

The Slytherins aren't all that bad, now that he sees them playing around like the rest of the Hogwarts kids do, but none of them this year get what it's like coming from a Muggle family, and half of the time Harry has no idea what they're going on about.

Hermione does, and the only thing wrong with her is her being a bit of a know-it-all, and really, what’s so bad about that? Better a know-it-all than someone like Crabbe, who'd looked blankly at Harry when he'd asked if Crabbe liked Charms or Transfiguration better. Hermione’s face remains stony, and so Harry shrugs, throwing his bag onto the table and beginning to pack up his books again. “Fine. I just thought you could rise above that sort of stupid house bias. Guess I was wrong.”

“Wait,” she’s staring at him, looking him up and down, and then she says, “You make one snobby comment, and we’re done.” Harry grins, trying not to show how surprised he is.

“I'll leave the snobby comments to you. You've only made six already.” She looks angry again, but when he winks, her fury melts into a rueful little grin. She's got buck teeth, he notices, but she's not really ugly or anything: Parkinson seems to be convinced that all the non-Slytherin First Years are ugly, but Harry doesn't really think any of them are. He sits down, and then, after a short pause, he puts out a hand for her to shake, just like he had with Draco.

“Start over? I’m Harry. Just Harry. I don't even have a last name.” She lets out a little laugh. There’s a short pause, and then she takes his hand, shaking it with resolution in the movement. She still seems cautious, but he’s caught her trust, just for a little bit, and he feels relief flood through him, relief and excitement and delight.

“Okay, Harry. I’m Hermione Granger.” Her smile becomes a bit more shy, and Harry suppresses an urge to laugh out loud.

Hermione Granger: Harry’s first friend.