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The Sorting Hat dropped down on Harry’s head, nearly covering his whole face, muffling the sound of the Great Hall. He didn’t mind. It was a relief to get away from the stares if only for a moment. It smelled musty and he stifled a cough, hoping it wouldn’t take as long as it had with Neville—why wasn’t it saying something? “Hello? Not Ravenclaw, please.”
“Not Ravenclaw?” a small voice spoke inside his ear.
Harry gasped. “Yes, please.”
The blond prat had said Ravenclaw was the best and had made some snotty remarks about Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. Harry didn’t actually mind where he ended up as long as it wasn’t with him. Anyway, he wasn’t that smart.
“Hmm. Interesting. You don’t know.”
“I don’t?”
“This is a surprise. Well, waste not want not. Slytherin!”
“What do you mean, Slytherin?!” Professor McGonagall shrilled, plucking the hat from Harry’s head amidst the shocked gasps of the students and faculty. “We haven’t had new Slytherins in a decade!”
Harry cringed under her wrath but she was talking to the hat, not him, holding it out in front of her like it was something unsavoury. He was reminded of his aunt when she found something Ripper, Aunt Marge’s dog, had chewed up and spat out.
“Slytherin is closed!” the Professor ordered and promptly plopped the hat back on Harry’s head. “Choose again!”
“What’s Slytherin?” Harry asked, rubbing his nose. He was glad he didn’t have to look at the sea of shocked faces anymore. It must be a house, mustn’t it?
“The house of cunning students,” the hat replied, sounding smug. “Ones who will go far in life. You’ll fit right in.”
“It’s closed though.”
“They’ll have to open it.”
“Can’t you just choose something else? I’m not cunning at all. Does it even matter?”
“It certainly does. Hogwarts was always meant to have four houses, the four founders would turn in their graves if they knew what was happening, but ever since you defeated You-Know-Who, they’ve all come here asking ‘not Slytherin, not Slytherin,’ even the Muggleborn. You’re the first that didn’t ask.”
“I probably would have asked if I knew,” Harry said feeling irritated now. What the hell? Why hadn’t anyone warned him? Okay, so Slytherin was a founder who had something to do with You-Know-Who, who he had only learned about on the train on the way here. Which meant he definitely didn’t want to be associated with either. “Not Slytherin,” he said. “Not Slytherin.”
“Too late,” the hat told him and then announced to all in the Great Hall that his word was final.
The hat was plucked from Harry’s head in time for him to see a small table with one setting materialise next to the three long ones, a lone flag flapping into existence above it: green and silver with a coiled snake. His robe tingled and he looked down to see it had changed too and now sported a similarly green lining.
“Just go to your seat, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall said disgusted, pointing him to the lone table. “We’ll sort this after the feast.”
“Okay.”
He looked at the line of students still waiting to be sorted, hoping to catch Ron’s eye. But Ron was looking pale and staring straight forward with bugged out eyes. No one else was looking at Harry either.
He snorted.
This was just like his old school then. There it was Dudley who bullied everyone who tried to make friends with him, and here it was You-Know-Who and his best mate, Slytherin, dead though they may be. He scowled at the silent crowd.
This morning when he woke he had been excited about starting a new life. One where no one knew him as the bullied Harry Potter, unwanted and unloved. One where he had something special, where he could do magic. And he had even thought he could be anyone he wanted and perhaps even make a friend or two.
“Off you go, Mr Potter.” Professor McGonagall encouraged him with a small nudge to his back.
He moved. Towards the silent students who had so many questions on the train, wanting him to perform tricks and jump through hoops, but now couldn’t look him in the eye. And he thought, bugger them. If it was a performance they wanted, it was a performance they'd get.
He swaggered to at the edge of the platform and bowed. Once to the Hufflepuff table. Once to the Gryffindor table. And once to the Ravenclaws where Malfoy sat with his mouth a round surprised circle. Bugger them, he thought again and jumped off, eschewing the stairs, and strutted to his table, his green trimmed robe flapping behind him. Reaching it, he draped himself dramatically over the chair — internally thanking his spoiled brat of a cousin for teaching him how to strop, flop, and flounce.
A titter started.
Someone laughed.
Ron’s twin brothers clapped and whistled. “You go, Harry!”
Encouraged by the attention, Harry was this close to propping his feet on the table.
“I will have silence!” Professor McGonagall snapped. “And the stairs are there for a reason, Mr Potter.”
Right, maybe the feet would be a bit too much.
The feast was done, Harry had eaten two plates of food, staring at a lonesome candle on his tiny table, while fielding peas and carrots thrown at him. He guess it could have been worse, Ron had gone into great detail on the train about all the curses and hexes his brothers knew and it was probably just the teachers’ presence that had prevented him from being hexed.
Despite the excitement, he was feeling quite sleepy and stuffed but they had taken him to the Headmaster’s office to discuss ‘his case’. Professor Dumbledore wasn’t there, something to do with the Ministry calling him, and it was Professor McGonagall, Professor Snape—a pale, dark-eyed wizard who looked like he ate a bug—and Professor Quirrell with the odd turban that had gathered around him.
Despite being tired, he had strutted to the office and now slouched down on a extremely pink sofa, chin on his chest, glowering at them.
“Sit up, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, taking the floor.
Dinner had only affirmed his desire to stick it to them until they proved he didn’t need to. “I’m fine, thank you,” he said and felt a small flame of triumph when she just sighed.
“It seems we are in a bit of a quandary,” she said, letting him be. “Slytherin house was closed, as you’re no doubt aware by now; no one’s wanted to be there since the war.”
“Because You-Know-Who came from Slytherin?” Harry asked.
“Yes. And most of his followers, the Death Eaters. The family of anyone sorted into Slytherin would come under intense scrutiny from the ministry.”
“So, it’s like a joke that I’m there, right?”
“I’m sure The Hat meant well—“
Behind her, Professor Snape barely contained his snort. He seemed about to say something but she glared him down.
“—But it doesn’t matter. We’ll be giving The Hat time to reconsider, and in the meantime, you will be roomed with one of us.”
“Why?”
Her mouth pinched. It was clear she didn’t like explaining any of this to him but she did try.
“It’s unavoidable, Mr Potter. As each student is sorted, his bedroom appears in his house, his name is placed on the house roster, his clothes transform to fit his house, and so on. Your bed’s appeared in Slytherin house, I’ve no doubt, but we can’t let you stay there on your own and the only extra bedrooms are in the private quarters of the staff. Professor Snape’s a candidate for Slytherin’s new Head of House but we’ve thought it best that you stay with Professor Quirrell until you are re-sorted. As the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, he’ll be well able to keep you safe.”
“Safe?” Harry sat up, interested. Against what? Or who? The bullies? He was already planning to learn counter hexes first thing since they had done nothing about the peas.
“A poor choice of words, maybe,” Professor McGonagall backpedalled. “Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain. You will be fine. Off you go, to bed. Professor Quirrell will take you. Good night, Mr Potter. It will all be better in the morning, I promise.”
“C-c-c-come, M-m-mr Pp-pp-otter,” Professor Quirrell stuttered and twitched, moving to the door. “I-I-it’s l-l-l-ate.”
“Chop-chop,” McGonagall said.
Harry sighed and stood. At least they didn’t put him in a cupboard under the stairs.
Twenty minutes later he wished he had been put under the stairs; they had traversed through most of the castle to get to Harry’s new home and his legs felt like rubber.
“Well, here we are,” Professor Quirrell said at last, flinging the door to his quarters wide, shooing a relieved Harry in ahead of him. “Make yourself comfortable, but not too comfortable, you won’t be here long.” He laughed.
Teachers. Harry refrained from rolling his eyes and looked around the drab living room. A threadbare brown sofa was set next to a large fireplace, and at the window was a dingy desk, the surface half hidden under a messy tower of papers and books. Everything was brown, the only bright point a shiny silver bowl on top of the hearth. His aunt would love it; it looked heavy and expensive. She’d hate the rest of the place, though. There were three internal doors, and he suddenly wanted the day over with. “Which room is mine?”
Something dark fluttered past him, and years of reflexes built by evading his cousin had Harry skittering to the side, putting the fireplace at his back, but it was just the Professor’s cloak, flung at the sofa.
“Neither,” Professor Quirrell said.
“Sorry?” The sofa then? Confused, Harry watched the wizard start to unwind his purple turban.
“All will become clear, Mr Potter. I have someone who’d like a word.”
“What?” He was starting to feel dumb.
“Not what. Who. Someone who’s very pleased to meet you so early in the game,” Professor Quirrell said and to Harry’s astonishment the teacher followed it with an honest to god cackle.
The wizard was mad, Harry realised. It was just his luck. He watched fascinated as the turban flutter to the floor. A horrid smell filled the room and Harry gagged. “Can I meet them tomorrow?” he tried, doing his best not to inhale, hoping against hope for some sort of reprieve.
"No. You will meet my master tonight."
“Let me see him,” a second, reedy voice spoke up, sounding like it came from the back of the wizard’s head, and Quirrell turned.
The sight that met Harry was horrific.
Where the back of his professor’s head should be was a pasty white face, its nose a moist slit and its mouth a gaping, toothless hole. Blood red eyes bored into Harry’s.
”Your orders, Master,” Quirrell said from the other side.
“Kill himm,” the face said, and had he not just gone through one of the worst nights ever, he might have tried to run, but this was a Harry Potter who refused to be bullied one more day. Instinct took over and he swept Quirrell’s cloak off the sofa, threw it over the double head, and leaped for the only weapon in the room, the silver bowl. It was as heavy as it looked, and when he swung it at the cloaked head—a fine mist of green powder scattering everywhere—it made a satisfying deep ‘thunk’.
The face shrieked.
Shocked at his derring-do, Harry forgot and inhaled, gagged anew at the smell, and sneezed. Through watering eyes he could make out that the now green Professor Quirrell was nearly bent double, moaning and scrabbling to yank off the cloak, the second voice screaming invective at Harry, promising him a slow, painful death. Swinging wide, Harry hit him again with a second, louder, ‘thunk’.
Quirrell swayed.
This was beyond anything Harry’s ever experienced. Dudley never had any issue thumping him. The problem, Harry thought half absent, seemed to be in the amount of force needed to down an adult opponent versus a cousin. It was going to be a matter of quantity over quality then. True enough, a third ‘thunk’ finally took him down to the carpeted floor.
Down but not out.
“Bloody hell,” Harry wheezed when the body moved, both of the heads now groaning. He hit it a fourth time—quantity!—aiming for the roundest bit under the cloak, and raised the bowl high, ready to do it again if anything so much as twitched.
Nothing did.
He ever so slowly lowered the bowl.
"Oh, excellent," the Headmaster said, turning visible on the other side of the downed wizard. He bent down and raised an edge of the dark cloak. "And you managed to keep Voldemort's head intact, too.”
"Voldemort?" Harry asked. The room spun. He sneezed and wiped his nose with the back of his arm, staring dumbfounded at the grandfatherly wizard… and suddenly missed his cupboard. Would they let him go home if he asked?
"Voldemort is You-Know-Who, Harry," Professor Dumbledore said. "Or was. You may call him by his name. I imagined he would crawl out of the woodwork once you came to school and I was right."
"I thought he was dead."
"We all thought so. Well, most of us did. I certainly had some doubts."
"Is he dead now?"
"Not yet."
Harry still had the bowl in his hand. He clenched it tightly, resisting the urge to get another hit in. It had a dent in it and he averted his eyes. “He was going to kill me, right?"
"Perhaps. I—"
"I'd like to stay with another Professor, please," Harry interrupted. His mind felt strangely blank and his teeth had started to chatter. "The angry one," he clattered. "Snape." You knew where you were at with people who didn’t pretend to be nice.
"Professor Snape," the Headmaster corrected.
"Yes, that one. Can I go sleep now?"
"Perhaps you'd be better off in the Infirmary, Harry. This was quite a shock, I'm—"
The body groaned. Harry reacted without hesitation. He hit it with the silver bowl—thunk—scattering the last of the green powder.
After a slight pause the Headmaster gently said, “I think I'll take that.” He reached over ever so carefully to relieve Harry of the dented bowl. "Let's get you to Professor Snape, shall we?"
For people who had magic, they certainly liked walking. Harry let himself be led down into the bowels of the castle until finally, they came to a dark portrait of a stern, medieval looking man. The Headmaster knocked on the gilded frame and after a moment’s wait, it was opened by Professor Snape, already in pyjamas.
"Kindly put Mr Potter up for the night, Severus," the Headmaster said, pushing Harry forward, nearly into the wizard’s arms.
"What happened to him staying with Quirinus?" the wizard asked, looking none too pleased. He sidestepped niftily out of the way and let Harry stumble into his quarters. It was a copy of Quirrell's. The desk was maybe neater. The glint of silver had him moving to the hearth—
"I'm afraid that didn’t work out," the Headmaster said from the hall.
"He had a head on his head,” Harry elaborated when it didn’t look as if the Headmaster was going to. Perhaps he should have kept quiet too but for some reason his tongue didn’t want to play along. “I think I killed him. I must have. I hit him enough times to take."
"What?” Snape thundered. “What are you on about, Potter—What is this, Headmaster?"
"We'll talk in the morning," Professor Dumbledore said. "Let’s get Harry in bed for now. I trust you to care for him like your own, Severus.”
That seemed to be that. The Headmaster left without a further word and Professor Snape swore under his breath and slammed the portrait shut.
"What are you doing with that?" he asked when he saw Harry. "Kindly put my stuff down, Mr Potter, and explain what happened. Who did you kill?"
"Professor Quirrell," Harry said but kept his grip on the wizard's bowl. He was done listening to anyone and saw no reason to change weapons when it had shown to be so effective. "He had Voldemort on his head and—"
Snape swore volubly. Two steps had him to Harry and he plucked the bowl out of his hands as easy as pie, then his bony fingers gripped Harry’s chin and he raised it to stare into Harry's eyes. "What happened to Quirinus?" he asked but he didn’t seem to care that he was gripping Harry’s jaw too hard for him to speak. The oddest feeling came over Harry as against his will he relived the events and Harry watched the wizard's black eyes widen. "Dear Lord," Professor Snape said finally, and let go of his chin. He stared down at Harry. "What a mess."
An understatement, Harry thought. His brain itched. “Did you just read my mind?”
“Yes.”
"It wasn’t my fault."
"Is that so?" Snape scoffed. "Well then, get used to everything being your fault from this point on. Go sleep. Your bedroom is on the left, the bathroom is in the middle, and the other is mine. You'll stay out of it if you have any sense."
Harry didn’t think he needed any invitations to stay out of the wizard’s bedroom. Not bothering to answer, he stumbled to the one on the left. He was so tired, Snape could kill him, he didn’t care. If he was still alive tomorrow, he’ll get his own bowl, Snape doesn’t seem to be the sharing type, but right now he didn’t have the energy to bother. He didn’t have the energy to be surprised at seeing his trunk at the foot of the bed, either. He had just enough energy to get into Dudley’s old pyjamas and fall onto the narrow bed. He was asleep before he hit the quilt.
The end.
Thanks for reading!