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The Hogwarts Express began to slow, its rhythmic chugging decelerating as darkness settled over Hogsmeade station. Harry glanced out the window, noting how the last purple streaks of sunset surrendered to the evening sky.
"—and Father says Professor Snape is the most brilliant Potions Master in Britain," Draco continued, barely pausing for breath. He'd been holding court for the better part of an hour, Harry and Daphne occasionally contributing just enough to keep him animated. "He's Head of Slytherin House and favors his own, naturally. Not like some of the other professors who pretend at fairness while secretly—"
"We're arriving," Daphne interrupted smoothly, her voice cool and precise. She stood, adjusting her already immaculate robes with practiced grace.
Harry suppressed a smile. Daphne Greengrass had mastered the art of the polite interruption. Over the journey, he'd cataloged her subtle social maneuvers, filing them away for future reference.
"Finally," Draco sighed, stretching like a pampered cat. "These compartments are dreadfully cramped. I told Father they should install expansion charms."
The train lurched to a complete stop, sending Crabbe stumbling into Goyle. Harry steadied himself easily, having anticipated the jolt.
Students began flooding the corridor outside their compartment. Harry gathered Hedwig's cage, mentally reviewing what he'd learned during the journey. Draco's casual name-dropping had provided valuable intelligence about Slytherin's internal politics and professor allegiances – more useful, perhaps, than Draco realized.
"Leave your luggage," Daphne advised, noticing Harry's movement. "It will be taken to the castle separately."
"Ah, of course," Harry replied with an easy smile. "Thank you."
As they joined the crush of students exiting the train, Harry noted the way Draco's expression shifted – a practiced sneer settling over his features.
The platform teemed with black-robed students, older ones confidently striding toward carriages while first-years milled about uncertainly. A smaller boy with mousy hair stumbled into their path. Without hesitation, Crabbe shoved him aside with a meaty arm.
"Watch it," Crabbe grunted, the first words Harry had heard from him all journey.
Harry observed the casual display of dominance – assertion of a hierarchy Crabbe had been taught to maintain. The boy scurried away without protest, confirming the efficacy of the tactic.
Not bright, but effective as a deterrent, Harry assessed, adding to his mental file on Draco's hulking companion. The train journey had already confirmed Harry's initial impression that Crabbe possessed approximately the intellectual capacity of a particularly dim troll.
"Firs'-years! Firs'-years over here!" Hagrid's booming voice carried over the crowd, his massive lantern swinging above the sea of students.
Draco's lip curled slightly. "That oaf is taking us across the lake. Traditional for first-years, though I can't imagine why they continue to employ him for it."
"You know, Draco," Harry said conversationally, "Hagrid strikes me as the sort of person who might be worth a bit more consideration than you're giving him."
"What?" Draco looked genuinely confused. "But you said yourself in Diagon Alley that—"
"I said he might be useful to have think well of you," Harry clarified. "Look at him – he's enormous. And enormous can be useful, don't you think?"
Draco blinked, then his expression shifted from disdain to calculation. "I... suppose there could be situations where having such a person in your debt might have advantages."
"Precisely," Harry said with a slight smile.
Daphne was watching Harry with new interest, her ice-blue eyes slightly narrowed. "A surprisingly practical assessment, Potter."
Harry merely shrugged, but internally noted her reaction. Good. Let her see there's more than just a famous name here.
The first-years gathered around Hagrid, who beamed at Harry. "All right there, Harry?"
"Fine, thanks, Hagrid," Harry replied warmly, aware of the eyes now turning toward him with renewed interest.
"C'mon, follow me – any more firs'-years? Mind yer step, now!"
As they approached a fleet of small boats at the lake's edge, Harry made a split-second decision. While Draco and Daphne gravitated toward the same vessel, Harry casually diverted toward a different boat.
"See you at the castle," he called to them with a friendly wave. Draco looked momentarily put out, while Daphne merely raised an eyebrow.
Strategic information gathering requires diverse sources, Harry thought as he approached a boat containing three unfamiliar students. A heavyset boy with a round face looked up anxiously as Harry approached.
"Mind if I join you?" Harry asked with his most disarming smile.
"N-not at all," the boy stammered, shifting to make room.
As Harry settled into the boat, the boy seemed to gather his courage. "I'm Neville, by the way. Neville Longbottom."
Longbottom. Harry's mind immediately retrieved information from The Pillars of Wizarding Community. Ancient pureblood line, traditionally aligned with light families, significant Ministry presence historically. Currently headed by Augusta Longbottom.
"Harry Potter," he replied, extending his hand. "Pleasure to meet you."
The predictable widening of eyes and quick glance at his forehead followed, but Neville's reaction seemed more flustered than awestruck.
"Gran told me we might be in the same year," Neville said, his voice gaining a fraction more confidence. "She knew your parents."
That was useful information. "Did she? I'd love to hear about them sometime."
A small, dark-haired girl sitting across from them leaned forward. "I'm Sophie Roper," she introduced herself. "And this is Kevin Entwhistle."
The boy beside her nodded shyly.
"Are you all from wizarding families?" Harry asked.
"Half and half," Sophie replied. "Mum's a witch, Dad's muggle. She told me Dad nearly fainted when Mum finally told him after they were engaged."
"Muggle-born," Kevin said quietly. "Got a real shock when Professor McGonagall showed up with my letter."
Neville fidgeted with his sleeve. "Pureblood," he mumbled, somehow making the word sound like an apology. "Not that it matters much. Everyone thought I might be a Squib until I was eight."
"Squib?" Harry inquired.
"Non-magical person born to magical parents," Sophie explained. "Opposite of Muggle-born, I suppose."
"What House do you think you'll be in?" Kevin asked, clearly eager to change the subject.
"Gran expects Gryffindor," Neville said, sounding distinctly unenthusiastic. "My parents were Gryffindors."
"Mum was Ravenclaw, so maybe there," Sophie shrugged. "Though she says I like to work like my dad, so maybe Hufflepuff."
"I haven't the faintest idea," Kevin admitted. "The professor who visited didn't explain much about the Houses."
"What about you, Harry?" Sophie asked.
Harry gave a measured smile. "I'm keeping an open mind. Each House has its advantages."
Further conversation ceased as they rounded a bend and Hogwarts came into view for the first time. Gasps and exclamations erupted from the boats as the castle appeared, perched majestically atop the cliff, windows gleaming like stars against the night sky.
Harry didn't gasp like the others, but he felt a peculiar tightness in his chest. While part of his mind coolly assessed the defensive advantages of the castle's position – easily defensible, excellent vantage point, natural barriers on three sides – another part simply absorbed the sight of what would be his first real home.
Magic, Harry thought, feeling an unexpected thrill of excitement beneath his calculated exterior. Real magic.
As the boats glided silently across the black water, Harry permitted himself a small, genuine smile. The pieces of the game board were aligning before him, and for the first time in his life, he had a chance to be a player rather than a pawn.
"It's beautiful," breathed Neville, momentarily forgetting his anxiety.
"Indeed," Harry agreed quietly. "Home for the next seven years."
As the boats approached the cliff upon which the castle stood, Harry noted how the other students' faces shone with awe and excitement in the lantern light. He allowed himself a small, genuine smile. For all his calculations and observations, even he couldn't deny the thrill that coursed through him.
This was it. The beginning of everything.
"Heads down!" Hagrid called as the boats reached the cliff face, revealing a curtain of ivy that concealed a wide opening.
As they ducked and were carried through a dark tunnel, Harry's mind was already mapping the castle's approaches. This castle was big, too big, and he was willing to bet there were secrets everywhere, and secrets have more value than money.
The first-years followed Hagrid up a flight of stone steps, gathering before an enormous oak door. Harry kept pace with the group while his eyes meticulously cataloged details of the castle entrance.
Harry spotted Draco's platinum hair ahead, the boy engaged in what appeared to be a one-sided conversation with a freckled redhead whose secondhand robes hung awkwardly on his lanky frame. As Harry approached, he caught the tail end of Draco's commentary.
"—honestly, Weasley, my family's house elf wears better clothes than you do," Draco drawled, his aristocratic features arranged in practiced disdain.
Harry immediately placed the redhead—one of the Weasley children he'd observed at the station. The boy's ears had turned nearly as red as his hair, his freckled face flushed with anger and embarrassment.
"At least my father isn't—" the Weasley boy began hotly, but fell silent as Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.
The door swung open immediately, revealing a tall, black-haired witch in emerald-green robes. Her stern face and square spectacles gave her the air of someone who brooked no nonsense whatsoever.
"The firs'-years, Professor McGonagall," said Hagrid.
"Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here."
She pulled the door wide, revealing a magnificent entrance hall with flaming torches, a ceiling too high to make out, and a marble staircase leading to the upper floors.
As they followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor, Harry noted how the woman moved—precise, economical, and utterly confident. A formidable witch, he assessed, not someone to cross or underestimate.
"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor McGonagall said, turning to face them. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses."
As she explained the house system, Harry observed his fellow students. Draco stood with practiced nonchalance, while Daphne maintained her composed expression. The Weasley boy fidgeted nervously, and Neville looked positively terrified.
"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school," McGonagall concluded. "I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting."
Her eyes lingered for a moment on Neville's cloak, which was fastened under his left ear, and the smudge on the Weasley boy's nose. Harry calmly straightened his already immaculate robes and ran a hand through his red hair, knowing its tendency to appear windswept regardless of his efforts.
"I shall return when we are ready for you," said Professor McGonagall. "Please wait quietly."
The moment she left, excited whispers broke out.
"How exactly do they sort us?" Harry overheard someone ask.
"Some sort of test, I think. Fred said it hurts a lot, but I think he was joking," replied the Weasley boy to a sandy-haired student beside him.
Harry suppressed a smile. The Sorting was a matter of personality and values, not magical prowess. His attention was drawn to four enormous hourglasses mounted on the wall near them, each filled with different colored gems—ruby, sapphire, emerald, and amber—marked with symbols he recognized from his reading: lion, eagle, serpent, and badger. House points, he realized, recalling a passage from Hogwarts: A History.
His thoughts were interrupted by several gasps. About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room, apparently deep in conversation.
While other first-years jumped or squealed in surprise, Harry merely observed with interest. The existence of ghosts had been mentioned in several of his books, though seeing them in person was admittedly striking.
"Forgive and forget, I say," a fat monk was saying. "We ought to give him a second chance—"
"My dear Friar, haven't we given Peeves all the chances he deserves?" responded a ghost wearing a ruff and tights. "He gives us all a bad name and—oh, I say, what are you all doing here?"
Nobody answered. The ghost in the ruff noticed the silent first-years and smiled.
"New students!" said the Fat Friar, beaming. "About to be Sorted, I suppose? Hope to see you in Hufflepuff! My old house, you know."
As the ghosts floated away, "I've read all about the Hogwarts ghosts," declared a girl with bushy brown hair who had suddenly appeared at Harry's elbow. "They're mentioned in Hogwarts: A History. You're Harry Potter, aren't you? I've read about you too—you're in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts."
Harry turned to her with a smile. "It seems you have me at a disadvantage," he said smoothly. "You know who I am, but I haven't had the pleasure."
The girl blinked, momentarily thrown off script. "Oh! I'm Hermione Granger," she recovered, extending her hand. "Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course. I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard."
From the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Draco's lip curl into a sneer at the mention of her non-magical background. Interesting.
Harry remembered what Hagrid told him during Diagon Alley.
"Some of them families think they're better'n everyone else just 'cause their blood's 'pure' magic for generations. Load of nonsense, if yeh ask me. Yer mum was Muggle-born and she was the best witch in her year."
From across the chamber, Harry caught the Weasley boy watching their interaction. Their eyes met briefly before the redhead quickly looked away, his ears turning pink at being caught staring.
The Weasleys were known blood traitors according to his reading—purebloods who actively supported Muggle rights. They'd be natural political opponents to families like the Malfoys.
Harry noticed Draco's pale eyes tracking Hermione as she moved away. Making a quick decision, Harry approached the blond boy and his small entourage where they stood near a suit of armor. Daphne Greengrass stood slightly apart from them, maintaining her dignified posture.
"Enjoying the welcoming committee?" Harry asked with a slight smile, nodding toward where the ghosts had disappeared.
Draco shrugged dismissively. "Family ghosts are more impressive. Our manor has portraits." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Why were you talking to that... girl?" He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a barely audible whisper. "She's clearly a Mudblood."
Harry's expression didn't change, though internally he knew this must be a slur; he had read the books, but there was no mention of this name-calling, so this was clearly something that everyone knew that existed but no one wrote about it. His first instinct was to firmly establish boundaries—what he did was his business alone—but he recognized this as an early test of his social alignment.
"Information flows from unexpected sources, Draco," Harry replied smoothly, keeping his voice equally low. "In politics, it's often useful to maintain civil relations across all quarters. You never know when a connection might prove valuable."
Draco blinked, clearly not expecting this response. After a moment, his lips curved into a small, appreciative smirk. "That's... surprisingly Slytherin of you, Potter."
"One should never limit one's options unnecessarily," Harry added with a casual shrug, as though discussing the weather rather than social strategy.
Daphne, who had been listening quietly, chose this moment to interject. Her cool blue eyes fixed on Draco with innocent curiosity. "Speaking of options, Draco, what will you do if you're sorted into Gryffindor?"
Draco's face contorted in horror. "I won't be! Malfoys have been in Slytherin for generations!"
"But hypothetically," Daphne pressed, the faintest hint of amusement in her otherwise composed expression, and Harry smiled at her expression.
"I'd demand a resort or transfer to Durmstrang immediately," Draco declared, looking genuinely disturbed by the mere suggestion. "Father would never stand for it."
"Form a line," Professor McGonagall instructed the first-years as she returned, "and follow me."
As Harry took his place in line, he felt a flutter of anticipation beneath his calculated composure. The game was about to begin in earnest.
The doors to the Great Hall swung open, revealing a splendor that surpassed even Harry's expectations. Thousands of candles floated in midair above four long tables where the rest of the students sat, their faces turned expectantly toward the first-years. The tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets, empty yet somehow promising abundance.
Harry's gaze traveled upward to the enchanted ceiling, velvety black and dotted with stars, just as Hogwarts: A History had described. The vastness of the artificial sky created an illusion of dining under the heavens—impressive magic, he noted, and psychologically effective. It made the hall feel limitless.
As they walked between the tables toward the front of the hall, Harry's attention shifted to the staff table that ran along the top of the hall. He scanned the row of adults with measured interest, assessing the power structure.
Hagrid had already taken his seat, his size making him easy to identify. At the center, in a large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry had to admit, he might not look much, but Harry knew just by looking at him that he was powerful. The Headmaster's silver hair and beard gleamed in the candlelight, his half-moon spectacles perched on a crooked nose. His expression was benign, but his eyes—sharp blue, even at this distance—missed nothing.
To Dumbledore's right sat a severe-looking witch Harry guessed to be McGonagall's usual seat. To his left was an empty chair, and beside that sat a sallow-faced man with greasy black hair and a hooked nose. This had to be Snape, Draco's godfather and Head of Slytherin House. The man's dark eyes swept over the incoming first-years with apparent disinterest, though Harry noted how they lingered momentarily on certain students.
Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first-years. On top of the stool, she set a pointed wizard's hat—patched, frayed, and extremely dirty. For a moment, the hall was completely silent, all eyes on the ancient hat. Then a rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth, and the hat began to sing.
"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,
But don't judge on what you see,
I'll eat myself if you can find
A smarter hat than me.
You can keep your bowlers black,
Your top hats sleek and tall,
For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat
And I can cap them all.
There's nothing hidden in your head
The Sorting Hat can't see,
So try me on and I will tell you
Where you ought to be.
You might belong in Gryffindor,
Where dwell the brave at heart,
Their daring, nerve and chivalry
Set Gryffindors apart;
You might belong in Hufflepuff,
Where they are just and loyal,
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true
And unafraid of toil;
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,
If you've a ready mind,
Where those of wit and learning,
Will always find their kind;
Or perhaps in Slytherin
You'll make your real friends,
Those cunning folk use any means
To achieve their ends.
So put me on! Don't be afraid!
And don't get in a flap!
You're in safe hands (though I have none)
For I'm a Thinking Cap!
Harry listened to the hat's song with fascination, absorbing its descriptions of the four houses. When it finished, the hall burst into applause. Harry joined in politely while noting how students at each table reacted to their house's description—pride from Gryffindor, thoughtful nods from Ravenclaw, warm smiles from Hufflepuff, and calculating looks from Slytherin.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment. "When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she said. "Abbott, Hannah!"
A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, and sat down. After a moment's pause—
"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the hat.
The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down. Harry watched the pattern repeat: "Bones, Susan" joined Hannah in Hufflepuff, while "Boot, Terry" became the first Ravenclaw.
"Brown, Lavender" became the first new Gryffindor, and the table on the far left exploded with cheers. Harry noticed two identical redheads—more Weasleys, he assumed—congratulating her.
"Bulstrode, Millicent" became the first Slytherin. Harry observed how the table on the far right applauded with restraint, no whooping or cheering, just measured acknowledgment.
"Finch-Fletchley, Justin!" "HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Finnigan, Seamus!" "GRYFFINDOR!"
"Granger, Hermione!"
The bushy-haired girl practically ran to the stool and jammed the hat eagerly on her head. Harry watched with interest. Despite her obvious intelligence, he suspected—
"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouted after nearly a full minute of deliberation.
The Weasley boy groaned audibly, earning a sharp look from McGonagall. Interesting, Harry thought. The hat had taken longer with her than most.
When Neville Longbottom was called, he fell over on his way to the stool, prompting scattered laughter. The hat took a long time with Neville before finally declaring "GRYFFINDOR!" Neville ran off still wearing the hat and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to "MacDougal, Morag."
Draco swaggered forward when his name was called. The hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, "SLYTHERIN!"
Looking pleased with himself, Draco joined Crabbe and Goyle at the Slytherin table, his expression one of entitlement fulfilled rather than achievement earned.
"Greengrass, Daphne!"
Daphne moved like a lady, her posture impeccable as she sat. The hat settled on her pale blonde hair, and after only a brief moment—
"SLYTHERIN!"
She removed the hat with the same composure with which she'd approached, gliding toward the Slytherin table with quiet dignity. There was a notable difference between her self-possession and Draco's swagger, Harry observed. Both were confident, but Daphne had nothing to prove.
The sorting continued, and Harry paid careful attention to each student and their destination. His own name approached alphabetically, and he mentally prepared himself.
"Potter, Harry!"
As Professor McGonagall called his name, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.
"Potter, did she say?" "The Harry Potter?"
Harry stepped forward, his posture relaxed. He ignored the craning necks and pointing fingers, keeping his gaze steady as he approached the stool. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Professor Dumbledore leaning forward slightly, his expression one of keen interest.
The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Then he was staring at the black inside of the hat, waiting.
"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Interesting. Very interesting. What do we have here? Plenty of courage, I see. A sharp mind too, oh my, yes—talent, ambition, and... oh, what's this? Such calculation for one so young. A natural strategist with a gift for reading others."
Harry remained silent, letting the hat examine his mind.
"You could do well in Ravenclaw with that thirst for knowledge," the hat mused. "But there's more here, isn't there? This manipulation, this understanding of how to navigate social waters... and such ambition hidden beneath those charming smiles."
A brief pause, then:
"Well, there's no doubt about it. With a mind like yours—"
"SLYTHERIN!" the hat shouted to the entire hall.
Harry removed the hat calmly and stood. The Great Hall had fallen into a stunned silence. The Boy Who Lived—in Slytherin? For several heartbeats, no one moved or spoke.
Then, from the Slytherin table, a slow, scattered applause began. Draco Malfoy looked simultaneously shocked and smugly vindicated as he clapped, with Crabbe and Goyle mechanically following his lead. Daphne's applause was measured and dignified, her expression revealing nothing more than polite welcome.
Harry took a seat near Daphne, positioned so he could see both his new housemates and the rest of the hall. He offered a small, composed smile to those nearest him.
"Well," he said quietly to no one in particular, "this should be interesting."
The sorting continued, but Harry could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes returning to him repeatedly, students and teachers alike. The whispers continued:
"Potter in Slytherin?" "But his parents were Gryffindors!" "He defeated You-Know-Who... how can he be in Slytherin?"
Harry ignored them, focusing instead on the remaining sorting. When "Weasley, Ronald" was called, the red-haired boy he'd noticed earlier stumbled forward, looking slightly green. The hat took only a moment before shouting "GRYFFINDOR!" The boy's obvious relief as he joined his brothers suggested a family tradition.
As "Zabini, Blaise" became the final Slytherin, Harry allowed himself a small, private smile. The Sorting Hat had seen his true nature immediately—and now the game could truly begin.
As the sorting concluded, Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet, beaming at the students with his arms opened wide in welcome.
"Welcome!" he said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!"
He sat back down to scattered applause and laughter. Harry raised an eyebrow, observing how differently the houses reacted—Gryffindors cheering enthusiastically, Ravenclaws looking puzzled but amused, Hufflepuffs laughing, and Slytherins offering polite, restrained applause while exchanging knowing glances.
Harry's contemplation was interrupted as the empty dishes before him suddenly filled with food. Roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, bacon, steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and peppermint humbugs spread across the table in a dazzling array.
Despite his practiced composure, Harry couldn't quite suppress a small smile of delight. After years of Petunia's bland cooking—when he was allowed to eat at all—the abundance before him was nothing short of miraculous. The Dursleys had never starved him, precisely, but portions had always been calculated to satisfy the minimum requirement without allowing for enjoyment.
No more of Aunt Petunia's boiled cabbage and dry toast, he thought with satisfaction. This alone makes magic worth learning.
"Something amusing, Potter?" asked an older student sitting nearby. His dark eyes flicked pointedly to Harry's red hair. "Rather unusual hair color for our house, isn't it? I don't recall many gingers in Slytherin's noble line."
Several nearby students paused, forks halfway to mouths, sensing the potential for conflict. Draco leaned forward.
Harry met the student's gaze calmly, his smile shifting from genuine pleasure to something more measured.
"I believe Slytherin himself valued uniqueness when it came with ambition," he replied, his voice carrying just the right notes of respect and confidence. "After all, what good is power if everyone possesses identical strengths? Diversity of talents serves the greater purpose."
The student's eyebrows rose slightly, clearly not expecting such a composed response from a first-year.
"Marcus Flint," the older boy finally said, neither friendly nor hostile. "Fifth-year."
"Harry Potter," he replied unnecessarily, giving a slight nod of acknowledgment. "First-year student with apparently controversial hair."
A few students nearby chuckled, the tension dissipating slightly.
"We'll see if the Hat made the right choice with you, Potter," Flint said, returning his attention to his meal.
Harry took this as his cue to start eating. The first bite was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, but he made sure not to appear as if this was his first time eating food. As he reached for the potatoes, Draco shifted seats to sit opposite him.
"Well played with Flint," Draco said quietly, helping himself to roast beef. "He's Quidditch Captain too, so best to stay on his good side."
"Quidditch Captain? I've read about the game, but haven't seen it played yet," Harry replied, sensing an opportunity to let Draco expound on a subject dear to him.
As expected, Draco launched into an enthusiastic explanation of Quidditch positions, famous teams, and his own flying prowess.
"Father says it's a crime I can't bring my broom this year," he concluded. "I've been flying since I was six. What about you? Ever been on a broom?"
"Today's my second day in the wizarding world," Harry reminded him with a small smile. "But I'm looking forward to learning. What other classes are you anticipating?"
"Potions, obviously," Draco replied, nodding toward the staff table. "Professor Snape knows I've practiced basic potions at home."
Daphne, who had been listening quietly beside Harry, finally joined the conversation. "Transfiguration will be challenging. Professor McGonagall is notoriously strict, especially with Slytherins."
"Is there a reason for that?" Harry asked, cutting his chicken into precise, manageable pieces.
"She's Head of Gryffindor," explained a dark-skinned boy Harry recognized as Blaise Zabini. "The rivalry between our houses is... significant."
"Watch out for her," Draco advised seriously. "McGonagall's unforgiving if you put even a toe out of line. At least, that's what I heard from Professor Snape, and even my father told me which Professors are not ones to mess with."
"I noticed her strictness during the Sorting," Harry nodded. "The kind of professor who doesn't miss much."
"Exactly," Draco agreed. "Father says she's brilliant but biased. Transfiguration is her subject—turning one thing into another. Supposed to be very difficult."
"I've been reading ahead," Harry admitted, keeping his tone casual. "The basic theory seems straightforward enough, though I imagine the practical application requires significant precision."
Blaise Zabini joined their conversation. "Reading ahead already, Potter? Perhaps you should have been in Ravenclaw."
"Knowledge is a tool," Harry replied with a slight smile. "And I prefer to keep my toolbox well-stocked."
This earned him several appraising looks from the older students.
"Is it true what they say?" asked a pug-faced girl sitting beside Draco. "That Dumbledore personally trained you after... you know."
Several nearby Slytherins leaned in, clearly interested in his answer. Harry allowed himself an amused snort.
"Today is literally the first time I've ever seen Dumbledore," he said, his tone matter-of-fact rather than defensive. "Until my Hogwarts letter arrived, I didn't even know magic was real."
A collective murmur of surprise rippled through his listeners.
"But you're Harry Potter," said a stringy first-year named Theodore Nott. "Where have you been all this time?"
"Living with Muggle relatives," Harry replied simply, deliberately turning the conversation. "These Yorkshire puddings are excellent. Are all Hogwarts meals this impressive?"
The deflection worked, launching a discussion about various Hogwarts food and what to expect in their first week of classes.
"Charms should be our first lesson tomorrow," said Tracey Davis, a girl with mousy brown hair. "Professor Flitwick is fair, at least."
"I've been practicing the wand movements for Wingardium Leviosa," Draco boasted. "Father hired a tutor last summer to give me a head start."
"Isn't that not allowed?" Harry asked, remembering a book mentioning that using magic outside of school while underage was forbidden.
"You can't perform magic outside school once you've started," explained an older student Harry hadn't been introduced to. "But theory and movements are permitted. Pureblood families often provide preliminary instruction."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. I've been reading to catch up—Magical Theory was particularly informative about wand mechanics."
"You've actually read the textbooks?" Pansy asked, looking both surprised and faintly disapproving.
"Knowledge is power," Harry replied with a casual shrug. "And I've got plenty of catching up to do."
As their dinner plates cleared and desserts appeared, an older Slytherin further down the table fixed Harry with a calculating stare.
"Don't get used to the attention, Potter," she said, voice carrying deliberately. "Being famous doesn't make you a true Slytherin."
"The Sorting Hat seemed quite convinced," he replied evenly. "It barely touched my head before making its decision. But I understand your skepticism—appearances can be deceiving, after all." He paused, meeting the prefect's gaze directly. "Though I would have thought Slytherins, of all people, would appreciate the value of looking beyond the obvious."
The prefect's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Daphne spoke from beside Harry.
"Marcus Flint is a prefect, Potter," she said, her tone neutral but her meaning clear. "He has authority over house matters and can assign detentions or dock points."
"Thank you for the clarification, Greengrass," Harry replied with a polite nod. To Flint, he added, "I look forward to proving myself through actions rather than assumptions."
Mentally, Harry added Flint to his list of people to watch carefully. Antagonizing a prefect on his first day would be foolish, but showing weakness would be equally unwise in this house of predators.
As he reached for a treacle tart, a sudden, sharp pain shot across Harry's forehead, centered on his scar. He winced involuntarily, his hand automatically rising to his forehead.
"Something wrong?" Draco asked, noticing the gesture.
"Nothing," Harry said quickly, lowering his hand. His eyes scanned the staff table, seeking the source of the strange sensation.
His gaze fell on Professor Snape, who was engaged in conversation with a nervous-looking young man wearing a peculiar purple turban. As though sensing Harry's attention, Snape's dark eyes suddenly locked with his. The pain intensified momentarily, then faded as Snape looked away.
"Who's that professor talking to Professor Snape?" Harry asked.
Draco followed his gaze and snorted. "That's Professor Quirrell. Teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts, though from what Father says, he's hardly qualified. Supposedly encountered vampires during a sabbatical and hasn't been the same since."
"Stutters so badly you can barely understand him," added a second-year girl sitting nearby. "Snape's been after the Defense position for years. Everyone knows he wants Quirrell's job."
"Why would he stay as Potions Master if he wants to teach Defense?" Harry asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Dumbledore's decision, isn't it?" said Blaise with a slight shrug. "Even if you are the best suited for a particular branch of magic, at the end of the day, it is up to the Headmaster who gets which position."
"What about the woman with the square glasses?" Blaise asked, indicating a thin witch with enormous spectacles that magnified her eyes to several times their natural size.
"Professor Trelawney," a fourth-year supplied with obvious disdain. "Divination teacher. Complete fraud who predicts at least one student's death every year. None have died yet, obviously."
"My mother says Divination is woolly magic at best," Pansy commented. "Only useful if you have true Seer blood."
"My aunt is a Seer," contributed a small, mousy first-year girl who hadn't spoken until now. "She predicted my cousin would lose a finger, and three years later, he had an accident with a Slicing Charm."
"And you are?" Harry asked.
"Tracey Davis," she replied, appearing surprised at being directly addressed.
"Pleasure to meet you, Tracey," Harry said.
The last of the desserts vanished from the golden plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. Harry dabbed his mouth with a napkin, savoring the lingering taste of treacle tart. The Great Hall's ambient noise decreased as Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet once more, causing the remaining chatter to die away.
"Ahem—just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered," the Headmaster announced, his eyes twinkling in the candlelight. "I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."
Harry's posture straightened subtly, his attention focused on the elderly wizard. First impressions of authority figures were always valuable, and Dumbledore was arguably the most powerful wizard alive.
"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."
Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Gryffindor table, specifically toward the redheaded twins Harry had noticed earlier.
"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors."
Several Slytherins around Harry exchanged knowing looks that clearly communicated: "Unless you don't get caught."
"Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch."
Draco made a small sound of disappointment, and Harry recalled his earlier complaint about first-years not being allowed their own brooms.
"And finally," Dumbledore continued, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
A few students laughed, but Harry wasn't among them. His green eyes narrowed slightly as he analyzed the Headmaster's words. The phrasing was dramatic, yet delivered with perfect seriousness. Most curious was the specificity—not the entire third floor, but the right-hand corridor in particular.
"He's not serious, is he?" Harry asked quietly, directing the question to no one in particular.
"Must be," said the prefect Farley, her tone skeptical. "Strange, though. Usually, we get reasons for rules."
Harry glanced at Draco, who was frowning slightly. "If I didn't know better," Harry murmured, "I'd think the Headmaster was practically inviting curious students to investigate the forbidden corridor."
Draco snorted softly. "My father says Dumbledore's brilliant but mad. This proves it."
"Or calculated," Harry suggested, his voice low enough that only Draco and Daphne could hear. "What better way to ensure students explore somewhere than to explicitly forbid it while making it sound mysterious?"
Daphne's eyebrow arched slightly. "An interesting theory, Potter," she acknowledged. "Though I'm not eager to test the 'painful death' part personally."
"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore, effectively ending their speculation.
The Headmaster gave his wand a small flick, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, twisting into words above the tables.
"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"
The school bellowed the anthem in a cacophony of mismatched melodies that made Harry wince internally. He mouthed along without actually singing, noting with interest how most Slytherins did the same. Across the hall, the Gryffindors sang with enthusiastic abandon, while Ravenclaws mostly maintained proper tempo, and Hufflepuffs sang with cheerful sincerity.
As the Weasley twins finished their funeral dirge rendition, Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and clapped loudest of all when they finished.
"Ah, music," he said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"
As the students began to rise, Harry's gaze drifted back to the staff table. Professor McGonagall was speaking with Professor Flitwick, a tiny wizard perched on a stack of cushions. Hagrid was draining his goblet. Professor Quirrell, looking nervous, had turned away from Snape and was adjusting his turban.
As Quirrell's profile came into view, another sharp pain lanced through Harry's scar, causing him to wince involuntarily.
Interesting, Harry thought, pressing his fingers briefly against his forehead. Snape wasn't looking at me this time. Is it Quirrell, then?
"First years, gather here!" called Adrian Pucey, the male fifth-year prefect. "Slytherin first years, form a line and follow me!"
Harry fell into line between Daphne and Blaise, his mind still processing the odd reaction of his scar. He wondered what was causing the pain, he had tried to read about magic as much as possible since the bought the books, but sadly, he could not read all the books within a month, he figured he either needed to speak with a grown up or figure it out himself why the scar hurt.
"The staircases move, so stay close," Pucey instructed as they descended toward the dungeons. "Our common room is the most secure in Hogwarts—only Slytherins know its location."
As they wound their way deeper into the castle, Harry committed their route to memory. Unlike the other first-years, who gazed around with open wonder or nervous apprehension, he maintained an air of calm interest, cataloging details that might prove useful later: the location of certain portraits, the pattern of torch brackets, the subtle draft from hidden passages.
"Thinking of sneaking out already, Potter?" Draco asked with a smirk, noticing Harry's attentiveness.
"Just getting my bearings," Harry replied with a small smile. "I believe in knowing my environment."
"Smart," Blaise commented from behind them. "Though you'll find Slytherin rules have... flexibility if you're careful enough not to get caught."
"The first rule of breaking rules," Harry agreed quietly, "is ensuring no one knows you're breaking them."
This earned him appreciative looks from both boys, and even Daphne's lips curved slightly.
As they descended a final staircase into the dungeons proper, the air grew cooler and the stone walls more ancient. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped steadily, and the torchlight cast long, flickering shadows.
Harry felt something unexpectedly like satisfaction settle in his chest. The dungeons were quiet, secluded, defensible—and far from the chaos and noise that seemed to follow other houses. For a boy who had spent much of his life in a cupboard, learning to value privacy and control, there was something almost comforting about the Slytherin domain.
The strange pain in his scar faded to memory as they approached a stretch of bare, damp stone wall. For now, he would focus on establishing himself in his new house. The mystery of his scar—like the forbidden corridor—would keep for another day.
"Almost there," Pucey announced as they approached a seemingly unremarkable stretch of damp stone wall. "Remember this location. If you get lost, find a portrait and ask for the Baron—he'll guide you back."
The prefect faced the wall and spoke clearly: "Ambition's reward."
The stone wall silently reconfigured itself, blocks sliding and rearranging to reveal an archway. Pucey gestured for the first-years to enter.
"Welcome," he said with unmistakable pride, "to the Slytherin common room."
Harry stepped through the archway, immediately assessing his new domain with appreciative interest. The long, low underground room extended before him, bathed in a greenish light that emanated from lamps hanging on chains from the ceiling. A fire crackled under an elaborately carved mantelpiece, around which several high-backed chairs were positioned—close enough for conversation.
Windows looked out into darkness, and as Harry watched, something large and serpentine glided past the glass.
"We're under the lake," Daphne explained, noting his gaze. "Sometimes the giant squid passes by."
"I like it," Harry commented, genuinely impressed. The room held a dignified, mysterious beauty that appealed to him immediately.
Dark wood furniture was arranged throughout the space in conversational groupings. Silver and emerald accents gleamed on cushions, rugs, and decorative elements.
"Gather round," Farley instructed, directing the first-years to assemble before the fireplace while older students filtered in behind them.
"Before Professor Snape arrives, let's establish some fundamental truths about our house," Pucey began. "Slytherin is not merely a school house—it's a brotherhood and sisterhood of ambition. We are selective, strategic, and successful. Outside these walls, we present absolute unity."
"The other houses believe we stand together out of blind loyalty," Farley continued seamlessly. "The truth is more pragmatic: we stand together because divided, we would be vulnerable. Individual Slytherins may have personal disagreements—"
"—but those remain private," Pucey finished. "To the rest of the school, we are one united front. Any grievances are settled within these walls, under the supervision of older students if necessary."
Harry noticed how the other first-years reacted to this information: Draco with a satisfied nod, Crabbe and Goyle with blank acceptance, Daphne and Blaise with composed understanding. Theodore Nott stood slightly apart, his thin face thoughtful, while Pansy Parkinson preened as though house unity naturally centered around her.
"Professor Snape expects excellence," Farley continued. "Mediocrity is for Hufflepuffs. Theoretical knowledge is for Ravenclaws. Foolhardy bravery is for Gryffindors. Slytherins combine knowledge, cunning, and self-preservation to achieve greatness."
The common room door slid open again, and the assembled students straightened instinctively as Professor Snape swept in, his black robes billowing behind him like great bat wings. The Head of Slytherin House moved to the center of the room, his dark eyes scanning the new arrivals with clinical detachment.
"Another year," he began, his voice surprisingly soft yet carrying to every corner of the suddenly silent room. "Another collection of young minds entrusted to the noble House of Slytherin."
He paced slowly before the first-years, examining each one. When he reached Harry, his expression remained neutral, but his eyes lingered a fraction longer.
"You have been sorted into this house because you possess qualities Salazar Slytherin himself valued: determination, resourcefulness, and a certain... disregard for artificial limitations." His lips curled slightly on these last words.
"As your Head of House, I maintain certain expectations. First: academic excellence. I will not tolerate laziness or underperformance. Second: discretion. Whatever activities you choose to pursue—" his gaze swept meaningfully across the room, "—should never be traceable back to our house."
A small, dark-haired first-year girl raised her hand tentatively. "Professor? Are we allowed to practice spells outside of classes?"
Snape regarded her for a moment. "Miss Davis, is it not? The school rules prohibit magic in corridors between classes, but a smart Slytherin always is able to find...ways around things." His expression remained impassive. "I find myself unconcerned with what occurs, provided no one is permanently damaged and—" his eyes flicked briefly toward Harry again, "—no evidence remains to implicate anyone."
Harry met the professor's gaze evenly, neither challenging nor submissive. Snape is simultaneously establishing boundaries and granting tacit permission to bend rules. The look he keeps giving me, though... that's personal, not professional. Either he's fascinated by my scar, or there's history I don't know about.
Another first-year student raised his hand. "Sir, what if other houses provoke us?"
"An excellent question, Mr. Nott," Snape replied. "Slytherins do not respond to provocation with brute force or obvious retaliation. Such methods are for Gryffindors and other... less sophisticated minds. We respond strategically, patiently, and when the opportunity presents itself—decisively."
He folded his arms, black eyes scanning the room once more. "You will find that Slytherin House is not beloved by the general population of Hogwarts. Some professors will show bias against you. Some students will attempt to provoke you. This is not fair, but it is reality—and Slytherins deal in reality, not fairness."
Harry found himself nodding slightly. The professor's words resonated with lessons he'd learned at the Dursleys: expect no fairness, create your own advantages, and never show weakness.
"As your Head of House," Snape continued, "I will defend you against unjust accusations and support your legitimate academic pursuits. In return, I expect you to bring honor to this house through achievement, not infractions."
Snape's gaze swept over them one final time. "Remember: in Slytherin, you will make true friends—those who will stand beside you when advantageous and defend your interests when necessary. Cultivate these alliances carefully. They may determine your future."
With a curt nod to the prefects, Snape turned to leave. As he passed Harry, he paused almost imperceptibly.
"Mr. Potter," he said, his voice barely audible. "Your... celebrity status will not grant you special privileges in my class. Nor will it excuse any... rule-breaking tendencies you may have inherited."
Before Harry could respond, Snape had swept from the room, the stone door sliding shut behind him.
"Well," Draco said, breaking the momentary silence, "that was encouraging."
"Indeed," Harry replied mildly, filing away Snape's parting comment for later analysis. Inherited? Another reference to his parents, it seemed.
"Professor Snape may seem harsh," Pucey explained to the first-years, "but he protects his own. If you're in serious trouble, go to him. Just don't waste his time with trivialities."
"Now," Farley continued, "dormitories are through those doors—boys to the left, girls to the right. Your belongings have already been delivered. Breakfast begins at seven; first-years will receive schedules then."
As the formal introduction concluded, older students began approaching the newcomers, sizing them up. A tall sixth-year boy with aristocratic features made his way directly to Draco, greeting him by name—family connections already at work, Harry noted.
A slender third-year girl with striking blue eyes approached Harry, examining him. "So you're Potter, my name is Danna," she said. "Everyone expected you in Gryffindor."
"The Sorting Hat had other ideas," Harry replied pleasantly.
"Clearly," Danna said. "Just remember—Slytherin doesn't care about your name or your scar. We care what you can do."
Harry met her evaluating gaze with calm confidence. "That's refreshing, actually. I'd rather be judged by my actions than my history."
The girl's expression shifted from assessment to mild approval. "Smart answer. We'll see if you live up to it."
As she moved away, Harry became aware of other calculated observations happening around him. Unlike the blatant staring he'd experienced in the Great Hall, Slytherins evaluated more subtly—a glance here, a measured conversation there, all designed to gauge his potential value as an ally or threat.
He responded in kind, neither seeking approval nor avoiding attention, but engaging with measured charm and observant restraint. When an older student made a casual comment about his unusual house placement, Harry responded with a light quip about keeping adversaries guessing—earning appreciative chuckles from those nearby.
Eventually, the time came to sleep.
"Coming, Potter?" Draco called from near the boys' dormitory entrance for the first years.
"Of course," Harry replied, following his housemates toward what would be his home for the next seven years.
The first-year boys' dormitory branched off from a stone corridor, a heavy wooden door marked with a silver serpent opening into a spacious circular room. Six four-poster beds with emerald green hangings were arranged around a central heating element, each with a polished nightstand and wardrobe positioned for optimal privacy.
Harry noted the strategic arrangement immediately—not the haphazard crowding he'd imagined in a dormitory, but a design that allowed for personal space while maintaining the proximity required for dormitory living. The stone walls were partially covered with tapestries.
"I want this one," Draco announced immediately, claiming the bed nearest the small fireplace that supplemented the central heating.
"Of course you do," Blaise Zabini commented with dry amusement, eyeing the remaining options.
Harry's trunk had been placed beside a bed positioned between Draco's chosen spot and one that Blaise was now approaching. Crabbe and Goyle automatically took beds on Draco's other side, while Theodore Nott silently claimed the remaining bed, completing the circle.
"Potter, we have a problem," Draco said suddenly, frowning at the arrangement. "Zabini snores."
"I do not," Blaise replied with dignified outrage.
"You absolutely do," Draco insisted. "Last summer at the lake house, you sounded like a drowning grindylow."
Blaise's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps it was the substandard accommodations affecting my breathing."
Before Draco could respond with what would undoubtedly be an acidic retort, Harry stepped in smoothly.
"There's a simple solution," he suggested, keeping his tone light. "Silencing charms exist for a reason. Perhaps one of the prefects could demonstrate the basic casting before lights out? Seems like a practical first spell to learn, regardless of who snores and who doesn't."
Both boys paused, considering this diplomatic alternative.
"That's... actually sensible," Blaise conceded.
"My father mentioned those are covered in third year," Draco said thoughtfully. "Getting a head start would be advantageous."
"And this way," Harry added with a small smile, "no one has to relocate their trunk."
This strategic reframing—from a dispute about sleeping arrangements to an opportunity for advanced learning—diffused the tension while allowing both parties to save face. Draco told Goyle to go and find a third-year who knew how to use the silencing charm. Theodore Nott, who had been quietly observing from his bed, gave Harry an appraising look.
"You're not what I expected, Potter," Nott commented in his soft, precise voice.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what did you expect?"
Nott shrugged one thin shoulder. "The stories paint you as some sort of Gryffindor hero-in-waiting. But you sound more like us than them."
"Perhaps the stories were written by people who never met me," Harry replied, turning to his trunk and unlocking it with the small key he kept on a chain around his neck—a security measure born from years of Dudley's casual theft.
Unlike some of his dormmates, whose trunks had exploded into disorganized piles the moment they were opened, Harry's was meticulously arranged. His school robes hung from a small internal rack, books were stacked by subject, and personal items were neatly compartmentalized. Eventually, Goyle returned with a third-year pretty girl, who greeted them with a smile. Harry greeted her back as did the others, and watched as she used a Silencing spell. Harry made sure to pay close attention to her movements as she did the spell.
"Good night," She said as she left the room.
As he began transferring books to his nightstand, Draco wandered over, eyeing the titles.
"The Pillars of Wizarding Community: Pure Houses," Draco read aloud, his eyebrows rising in surprise. "That's advanced reading for someone raised by Muggles."
"I figured understanding the foundations of wizarding society would be essential."
"My family is featured prominently in that volume," Draco mentioned, his voice showing clear pride.
"The Malfoys have an impressive lineage," Harry acknowledged, having noted their extensive family tree during his reading. "Though I found the Greengrass diplomatic history particularly interesting."
Blaise, who had drifted closer, picked up another of Harry's books. "Silent Influence: The Art of Magical Persuasion," he read, looking impressed despite himself. "My mother swears by this text. She's quite... accomplished at persuasion."
Harry almost asked if his mother was the same one who was married seven times, but quickly realised that this was just their first day, and that felt personal, so he just decided not to comment on it.
As the boys continued unpacking, Harry arranged his possessions. His wand remained close at hand, his books were positioned for easy access, and a small frame containing a wizard photograph of his parents—provided by Hagrid before they'd parted ways in London—was placed on his nightstand, angled so that only he could see it properly from his bed.
Once his space was arranged to his satisfaction, Harry excused himself to the bathroom to change into his new pajamas—privately relishing having nightclothes that actually fit, rather than Dudley's cast-offs. When he returned, most of the other boys were already in bed or finishing their preparations.
As his dormmates settled in, Harry found himself drawn to the window beside his bed. Unlike the windows in the common room, which looked directly into the lake's depths, this one was enchanted to show the lake's surface—a clever bit of magic that prevented the dormitory from feeling claustrophobic while maintaining their underwater location.
Moonlight rippled across the dark water, creating patterns of silver and shadow. In the distance, the forbidden forest formed a black mass against the starlit sky, mysterious and vaguely threatening.
Harry stood at the window, absorbing the scene while reflecting on the day's events. In less than twenty-four hours, his life had transformed completely. He'd gone from being the Dursleys' unwanted burden to a student at a prestigious magical school, sorted into a house that valued exactly the qualities that had helped him survive his childhood: cunning, self-preservation, and strategic thinking.
The Sorting Hat had seen through him immediately. Slytherin would nurture those qualities, sharpening them into powerful tools for his future.
He'd need to navigate carefully, Harry knew. Slytherin's social dynamics were complex, with alliances formed and broken based on perceived advantage. Draco clearly valued status and lineage. Blaise appreciated subtlety and wit. Theodore observed more than he revealed. Crabbe and Goyle followed strength.
Then there was the matter of his unexpected fame. Being "The Boy Who Lived" created opportunities and complications in equal measure. Some, like Snape, seemed to have preconceived notions about him. Others viewed him as a potential asset or ally because of his reputation. Managing these perceptions would be critical.
And what of the strange pain in his scar? The forbidden corridor? Dumbledore's curious warnings? Hogwarts clearly held mysteries beyond academic learning.
As lights-out was called and the dormitory plunged into darkness save for the faint glow from the enchanted window, Harry slipped into his bed, drawing the curtains partway closed—enough for privacy but not complete isolation.
"Goodnight," he called to the room at large, receiving a chorus of responses ranging from Draco's clipped "Night" to Crabbe's incoherent grunt.
Lying in the most comfortable bed he'd ever known, Harry allowed himself a small, satisfied smile in the darkness. Knowledge is power, he reminded himself, and tonight I've gained much of both.
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