Chapter Text
There is something hungry deep within Harry, something curling in his belly, nesting in the hollow space within his ribcage, resonating in the marrows of his bones. It is both hungry and wild; perhaps its hunger makes it wild, perhaps its wildness makes it hungry. Either way, what matters is that it is both hungry and wild, and thus, so is Harry.
Harry has never been quite tame— never been taught proper table manners, never been coddled or spoiled, never known an adult he trusted— but recently his hackles have risen, his fangs slipped from their sheathes, his mind turned towards dark things. The events of the graveyard have turned him from a wary, not-entirely-tamed stray to a feral, cornered creature ready to lash out with vicious accuracy at any given moment.
If you ask Harry, it’s only to be expected, all things considered.
Lord Voldemort has returned. Tall and pale as a marble statue and just as human, he rose from the cauldron, a nightmare come to grace the earth. The Death Eaters knelt around him, trembling in fear and delight, but Harry continued to stand tall, even when Cedric fell, slack-jawed and empty-eyed, to sleep eternal with his cheek pillowed against the dark earth.
Lord Voldemort has returned. Harry has been in danger before— has faced troll and basilisk, fled werewolf and Uncle Vernon’s wrath, dodged thrown curses along with Dudley’s punches— but this is on a different level than anything he has faced before.
Lord Voldemort has returned.
They send him back to the Dursleys.
Lord Voldemort has returned, unyielding as those statues of ancient Roman conquerors with their colored paint and humanity worn away, pitiless and powerful and so, so angry, and they send Harry back to the Dursleys.
Locked away in his cage, Harry paces alone. Nightmares leave his sleep patchy and disturbed, and the Dursleys feed him as little as ever. His friends are distant and evasive, all of their letters written in scrawls like they barely have time to talk to him at all. Scraps meant to pacify him, Harry thinks derisively.
He refuses to lie down and wait for death. He isn’t allowed to use his wand, but Harry still practices the hand motions of every spell and curse and potion that he knows, trying to keep them from slipping out of his memory. He hides beneath the ledge of the garden window, listening to the news and trying to glean what he can of what’s really going on. During the long hours waiting, he does push-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups, determined to develop whatever sort of strength he can.
It’s not even close to enough. Harry struggles to sleep at all, and although he continues to choke down the crumbs the Dursleys give him, they taste like sawdust in his mouth. Ron and Hermione ignore his pleas for information, brushing him aside with empty promises.
The Dursleys seem to have decided to ignore him instead of micromanaging him, this summer, so it’s easy enough to go where he pleases. As such, he heads to the library, ignoring the whispering of the librarians and the side-eyes from the other patrons and instead scouring the shelves for books on self-defense, military strategy, and battlefield medicine. Some of the concepts are made obsolete by magic; hand-to-hand combat is little use against the long range of a wand. Other concepts, like triaging injured fighters, or targeting enemies’ supplies, definitely have potential.
Harry filches an empty notebook bought several years ago for Dudley to fill with class notes and begins copying down everything he thinks that he could use. He also records his thoughts for specific applications of the various concepts, and potential pitfalls.
It still isn’t enough. He needs to be doing more than the theoretical. Harry pushes himself harder with his workouts, forcing himself to, and then beyond, his limits. He tries to do wandless magic, even though he only manages it once in every five or six times, and each attempt leaves him exhausted. He even goads Dudley into fighting him a few times, taunting and provoking him until he lashes out in blind rage. When he does, Harry can test his reaction times, his pain tolerance, can watch how Dudley’s new boxing training has changed the way he stands, the way he hits.
He takes notes on these things too; on the best exercises for different muscles, on what seems to help with making wandless magic work, on the best stance to prevent enemies from easily knocking you off your feet.
Even a lack of proper food isn’t enough to prevent him from gaining a sort of cordy, wiry muscle. Exhausted but grimly satisfied, Harry succeeds in training himself to be able to consistently create a small, warm light the size of a candle’s flame that floats just above his cupped hand. His upper lip a swollen, bloody mass from Dudley’s relentless punches, Harry smiles.
Still, the wild thing living within him only grows hungrier the more bones he gives it to gnaw on.
It’s no wonder, then, that when the dementors come, Harry is so quick to spring into action. He draws his wand from his back pocket, and this time, when he waves it, he allows the wildfire in his core to spread, surging down his arm, through the delicate flesh and bones of his hands to burst forth in the form of brilliant, glorious, living magic. His Patronus burns with the pure, barren heat of the searing center of a flame, and the Dementors flinch back before it, no more fearsome than cobwebs and shadows.
Dudley is so stunned it’s not hard to grip him by the arm and manhandle him inside. The elder Dursleys are more difficult to manage— Aunt Petunia watches him, lips pinches and eyes narrow with suspicion, as she fusses over Dudley, and the tone of voice Uncle Vernon uses as he questions Dudley… well, for all of his attempts at fatherly gentleness, the underlying rage would be audible even to the deaf.
“It was Potter,” Dudley says, face still pale as a sheet. His muscles are clenched into a sort of painful-looking crystallization, like a rabbit who just fell under the shadow of a passing hawk. “He’s being picking fights with me all summer— and now he tried to kill me.”
Uncle Vernon is on him in an instant, hands closing around Harry’s throat as he strangles him. The pressure of it is constant and crushing. It reminds Harry of the nightmares he has sometimes, the ones where the boa constrictor from the zoo rises and wraps around him, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. His vision has gained a tint the same shade of purple as Uncle Vernon’s face when Aunt Petunia finally manages to get him to let go, saying something about what “their type” would do to them if he died.
Harry thinks of telling McGonagall about the Sorceror’s Stone, about learning Hogwarts would be shut down without anyone so much as trying to find the Chamber, about being calmly told that he would have to compete in the Tournament even though he hadn’t entered his name— he thinks of all these things and decides, What would “my type” do to the Dursleys? Nothing, really.
That’s a fair bit more bitter than Harry usually allows himself to be, but in his defense, everyone he knows and loves has decided to leave him in the dark about the murderous maniac who’s deadset on killing him. He thinks he’s allowed a bit of bitterness.
Anyhow, the illusion that someone in the magical world is actively protecting him is the only thing preventing Uncle Vernon from killing him here and now, so he doesn’t breathe a word of any of his thoughts either way.
Harry flinches at the sound of an owl forcing its way in through the half-open kitchen window. He’ll bet anything that’s a letter from the Ministry. Aunt Petunia comes at the owl with a broom, but it’s wily enough to dodge her and drop the letter on Harry’s head before turning around and heading out as quick as it can.
Harry rips the letter open manages to skim it just before Uncle Vernon yanks it out of his hands. This is his second usage of underage magic, the letter tells him. He’s been expelled from Hogwarts, and the Aurors are on their way to snap his wand.
Well, Harry reasons distantly, an expulsion from Hogwarts will make the business of surviving significantly more difficult than it had been previously, but it isn’t an immediate death sentence. Having his wand snapped, on the other hand, is far more problematic, considering that Lord Voldemort would like him dead and, despite all of his efforts over this summer, Harry is still near useless without one.
Uncle Vernon’s finally finished reading the letter— he’d had to take several moments to brace himself to read something so freakish, it seems— and now he’s grinning, which almost certainly doesn’t bode well for Harry’s continued survival. “Sounds like the freaks are about as happy with you as we are!” he crows. “What was that you were saying about his sort, dearest?” He looks like he’s eager to pick up right where he left off with strangling Harry.
Aunt Petunia starts frantically trying to persuade her husband that there will still be trouble if they permanently damage Harry, but he isn’t sure how much luck she’s going to have. Harry slips out into the hall and unlocks the cupboard under the stairs using magic, then shrinks his things and tucks them away. He’s just taken his Invisibility Cloak from his pocket and is about to swing it over his shoulders and head out when the second owl enters.
This one is from Arthur Weasley, telling him to stay where he is in no uncertain terms. Harry supposes it doesn’t cost him anything to put his departure off a little bit longer. He’s still not at all inclined to risk his uncle’s wrath, so he slides the hood of the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and crouches in the corner of the hall, keeping his breathing shallow and silent as he holds his wand at the ready in his hand.
He’ll give them a chance, Harry tells himself, letting his head fall back against the wall and his eyes slip closed in a moment’s respite. He’ll give them a chance to prove him wrong.
He waits three days, staying under his Invisibility Cloak and eating the food he’d packed in his trunk, enchanted with stasis charms, at the beginning of the summer. He’d not had an opportunity beforehand, with his trunk having been immediately locked away upon his arrival, but he’s glad now for his forethought.
With each passing day, Harry grows more skeptical and more cynical. Even if wizards do come for him, he thinks bitterly, it would have been too late if not for Harry’s actions. It was Harry who protected himself from the Dementors, and it is Harry now who is carefully hiding from his murderous uncle. If Harry didn’t have the sense to use his invisibility cloak and to have stashed away food so he could survive unobtrusively, they’d be stopping by to pick up his body and nothing more.
On the fourth day, a group of wizards finally stop by to pick him up. Harry abruptly finds himself caught up in the familiar whirlwind of the magical world once again, in seeing the eccentricity of Mad-Eye Moody and meeting strange Nymphadora Tonks, who can shift her appearance at will, in the all-too-familiar sensation of the assembled wizards’ and witches weighty stares, and in the equally familiar way that each of them redirects all of his questions.
The only useful thing he learns, Harry thinks bitterly, is not to stow his wand in his back pocket lest he blow off one of his buttocks.
They transport him via broom, which makes Harry wonder about the possible usage of brooms in battle. It’s not something Harry has seen or heard of in the Wizarding World, which could make it an excellent way to surprise the enemy, and it would make for a good opportunity to employ some of the muggle tactics used in dogfighting and other types of muggle aerial warfare. Harry hadn’t researched those fields in any depth and resolves to research it when he can.
They reach the safe house, which is a grimy townhouse that seems more suited for housing a Dark wizard than the Weasleys and the rest of Harry’s friends. Still, house them it does, as Harry sees for certain upon entering and almost immediately being pulled into a hug with Mrs. Weasley.
She quickly leaves again, however; apparently, there’s a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, a group Dumbledore has assembled to fight Voldemort. A group Harry is not a part of, and whose meetings he is not allowed to show up to. Harry grinds his teeth, and the wildfire in his chest flares higher. The wild thing inside him wants to snap his teeth at Mrs. Weasley’s heels, point out in cutting words just how utterly stupid it is not to allow him the information he needs to protect himself, but he bits the words back. Arguing with adults has never helped him.
Arguing with Ron and Hermione doesn’t help, either. They only say that they’re sorry they couldn’t tell him more over the summer, and Dumbledore told not to, and that it was to keep him safe. They at least can tell him more about the Order, and about the house itself, which is, it turns out, an old inheritance of Sirius’.
In the end, Harry doesn’t spend too long with them, as each conversation topic seems to bump against the things that make Harry want to yell himself hoarse. Instead, Harry tells them he’s going to go get settled in his room and leaves them to their usual bickering over house-elf libration.
It doesn’t take long for Harry to pack his things away, what with how little he owns. He sits on his musty-smelling bed, thinking. He’d filched concealer from Aunt Petunia, and used it to cover the purple-black bruising that mars the pale skin of his neck, but he knows it’s bound to smear or rub off, eventually. He doesn’t want the wizards’ pity, doesn’t want them to think he’s weak when they’re already treating him so much like a child.
He’s vaguely aware of glamour charms, though he doesn’t know any himself. He’ll have to look around for any books in the house, and try to learn one.
That plan made, Harry pulls out his spiral-bound notebook and begins writing down all of the thoughts he’d had on using brooms for aerial warfare.
After dinner, Harry manages to persuade the adults to tell him a little bit (a precious little bit) about what’s going on with Voldemort. Sirius lingers with him a little bit longer, seeming eager to talk. He tells Harry a little bit more than the others had, and, when asked, reluctantly reveals the location of the Black library.
Harry slips away to the aforementioned library. It’s as grimy as the rest of the house, and the whole place is hung thick with Dark magic. As he browses the shelves looking for anything he can find on glamour charms, he notices that many of the books bite. Still, he manages to find a promising-looking book on glamours, as well as a book on dueling that he happened to spot.
After Harry learns his new glamour charm by rote, Harry devours the book on dueling. Just like the muggle books that he’d read earlier, Harry notes down everything that he thinks might be useful; he copies down how to identify curses by color and wand movement, how best to choose counterspells, and the best strategies for shielding. From there, it’s natural to leaf through a treatise on healing magic (Harry grimly reflects that knowing his luck, everything he learns will end up applicable at some point or another), and then he finds himself entrenched in a thick tome on warding. After all, he really wouldn’t have minded having some wards, back at Privet Drive.
When the pale dawn light creeps through the grimy windows and dapples his page, Harry is surrounded by piles of books, and deeply engrossed in an introductory book on runes. As it turns out, warding is based on runes to the point where Harry couldn’t hope to ever lay down a ward if he doesn’t learn at least something of runes. The book is dense and weathered, but Harry is determined to parse through it. At his side, he’s filled a good two dozen more pages of his notebook with notes on everything that he’s learned.
Harry blinks as he sees sunlight fall on his hand; he’d grown used to seeing by the dim light of the old gas lamp next to him. He peers over and realizes with a start that he’s been reading all night. He has no desire for Mrs. Weasley to realize what he’s been up to, so he quickly puts away the books (being careful to note their location for future perusal), double-checks his glamour charms, and heads down for breakfast.
Mrs. Weasley is talking about setting them to work cleaning up Grimmauld Place, but Harry finds it easy enough to get her to count him out of her plans just by saying something about being tired. He thinks that everyone must have heard him venting his frustrations to Ron and Hermione earlier, and although the thought should probably bring him a flush of shame, right now he’s too grateful for the freedom their new wariness of him brings.
While the others clean, Harry slips off to the library to do more research. This time, he notices an unfamiliar house-elf lurking among the shelves, ostensibly dusting the books but with eyes persistently lingering on Harry. He’s sure to be extra careful with the delicate books and to put each one back exactly where he found it.
At lunch, Harry asks about the elf, which sends Sirius into a furious tirade, which in turn sets Hermione off on one of her speeches about house-elf liberation. Between the two of them, Harry at least manages to learn that the elf’s name is Kreacher, and he is quite devoted to the Blacks. Apparently, he has been mercilessly cursing out the rest of them, which makes Harry wonder why he hasn’t so much as called Harry a blood traitor. Perhaps it’s because, unlike the others, Harry is not endeavoring to clean the house.
The others continue their attempts at cleaning the house, but Harry finds himself spending almost all of his time in the library. He’s never been someone who enjoyed learning for learning’s sake, but now each tidbit he masters is a weapon in his hands to point towards Voldemort, and he very much likes that.
At first, Hermione seems delighted by his newfound studiousness. During the times when she isn’t busy cleaning and Harry isn’t busy researching, she listens to him talking about what he’s reading with interest and suggests other books, other spells, other fields to look into. But, when Harry suggests practicing dueling together, she waves him off, saying that she’s unwilling to “engage in underage magic”, even though Sirius told them that the house is warded against the Trace. None of Harry’s attempts at bargaining or logic will persuade her otherwise, and he drops the matter, worried that if he pushes it, she’ll tell Mrs. Weasley that he’s been using underage magic.
Ron’s the opposite; he’s up for a few practice duels here and there when he manages to skive off cleaning, and he’s a dab hand at strategy, but when Harry starts suggesting he pick up specific spells, that he sit down and read specific books, he’s suddenly no longer quite so interested.
Sirius, at least, is willing to duel him. His style is very different from Harry’s own; Harry is concerned only with efficiency, with winning, with survival, but Sirius is flashy and flamboyant, with a flair for the dramatics. At the same time, he’s got a wicked sense of creativity that allows him to continually surprise his opponents, catching them off guard and tricking them. His experience from the First Wizarding War also lends him an edge, and Harry is able to learn a good bit from him.
Sirius calls him James sometimes, when they duel. Harry ignores it because the hungry, scared thing inside him likes the power and assurance of knowing more about dueling more than it likes being called by the right name.
Mad-Eye Moody is also more than willing to duel him. He seems to approve of Harry’s new pursuits and even gives Harry a new wand holster so he has somewhere better to hold his wand than just his belt-loop. Mad-Eye Moody is too busy to duel him often, but each time is enlightening; he’s got an inventive, pragmatic approach that fits well with the way Harry himself functions.
There is someone else who seems to approve of what Harry is doing, and it is not anyone who Harry would expect. Kreacher has changed from watching Harry warily to fetching books for him without being asked, and warning him when “that Weasley woman”, as he calls Mrs. Weasley, is headed his way. It’s through Kreacher’s warnings that Harry manages to hide his perusal of a number of somewhat… Dark books and his usage of underage magic from Mrs. Weasley.
It’s funny since Harry spent the whole summer break before this desperately wishing that he could see his friends, but he finds himself spending less time with them. He’s not completely cut off from them; he eats with them, and they’ll spend some of the time the others aren’t busy cleaning together. Still, Harry feels a measure of distance from them.
Harry is more than willing to talk strategy with Ron or carry on a conversation about runes with Hermione. It’s when Ron tells him that he should take a break every so often, or when Hermione starts asking if he wants to talk about Cedric, that Harry finds himself withdrawing. Similarly, he’s happy to listen to the twins tell him everything they’ve learned through their Extendable Ears, but when they tell him not to be so serious all the time, he turns aside.
Even when he does find time to spend with them, his mind wanders. For instance, the Weasleys want to play exploding snap, and he’s willing to spare the time for a few games, but soon he’s thinking about the best usage for fire-based spells instead of the cards. He simply doesn’t see how any of them are able to act so unconcerned and relaxed when Voldemort is out there. Can’t they see the danger they’re all in? Don’t they understand the need to prepare themselves?
The day of the trial comes through at last. Harry spends the night trying and failing to sleep, until finally, at half-past four, he gives up and gets up for the day. Harry showers and thoroughly combs his hair, although he thinks it doesn’t make any difference, and then dresses in his best clothes, which are the slacks he wears under his robes at Hogwarts, and a shirt that isn't quite as ragged as the rest.
Still, he figures it’s as best as he can get it. No one else seems to be up yet, so he heads to the Black library to try to steady his mind with a bit of familiar research.
Kreacher’s eyes narrow when he sees Harry, or rather, what Harry is wearing. “Young Master should not be dressing so disgracefully when he goes out on official business,” he sniffs, then adds in an undertone, “even if it is to the filthy, useless Ministry.”
Harry snorts. He can’t disagree with that. Harry doesn’t notice, but something in Kreacher’s shoulders loosens at his laughter.
“Kreacher will fetch the Young Master something proper to wear,” he says. Harry nods his thanks, and Kreacher pops away. He returns a moment later holding a set of slightly dusty, but surprisingly well-maintained dress robes. They’re a shade of green that uncomfortably reminds Harry of the Slytherin colors, but even he has to recognize the way that it brings out his eyes.
The robes are a few sizes too big, and Harry notices a small, hand-embroidered tag on the inside of the collar reading R. Black as he puts it on. A quick shrinking charm takes care of the sizing, and he tucks the tag in; he doesn’t want anyone at the Ministry realizing he’s wearing borrowed robes.
Kreacher surveys him critically, then nods. “Kreacher supposes this is as good as possible,” he says. “The Weasley woman has woken and will soon go looking for the Young Master.”
Harry nods and heads down to the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley seems surprised, yet pleased, to see him already all dressed. “You’ve cleaned up better than I expected,” Tonks tells him. “I wouldn’t have expected you to have such a nice robe after the shabby clothes you’ve been wearing all summer.”
Harry half-shrugs, but doesn’t say anything. Mrs. Weasley puts a plate of food in front of him, and he starts to pick at it, as everyone around him starts giving him bits and pieces of advice on what to do, and what not to do, at the trial.
At one point, Mrs. Weasley abruptly moves to try to attack his hair with a comb, and Harry has his wand drawn and pointed in her direction before he realizes what’s happened. Mad-Eye Moody nods approvingly, while Lupin just looks sad, and Mrs. Weasley sighs and pats him on the shoulder, saying something about them all being jumpy this morning.
It’s Harry’s first time in the Ministry, but he’s too nervous to appreciate all of the new sights and sounds very much. If he’s found guilty, he’ll have his wand snapped… how’s he going to protect himself from Voldemort without a wand?
It seems to Harry like the case should pretty cut and dry; anyone with common sense would realize he used his magic in self-defense. The problem is that most wizards don’t seem to have common sense, and the Ministry has it out for him besides.
The fact that they change the time and place of the trial and the way that the entire Wizengamont shows up for a simple disciplinary hearing doesn’t help Harry relax, either.
In the end, it turns out alright. Dumbledore manages to pull through in the end, showing up to Harry’s trial just in the nick of time. He doesn’t so much as glance in Harry’s direction through the entire trial, though. Not even when Fudge finally, reluctantly acquits him.
That little detail, the way he won’t even look at Harry, makes the wild thing twist in his stomach, beat the insides of his ribcage, gnaw on his bones.
Honestly, Harry isn’t sure why it bothers him so much. After all, Dumbledore actually managed to save his sorry hide for once. Shouldn’t he be grateful?
Maybe it’s because of how much it reminds him of life at Privet Drive. Not of the Dursleys— attention from the Dursleys is never a good thing— but of the neighbors, pretending they don’t notice the purple-black bruises molting his cheekbone, the blisters on his uncovered, sunscreen less skin as he labors in the sun for the third day in a row, the bloody crescents Aunt Petunia’s nails cut into his forearm that are visible as he counts out the exact change required for a cheap first aid kit at the local Aldi.
It’s fine, though. It’s fine because Harry is good at swallowing his anger, has been swallowing it for years as smooth as Dudley swallowing the special sweet-flavored medicine Aunt Petunia would get whenever he fell sick. It doesn’t matter; he’s out of there, at least for now. That’s enough; that has to be enough.
Everyone celebrates when he arrives back at Grimmauld Place and they hear the news. They have a special dinner that night, and for once, Harry can relax enough to play Exploding Snap with the others, and only think of Voldemort and his Death Eaters a few times.
The next morning, though, it’s back to his regular schedule. The whole affair has only confirmed for him that he can’t rely on the Ministry to do anything except make his life more difficult, and judging by the Daily Prophet, quite a bit of the Wizarding World is sticking their heads so far into the sand that they’ll be finding grains in their ears for ages.
Kreacher seems almost curious about the whole affair, so Harry tells him about it. It ends up devolving into a rant about how useless everyone is being, about how no one seems to be doing anything close to what needs to be done to fight Voldemort. Kreacher listens with a bright, feverish light in his eyes, and at the end of Harry’s rant, he tells Harry there’s someone who he ought to hear about.
It’s there, among the endless cobwebs and dust motes of the Black library, that Harry hears about Regulus Black, a Death Eater who found out something terrible Voldemort was doing (Kreacher won’t say what, and frankly, Harry doesn’t want to know) and turned against him, dying in the process. Kreacher seems delighted by the frank admiration the tale raises in Harry, and even more by how honored Harry feels by the realization it was Regulus’ robe that he’d worn to the Ministry hearing.
Harry wants to tell Sirius about it, but he’s grown surly and moody with the revelation that Harry will be leaving, after all, and somehow Harry never quite finds the time. Instead, Harry finds himself listening to Kreacher’s stories about Regulus, who he clearly loved dearly. Kreacher even allows Harry to borrow Regulus’s journals, which are full of his notes on various fields of magic. They include runic sequences and simple spells that seem to have been invented by Regulus himself, as well as a great deal of notes on the nature of Dark magic.
Reading through these journals, Harry feels a bit like he’s speaking to a kindred soul. His own notebook grows fuller, as he copies over bits and pieces from Regulus’ journals that he believes he could use, himself.
Harry has just finished reading the last of Regulus’s journals when the booklists arrive. Ron and Hermione are made prefect; in a rather embarrassing series of events, Hermione assumes it’s Harry, and Ron seems to think Harry will be jealous. Frankly, Harry is relieved. He imagines being a prefect would only take time away from his training.
Still, he doesn't think either Ron or Hermione would be happy to hear that. Hiding his feelings behind a blank mask, Harry slides his thumb under his own letter and pulls it open.
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted… Harry blinks, then more rapidly scans down the rest of the letter. It’s… an acceptance letter to Hogwarts, much like the one he’d gotten just before his first year.
“...what?” Harry asks faintly.
“Oh, I was just saying that maybe that slimy git will finally decide to actually teach Potions, this year,” Ron repeats himself cheerfully.
Shaking his head, Harry passes the letter to Ron, who then passes it to Hermione.
Unsurprisingly, it’s Hermione who figures out what’s happened. As it turns out, that letter stating that he’d been expelled from Hogwarts wasn’t just a threat; he really had been expelled. Of course, he’s been acquitted, but magically systems automatically update, so the best they can do is re-enroll him.
“You’ll have to be re-Sorted as well, I imagine,” Hermione says with a casual wave of her hand. “You’re technically not a part of any house right now— which could explain why you didn’t get—”
Ron turns a faint shade of pink, and Hermione rushes to apologize, reassuring him that he really does deserve to be prefect. In the meantime, Harry sinks into a nearby chair, his breath catching with panic as he imagines finding himself under the Hat once more… he barely managed to persuade it to put him into Gryffindor the first time, what if—?
“Oh, don’t worry,” Hermione tells him fondly. “I’m sure you’ll get into Gryffindor again, no problem. You’re the bravest person I know— and,” she adds more quietly, “—the most prone to getting into trouble.”
“That’s hardly his fault!” Ron argues stoutly, and the two soon devolve into merry quarreling. Slipping the letter into his pocket, Harry heads back to the Black library— if there’s any chance at all that he’ll end up in Slytherin, he needs to brush up on his warding, his shielding charms, his healing magic… on everything, really.
When Kreacher pops in, Harry tells him about the new turn of events. Upon hearing Harry’s suspicion he may end up in Slytherin this time around, he nods very solemnly, but Harry can see the sparkle of delight in his bulbous eyes, and he can tell Kreacher is suppressing a gleeful smile.
“Oh come on,” Harry says crossly. “Yes, I realize that not every single Slytherin is automatically evil, or anything— I’ve read more than enough of Regulus’ journals that I can’t deny that— but most of them would like nothing more than to see me dead.” He doesn't really think he'll end up in Slytherin, but the thought still won't leave him, lingering at the back of his mind as just another thing on a very long list of things to worry about.
Kreacher sobers up a bit, at that, and after that, he starts helping Harry by fetching various books for him.
With so much to do and something to dread, time seems to speed up until it’s positively galloping by, and before he knows it, Harry is on the Hogwarts Express, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he watches the landscape change with every mile they speed closer to the school. He should probably be studying up still, but at this point, it can’t make much difference, and he’s too nervous to concentrate properly.
There’s Luna on the train with them, at least; her talk of fantastical, unseen creatures and government conspiracies helps the wild beast that’s lingered within him unwind just a bit.
All of that tension comes rushing back with a vengeance when Malfoy enters their compartment for the traditional Hogwarts Express Malfoy-Potter Confrontation. Harry’s never in the mood for seeing Malfoy’s pinched, gittish face, but especially not this year.
“Get out,” he says bluntly. He meets Malfoy’s eyes coolly, his stony expression showing Malfoy he’s not in the mood to deal with him. Malfoy, of course, ignores that.
“You’d better watch your manners, or I’ll be obligated to give you a detention,” Malfoy sneers. “You know, since I, unlike you, have been appointed prefect, which means I, unlike you, have been given the power to dole out punishments.”
Harry snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, Malfoy. That means so much when we all know that you only got the position because of Daddy dearest. How does it feel to have all of your accomplishments come secondhand from your father? Do you even lace up your shoes yourself, or does your father do that for you, too?”
Even Hermione hides a laugh behind her hand.
Malfoy sneers. “Be careful, Potter. My family has the power to make your life very difficult.”
Harry thinks of Voldemort rising from the cauldron, of Lucius Malfoy bending to kiss the hem of his robes, and laughs, so loud and full that even Malfoy is startled out of his contemptuous expression. “Make my life difficult? Right. Because my life is so easy right now.”
Harry grins, knife-sharp and utterly humorless. “Get out, Malfoy. I have actual problems to deal with.”
Malfoy stares at him for a split second longer, then turns and leaves.
Harry turns back to the window, which is being gently spattered by a misty sort of rain. If he gets Sorted into Slytherin, he thinks with a sort of numb irritation, he’ll be stuck in a dorm room with Malfoy. He shudders. He’s glad he learned all of those wards.
He’s glad, too, that he’s at least allowed to go up to the castle with the others like usual, even if his stress is making him hallucinate some rather disturbing approximations of horses.
When they reach the castle entrance, Harry half-heartedly tries to blend into the crowd and slip to his usual spot at the Gryffindor table, but Professor McGonagall catches him by the collar and prevents him from leaving.
With a sigh, Harry moves to stand in the entryway with Professor McGonagall as they wait for the first year. For a while, they simply wait in silence, watching through the window as the rain whips the weathered grey stones of the castle walls.
At last, Professor McGonagall says, “I am sure you will return to Gryffindor. There’s nothing for you to be anxious about.”
Harry nods dutifully. Professor McGonagall seems to think he should have something to say in response, but Harry can’t think of anything to add.
The first years arrive, with Professor Grubbly-Plank at their head. They look very young, and very short, and very nervous. More than a few are sending wide-eyed, curious glances at Harry, and more than one of them is whispering to those around him.
Professor McGonagall leads them to the small chamber off the hall which Harry recognizes from his own Sorting four years ago, and explains about the four houses. After she leaves, there’s a moment of pregnant silence, and then several of the braver first years pounce on Harry with questions.
“Are you Harry Potter?” a girl with frizzy honey blonde hair demands.
“Why are you here with us, instead of in the Great Hall?” a sharp-eyed boy asks.
“D’you know how they Sort us?” another boy lisps.
Harry raises his hands defensively, feeling a bit swamped. “I can’t answer any of your questions unless you let me talk,” he points out, and they quickly fall silent.
“Uh… first of all, yes, I am.” There’s a chorus of gasps, and with a sigh, Harry obligingly lifts his fringe to show them the scar. “Second of all… the long story short of it is the Ministry f— uh, messed up, and they accidentally expelled me. They re-enrolled me, but I still have to get Sorted again, since everything automatically updated. As for the Sorting itself…” Harry doesn’t want to spoil the surprise, but he doesn’t want them to be nervous, either. “Let’s say that you don’t need to be scared, and leave it at that.”
Several of the first years grumble in annoyance at his evasive answer, but any further questioning is cut short by Professor McGonagall’s return. They all file in; although malnutrition has stunted Harry’s growth, he’s still a good bit taller than the first years, and when he enters, everyone in the hall spots him. There’s a split second of silence so complete you could hear a pin drop, and then Malfoy laughs raucously and calls, “Potter got sent back to first year!”
Professor McGonagall hushes everyone, and the Sorting Hat begins to sing.
Harry is too anxious to pay much attention, but he notices that it seems to have an unusual emphasis on unity and a strange, uncharacteristically cynical tint.
There’s a long moment of uneasy silence, and then Professor McGonagall calls the first name— “Abercrombie, Euan”— who turns out to be the boy with the lisp from earlier. He heads to Gryffindor, and Harry claps enthusiastically.
The Sorting continues, and Harry makes sure to clap whole-heartedly for each first-year no matter what house they end up in. After the last first year is sorted, there’s a long moment of silence where Professor McGonagall seems to consider if she should try to explain the situation with Harry, then evidently gives up and just says, “Harry Potter.”
If it’s possible, the stares on Harry somehow grow even weightier. Keeping his face as cool and neutral as though he’s just walking to the fridge for a bite of food, Harry walks up to the stool and sits down; Professor McGonagall drops the hat onto his head, and this time, he’s big enough that it doesn’t slip down over his eyes. This has the unfortunate effect of allowing him to still see the inhabitants of the Great Hall, who are all peering at him in immense interest.
“Oh, my,” the Sorting Hat says, in its withered voice. “It is rare indeed that I get to sit on one student’s head so many times.”
Harry shifts uncomfortably. He wishes the Hat would just get on with it and put him out of his misery.
“In that case,” the Sorting Hat says, and then bellows, “SLYTHERIN!”
There is total and complete silence in the Great Hall, and even among the utterly composed Slytherin upper years, many a jaw has dropped. Harry doesn’t notice any of this, however, too busy furiously thinking, What the fuck?
It’s then that the Great Hall is treated to the unseen-before sight of the Sorting Hat dissolving into peals of audible laughter. Many of the students relax, figuring that the Sorting Hat must have been playing some sort of prank. No, the Sorting Hat has never been known to play a prank, but it makes a great deal more sense than Harry Potter being Sorted into Slytherin.
What the hell was that for? Harry asks angrily. Are you mis-sorting me because of that whole shtick about internal divide in the song? Because let me tell you, this will just make things worse.
“Most certainly not,” the Hat sniffs in return. “And it’s not a mis-sorting.”
Is it because… because of my connection to Voldemort, then? Harry asks, feeling as though he already knows the answer.
“No!” the Hat sounds affronted. “I Sort only on the students’ characteristics, and certainly not upon their enemies. If anything, it is because of your rigorous opposition to Voldemort that I know for certain that Slytherin is where you belong!”
“What?” Harry audibly blurts out. The Great Hall shifts nervously. Maybe it’s not a joke, after all.
“Think about what you have been doing to fight Voldemort,” the Hat says. “The cunning, the resourcefulness, the ambition that I saw during your first year— I might have expected them to wither away in Gryffindor. And yet all of those traits have not just remained, but flourished. You are shaping into yourself into something very Slytherin indeed.”
I am shaping myself into something that can survive, Harry thinks coolly to himself, and then, turning his mind outwards, by all rights, what I’ve been doing to fight Voldemort should send me to Gryffindor, for the bravery of standing up to him, or Hufflepuff, for my hard work. Or even Ravenclaw, for how much I’m studying. Anything is better than Slytherin, where most of the house will be out for his blood. Besides, what’s this about ambition? I’ll have you remember that last year, I tried my hardest to stay out of the Tournament.
“Exactly!” The Sorting Hat crows. “Avoiding glory in favor of self-preservation! I dare say none of your so-called ‘fellow’ Gryffindors would have done such a thing— that’s why none of them believed you when you said you hadn’t put your name in! I should have never allowed you to persuade me to Sort you into Gryffindor— you quite clearly belong in SLY—”
Wait, Harry desperately cuts the Hat off, Hogwarts bloody well owes me for the thing with the Basilisk. I prevented the school from being closed, and now you’re going to try to get me killed by sending me to Slytherin? Is this how Hogwarts repays me?
For the second time that day, and also probably the second time in history, the Hat bursts into laughter. “This attempt at blackmailing me is only further proving my point! Now, GET UP AND GO TO SLYTHERIN!”
Professor McGonagall pulls the Sorting Hat off of his head. Its tip is, Harry notes dimly, smoking just a bit. Harry should probably feel guilty, but as he rises to start his long walk towards the staring members of the Slytherin table, he wishes the Hat had been burnt a little bit more thoroughly.