A/N There's an important announcement at the end (No, it is not me giving up on this story. I am writing it) and it's too long to put on top.

... Harry...

He's hot, too hot, and the air he's breathing in is thick. The air was making him dizzy. His hands reached out, struggling to get out of the heat of the flames. He had to make it out. He didn't want to die.

Blankets tumbled off him as he sat up, gasping for breath as he tried to calm his racing heart-beat. His head felt like it was going to explode. Images, twisted and mangled, rushed around in his head, making no sense and leaving him only with confusion.

He wasn't in volcano. The flames weren't racing towards him. He was alive. But... he didn't know where he was. And why would he even be in a volcano?

There were images of tall beings dressed in tunics and leggings with weapons strapped to their bodies. Yet there were other people who were dressed in shirts and jeans, meandering down streets where houses were all lined up together.

Names all came together. Ammë, Ada, Adate. He felt safe, secure and loved whenever those names came up. Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley. He felt anger, scorn and hate when he brought those names up in his mind.

Halbarad.

... Harry... That was his name, right? But it didn't sound right. When he mouthed that name, it didn't feel normal, as if he had a different name. But he couldn't... why would he... his name was Harry.

"Calm, lonneg, calm your racing heart. Once you are calm, you will find what you seek."

Closing his eyes once more, he took a steadying breath and focused on the words that seemed to resonate in his mind.

First he needed to figure out where he was.

Where he was was cramped and he sat on something lumpy. It was suffocating. He couldn't breathe. There was no room.

His eyes flew open and he jumped to his feet. His head slammed on what was above him. His hands grabbed at the back of his head as he pressed his back against a wall. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't feel... he didn't know what he couldn't feel. Everything was just... dead.

Everything around him felt weird. The wall behind him was completely solid and smooth, something unfamiliar to his frantic brain. Large dots swam before his eyes, the only items that were visible at all to him. The only reason he was still standing was because of the wall; if he tried to move he would have fallen to his face.

Above him, a loud thumping seemed to rain down on him. Dust scattered around, sending him into a coughing fit. His hands and feet spasmed and he finally crumpled to the floor. It was hard and the cold seemed to seep from the floor and into his bones.

He was going to die. He was going to suffocate and die. He was going to be crushed while suffocating and then he would die. He was going to die with a headache.

Curling up, he wrapped his arms around himself and tried to reach for something that was supposed to surround himself. He didn't know what he was trying to reach for, but no matter how much he reached, he couldn't draw from the shadows, the darkness, the particles of dirt or even from the walls and floor. His brain told him that he could surround himself with fresh air, but nothing was happening.

His trembling increased and he leaned forward to curl himself around his knees while burying his face into his jeans.

Jeans... what? His fingers dug into the fabric, his blunt nails curling into a fist. The material was coarse to the touch and it smelled musty.

Another thumping - thankfully softer - sound caused him to flinch and his breathing to escalate again as heat seemed to encase him again as sweat cursed down his neck and into the collar of his shirt, causing the thick fabric to cling to his body.

Sharp, quick raps on the far wall made Harry stumble to his feet - keeping his head down so he wouldn't ram it against the ceiling again - and jerked his body forwards. He would have cried out in relief if his throat had allowed him that small reprieve. Instead, it felt clogged and made it almost impossible to breathe.

"Get up, boy! It's Dudders birthday and everything has to be perfect! Now make our breakfast!"

Lunging forward, Harry slammed into the door, his hands clawing around until one finally wrapped around a smooth, circular object. Jerking it to the side, he found himself spilling out into light.

For long moments, he just stayed sprawled out on the floor, his cheek pressed against the cool tile. It was an odd feeling, one he couldn't remember vividly.

The coolness allowed him to calm down and allow himself to organize his thoughts. He opened his eyes and looked up, finally allowing his sight to land on who had pounded on the door. It was a tall, thin woman who had a longer than normal neck. She wore nice black slacks and a yellow shirt that made her disgustingly pale.

Aunt Petunia, his mind supplied him as she glared down at him. "What are you doing down there? Get up and get to work!" However, before he could move, she stepped over him, her right foot accidentally kicking him in the stomach.

A soft grunt left his lips and his own glare followed his aunt as she left down into the hallway that lead to the kitchen. A huff escaped him as he stood, brushing off his jeans. His mind was already starting to categorize everything without much effort from him. He didn't understand exactly what he was doing, or where he learned to organize his thoughts, but at least he was able to stay calm and think.

He looked behind him into the room and allowed a soft gust of air to leave him. He was patient, he had learned to be. He was raised to protect, not attack. He was a score and four years - twenty-four - his brain supplied him. No... he was ten, almost eleven. But then why did he think he was twenty-four? And he didn't know how to heal. And why would he attack anyone?

Harry frowned at that thought. He decided not to linger on those thoughts as they confused to him too much; besides, the thoughts might have been from a dream. Instead he found himself walking up the stairs and entering a small bathroom where he quickly relieved himself - after a moment of ogling the area around him and not quite understanding what all the gadgets were used for. Yet his body seemed to know what he needed to do to work the contraptions. As he was washing his hands he looked up and found himself staring at a younger version of himself.

Ten. He was... ten... almost eleven. He should have been relieved that the confusion had been rectified, but he wasn't. Another portion of his brain quite adamantly believed he was twenty-four.

Sighing, Harry carefully gently touched his stomach, then his arms and his face. His face and body were his and he didn't feel odd. But then why did his brain keep telling him he was twenty-four?

He was so confused.

Attempting to calm down, he tried to recall memories to help center himself and prove that he was really eleven and his brain should just stop trying to make him think he was older.

The first thing came to mind were his relatives.

His uncle: obese, brown eyes, blonde hair parted immaculately for work, a mustache that usually held crumbs of whatever food he had eaten recently, his double chin, his crooked and yellow teeth.

His aunt: thin to the point that Harry sometimes assumed she was anorexic, light green eyes, short curly brown hair, defined cheekbones, an overly long neck and her painted face.

His cousin: fat, blue eyes that were always laughing at Harry, blonde hair that his mother tried to keep gelled, the makings of a double chin and his rude disposition.

They hated him and they never tried to hide that fact from him. Ever since he was young they would call him freak. Dudley would chase him around and if Harry was caught...

Before he could think of what would happen an image popped into his mind. He was standing near a railing, a staff in his hand as he stared around. The railing was white and he knew that it would be smooth to the touch. To either side of him were open rooms with intricate details on the walls. But the beauty was in front of him.

Mountains, filled with trees and leaves and animals and the wild, stood in its whole splendor. Waterfalls fell with roars into the lake far below that one couldn't even hear the sound of water slamming into water.

Just as suddenly as that crystallized in his mind, the image, the memory, was gone.

"Boy!"

His aunt's voice came from downstairs and Harry quickly splashed water on his face to keep his irritation to himself. His anger would do nothing here.

Wait... anger?

He blinked rapidly before looking up at the mirror in front of him. Green eyes bored into him and Harry couldn't look away. They... they looked different somehow. Deeper. Older. But how?

And why was he angry at his family? They took him in - kinda. They feed him - sometimes. They clothed him - with Dudley's castoffs. They gave him a roof over his head - the cupboard? Really?

Why was he contradicting everything he was saying?

"Boy! Get down here! Now!"

Deciding to figure out things later, Harry left the bathroom to make dear Dudder's breakfast. He never realized that he was sneering at the thought of his cousin eating more than he should.

Standing in front of the Boa Constrictor's case, Harry cocked his head to the side to study the large snake. Dudley had left after tapping the glass repeatedly. Why his cousin thought doing the same thing over and over again and expected the boa to react differently than it had the first time. Which, is to say, was to do nothing.

Harry had watched, amused at Dudley's stupidity.

Afterwards the black-haired boy had simply stared at the snake. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his shirt slipping off his shoulder a little bit. He murmured quietly, "Idiots." He turned around and followed after his family, never noticing that the boa lifted its head.

Harry stared at the mail pile before sighing and picking it up. Walking slowly back towards the kitchen, the young boy flicked through the mail and paused when he saw what was addressed to him.

Moving quickly, Harry hid the letter in his pants and was easily kept from view from his overlarge top. He then entered the kitchen and placed the other letters on the table.

He would read his letter later, where his family wouldn't take it from him.

Once more in his cupboard, Harry kept the light on. His knees were held close to his chest and he tried to keep his breathing under control.

Never had he had a problem before in staying under the stairs. Before the small room had been his safe haven. His family wouldn't hurt him in there, none of them would fit. Sure they tossed him in and he would gain bruises that way, but he was never directly hurt inside his room.

But now his dreams were filled with endless land and open rooms that were filled with singing wind and whispering rain.

Ever since he started dreaming of a different land, of different people, he wasn't the same. He couldn't watch his family and go back to feeling scared and timid. Now he was filled with anger and determination.

Determination for what he didn't know.

And he didn't understand why these dreams would change him so drastically. Burrowing his head in his hands, Harry gripped his hair tightly and tugged at his locks. He wanted out of the cupboard. He wanted to go home.

Sitting up straight, his heartbeat accelerated and his breathing became once more erratic.

He was home. Yet in his mind he saw another place. Imladris.

Imladris.

Ammë. Ada. Adate.

Those words echoed around in his mind and he still didn't know what they meant. However, the words were comforting and helped him to calm down his breathing and heartbeat.

To distract himself, he grabbed the letter to read.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

HEADMASTER: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,

Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

To say that Harry was able to... owl them back was impossible.

The day was the second of August and Harry was still baffled. Magic. He thought he should be freaking out more to find that... well, he didn't have proof that magic was real. After all, both his aunt and uncle declared the letter rubbish.

After they both turned white. After they both stared at each other. After they both looked panicked.

So, logic dictated that magic was real and they knew that fact.

But that didn't explain why he felt comfortable with that knowledge. Why he felt more comfortable than he had been in the last few weeks since he woke up with the thought that he was in a volcano.

There was one name, though, that stuck out to him from his dreams. Halbarad.

With the name came a surge of annoyed compassion.

Think. Why is magic a comforting thought?

Harry drummed his fingers against his legs before closing his eyes. Magic.

He came up with nothing. Opening his eyes, Harry let out a puff of air. Maybe he wasn't thinking of the right things. Maybe things happened that he could never explained...

Pictures and moments finally came to mind: turning his teacher's wig blue, shrinking an old sweater of Dudley's that Harry didn't want to wear, growing his hair back after his aunt shaved most of it off and the last was when he appeared on a roof while he ran away from Dudley and his gang.

Nodding, Harry stared at the wall of his cupboard, pretending that it was a cave's wall instead. He had his proof. Magic was real. So how did it work?

The remainder of the night Harry thought of ways on how he had used magic to help him.

Harry tilted his head at the sight before him. There was a tiny man standing at the gate. His brown hair was trimmed nicely and his mustache curled upwards at the edges. His eyes were a soft hazel and he had a kind smile in place.

The suit he wore fit nicely, navy in color with a crisp white button down.

"Hello, sir. Can I help you?" Harry asked politely as he stood up from his kneeling position in front of the shrubs.

For a moment the man simply stared at Harry, wonder filling the man's eyes. When the diminutive said nothing, Harry tightened his hand around the shears that he held.

Blinking rapidly, the man grinned and answered, "I'm so sorry." The voice was pitched high and sounded almost squeaky. "My name is Filius Flitwick. I am here to speak with you, your aunt and your uncle."

Harry frowned before moving forward, keeping his shears out just in case. Why would the man need to speak to him? No one really spoke to him here.

He did it again. Here. There was no other place to compare to!

Opening the gate, Harry gestured the man forward. "They're inside."

Filius Flitwick walked beside Harry up to the house. At the door, Harry debated with himself until he finally placed the shears in his overlarge pants before walking inside. "Aunt Petunia! Uncle Vernon! Someone's here to speak with you!"

His aunt arrived first, coming from the kitchen with her fake smile in place. "Oh, welcome on in!" She didn't do well in hiding the fact that she wrinkled her nose at the small man in her house. He wasn't normal so she wouldn't like him.

Releasing the shears, Harry took his hand out of his pocket and smiled a little. Perhaps that gave him enough reason to trust the man.

Uncle Vernon tromped down the stairs and gave a welcoming bellow, "Welcome to our home!"

Harry rolled his eyes before walking past his aunt and into the family room. He sat on the floor, crosslegged.

"Thank you kindly. I wish to speak of Harry."

"Harry?" His aunt's voice positively squeaked in fear.

"Yes. We know he read his school letter because no other letters had to be sent out. We were simply wondering why we didn't receive your owl or if, by chance, Harry needed help retrieving his school supplies." Flitwick's voice was moving as he talked. He finally entered the living room with Harry's aunt and uncle behind him. He seated himself in an armchair and smiled up at the other two adults. "If it is the former, I will happily escort Mr. Potter to Diagon Alley myself."

School. Letter. Magic.

Bugger.

He knew the explosion was going to happen. His uncle had yelled at Harry for hours when Harry mentioned going to Hogwarts.

"He is not going off to some ruddy school! I will not have him learning more freak stuff!"

Flitwick's eyes narrowed. "Sir, it would be best to calm down." Harry didn't agree with that sentiment; he found it amusing to watch Vernon's face color into a plum. "Mr. Potter will be going. His name has been put down since he was a year old. His tuition has already been paid in full."

"I don't bloody well care!" Vernon roared. "He is not going!"

Flitwick sighed before standing, "Unfortunately, Mr. Dursley, Mr. Potter will be leaving for Hogwarts. All magical children are -"

"Do not say that blasted word in my house! There is no such thing!"

"Professor Dumbledore left you -"

"That soddering, idiotic man? No. I will stand for it. The boy will not be going."

"As I said, Mr. Dursley," Flitwick's words were now cold with a bite to them, "children with his abilities must go to a school to learn how to control their powers. If not, harm could come to you and your family. Surely you don't want that."

Vernon eyed Harry critically before slowly backing away, "He'll go, but only to save my son from his freakiness. Now, out of my house!"

Flitwick gracefully stood and walked over to Harry, "Come, Mr. Potter. Let us go to Diagon Alley."

Harry obeyed and followed the small man out of the house. Petunia stayed where she was, her face an ashen color while Vernon stomped after them, slamming the door behind the two.

Flitwick only paused when he strode to the gate and held it open for Harry. Once the boy was through, the wizard asked, "Mr. Potter, is your family always like that?"

"Unfortunately."

The man hummed softly to himself before speaking again, "You have never travelled by wizarding ways then, I presume." When Harry shook his head, Flitwick continued, "I will let you choose between two evils. Apparating and using the bus. Both are likely to make you feel ill, though one is faster."

The man was going to kill him. Harry narrowed his eyes, backing away. "Mr. Flitwick, I don't know you and you want me to travel with you to an unknown place?"

Sighing, the man man shook his head. "Of course not, let us go somewhere you are comfortable with and we will have a chat."

Harry didn't know why he agreed, but he took the older wizard to the park. He eyed the man before he sat on the swing, enjoying the feel of the air upon the back of his neck. Instead of standing there awkwardly, Flitwick sat on the swing next to the boy and happily started to swing high in the air.

"What questions can I answer for you?"

"Who are you?"

"Filius Flitwick, the Charms professor and Head of House for Ravenclaw."

Pursing his lips in thought, Harry nodded slowly. "What exactly is charms and the other classes that you speak of?"

"Chams is creativity!" Flitwick grinned at Harry. "You can do many things with what you do in my class. You will learn how to make objects float in the air, create flames, how to make objects dance."

"How is that creativity if they do a set thing?"

"Oh, no no no, that's Transfiguration. Charms is different. When you make an object float in the air, you decide where it moves and how it shall move. When you create flames, you are in charge of how much fire and how much heat - all depending on what you desire. When you make an object dance, you decide how it dances. There is no set answer in Charms. You forge your own way."

Harry nodded slowly, that made sense. He could remember something he said, years ago, "Magic is... everything where each Istar is different, thinks differently and so manipulates, bends and shifts our magic in alternate ways!"

Frowning, Harry tried to remember when he said it, but he couldn't place it. His voice had been... lighter, happier. Closing his eyes, Harry could see where he had stood: in a wide, open area with mountains everywhere. In front of him, still a ways away, was a gate that lead to a beautiful city. Beside him was an older wizard. No, an older Istar.

It was the elder's voice that Harry could now hear in his mind, deep and filled with wisdom, "The only limit you will now find when working with magic is yourself: mind, body and soul."

Opening his eyes, Harry found he was once more sitting on the swing beside the tiny man that claimed he was a professor. "So it all has to do with my imagination?"

"Yes! Exactly!" Flitwick grinned as he clapped his hands ecstatically, apparently happy that the boy understood.

"With your imagination you can do many things: have it form just as a tiny light to merely guide your way, as a full encompassing light that will show meters of feet in front of you, or even as a strand that weaves to and fro in front of you. It matters not, but how you imagine it in your mind."

Mithrandir's voice once again spoke... wait, Mithrandir? Was that who the old man was? When Harry tried to dig deeper into the... memory, the voice, the image all faded away. All that the boy was left with were words that made him feel safer.

"Hmmm. What is Transfiguration, then?" Harry stored the words away for later when he was alone. After all, what was the discussion even about? Yes, magic, but what? Tiny light, encompassing light? Ok, so figuring out what they were talking about seemed easy enough: light.

"Mr. Potter?"

Oops. Harry blinked before giving Flitwick a small smile. "Sorry. What did you say?" He asked sheepishly.

The tiny professor laughed, "It's nothing to fret over, there are several young children who can not help but be distracted with what goes on in their minds. Now, Transfiguration. Our Deputy Headmistress, Professor McGonagall, is also our Transfiguration professor. In that class you change the form and appearance of an object. This class is one of the hardest: you have to perform the transfiguration perfectly or the transfiguration will not be successful."

"What other class are there?"

"Potions: where you will learn how to brew potions correctly, what certain ingredients are and how to use them correctly. Herbology: you will learn about plants and fungi - magical and non magical. Defence Against the Dark Arts: you will how to defend yourself with magic against magic. History of Magic: I'm not sure what more is needed to say about that. Astronomy: much the same as the muggle class where you learn of the planets movements, star placements and the names of constellations and what they mean."

"What is the main purpose of going to the school?" He knew it was a silly question, but he wanted to know how the professor would answer.

"Learning how to control your magic, of course! " Flitwick smiled at the young boy.

"Power. That's the mindset of someone who believes they have control over magic. Magic can not be controlled, merely wielded to the capacity that the magic allows."

Harry privately agreed with the words, but nodded back at the small man. "You mentioned Ravenclaw?"

"Yes! We have four houses. I am the Head of House for Ravenclaw. There is also Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor. You'll be sorted once you reach the school."

"Sorted?"

"There's a hat who will see which house you will thrive in. Each house has attributes that define those who usually get sorted there. However, like with any type of sorting, many attributes of each house can be found in any and all students."

Kicking his feet against the ground, Harry began to swing slowly. "What do each house stand for?"

Flitwick graced Harry with another large smile before speaking. "Ravenclaws are known for their intelligence, wit, wisdom, creativity, originality, individuality and acceptance. Hufflepuffs for their dedication, hard work, fair play, patience, kindness, tolerance and unafraid of hard, manual work. Slytherins for their traditionalism, resourcefulness, cunning, ambition, leadership qualities, self-preservation, determination, cleverness, fraternity and power. Lastly, Gryffindors are known for their bravery, nerve, chivalry, courage, daring and many have strong wills."

"You said that many people are a mix of all of those, so what happens if the person has so many different traits that the hat can't sort them?"

"The sorting hat will always place a student in a house. The hat will take the students opinion into consideration."

Harry continued to swing, biting his lip as he wondered what to do.

Staring out the train window, Harry rested his chin on his palm. Children of all ages were running about. The younger ones ran around legs and ducked past anyone trying to snatch them up. The ones that appeared to be Harry's age were either rushing to get on the train in order to escape their parents or were being smothered by said parents.

If he had ever acted that way his Ada, Ammë, or Adate would have been displeased, leaving him to mourn his actions for a few days with a sore backside.

The words, seemingly strange and wrong, weren't pondered on. Harry found that if he focused on the strange words or any weird image that came to mind would only cause him a headache.

A family outside his windows had a boy and a girl, the female obviously older. The boy was crying, clinging to the girl's pants. She crouched down to his level and gently stroked his tears away before kissing his damp cheeks. The dad had his hand resting on the boy's head and the mom was smiling down at the two children.

Harry's heart ached at the sight and he had to look away when he felt tears beginning to form.

As if sensing his unease, his cat jumped onto his lap. Smiling down at the feline, Harry carded his fingers through the soft, dark fur. In response to his movements, the young cat purred.

When Flitwick had taken Harry to Diagon Alley - courtesy of the Knight Bus - the boy had asked after pets. The professor had told the boy that if he wanted a messenger to get a bird, if a tool for class than a toad or if he wanted a companion then to go for a cat.

Harry knew he wanted a cat, but one look at the dark brown tabby had Harry realizing that he was making the right decision. The cat had stayed in the back of the pen, waiting for the others to turn around before pouncing on their tails. When the others turned around to retaliate, the tabby was back in his corner, out of the others range of sight.

Upon seeing this, Harry promptly declared that was the cat for him. Once he paid for the tabby, food, toys, litter box - thankfully self-cleaning (he didn't want to know where the waste went, thank you) - and a carrying crate, Flitwick had asked what Harry would name the feline.

The answer was immediate: Halbarad.

Using one hand to pet his cat, Harry opened his notebook and proceeded to read over his notes. While Flitwick and Harry had gathered his supplies the younger asked more questions about the professors and their respective classes. His notes read:

*Transfiguration

***Technical. Practice exactly as she says. Don't be tardy. Do all assignments and turn them in on time. Prepare for pop quizzes once a month.

*Herbology

***Laid back, hands on. Don't need to read book, per say, because everything will be covered well in class. Essays are rare, two tests before Christmastide and two after.

*Defense Against the Dark Arts

***Not enough info to go off of - see details under professors

*Potions

***Read in advance. Always assume that there is a test everyday - including the first day. Listen carefully and follow instructions exactly or else it's an easy class to fail.

*History

***Read text for important, detailed information. Use lectures as a basic outline for studying. Quizzes every other week, test once a month.

*Charms

***Read ahead. Relaxed environment. Up to interpretation. Tests once every two months - practical mostly. Practice, practice, practice.

Staring at his list, Harry decided to start with Potions, especially when he looked over the list he had for his professors to refresh his memory of them all. Apparently, Severus Snape was the most... aggressive of the lot and had the shortest temper.

Pulling out his potions book from his bag, he cracked it open and began to read, all the while petting Halbarad.

The first years marched into the Great Hall where all the other years had been sitting. The professors sat at the furthest table, looking down upon the younger generations. Harry kept his mouth firmly shut and his eyes opened. He refused to gawk when hundreds of eyes were on him.

They were heading to the platform in front of the Head Table where a three legged stool stood. A battered old hat sat upon it. There looked to be either patches or stains on it - Harry hoping that it was the prior if he had to place that hat on his head.

As the first years stopped walking, there was a loud hissing noise and scampering feet. Harry - from his spot near the front of the procession - canted his head to the side in confusion as he couldn't see what was happening.

Seconds later the boy was blinking in surprise at Halbarad who was sitting in front of him, yowling to be let up.

Blushing, Harry chuckled as he picked up his demanding cat. When he saw McGonagall's disapproving glance he shrugged before saying, "I find it best not to argue with cats. You never win."

The quiet that had coated the Great Hall shattered as laughter filled the hall, the Deputy Headmistress even smiling at the boy's words before she spoke herself, "Indeed. We will now begin. When I call your name you will come sit on the chair and place the hat on your head. The hat will then decide which house you're in. Abbott, Hannah."

Please let them be patches, Harry thought quietly when he heard that he was indeed supposed to put the old, ratty hat on his head.

Harry quickly tuned out the sorting, instead scratching Halbarad under his chin, causing the tabby to purr loudly.

"Potter, Harry."

The hall once again went silent. Harry blinked, wondering how the sorting went so fast, before he strode forward. He carefully balanced Halbarad on one of his arms as he picked up the hat with his free hand. Harry sat - trying to balance on the stool - placed the hat on his head - still hoping that the spots were patches - and situated Halbarad so the cat was on his lap - which was difficult as the brim of the hat covered most of his sight so Harry had to twist his head at an awkward angle.

"Ah, Mr. Potter." Harry jolted a bit, causing Halbarad to hiss and knead Harry's robes in anger at being jostled. "Which house to put you?"

The voice ringed loudly in the boy's mind since he knew for a fact that the hat didn't speak out loud; thanks to Flitwick and "Hogwarts, A History".

"You would do well in each of the houses." There was only a pause before the hat seemed to come to a decision. "I know just where to put you. Much easier to sort than your parents were. Better be... RAVENCLAW!"

A/N IMPORTANT MESSAGE: Hi everyone! if you haven't seen my profile, then let me tell you what I'm doing. This is the first of 5 stories I'm posting today. I've been stuck on writing because I've been juggling between all the stories in my head. I'm going to focus on the story that gets the most views/follows/favorites/reviews ect ect. in the next week. I'll be doing a tally on 2-25-18.

So who saw that coming? :) No freed Boa - with no talking to the Boa either. Harry remembering names, but has no specific memories of his past as Eradan. Flitwick coming to see Harry. Halbarad the cat - couldn't resist. And - wait for it - RAVENCLAW! :D

What do you guys think? Good? Bad? Meh? Predictable? I love all comments - criticism included (which doesn't include bashing).

He acts older than his age. It's on purpose. Even though he doesn't remember his other life, it will still affect him and will actually have him acting older than he should.

In case you guys were wondering: I finished writing this chapter (on paper, not typed) on September 21, 2014 at 23:42 - or 11:42 P.M. for those who don't use military time. :) (And yes, I actually checked the time when I placed the exclamation mark).

lonneg - son

Ammë - mother

Ada - father

Adate - Grandfather

Unbetaed