by LizBee
November 02
summary: AU: in which the Sorting
Hat ignores Harry's pleas and sorts him into Slytherin.
rated: G
notes: Yes, one of those fics.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It seemed like a good idea at the
time … it probably seemed like a good idea the first time this was written
as well. And the second, and the third, and the thirtieth…
feedback: is eternally welcome - [email protected]
homepage: http://elizabeth.gatefiction.com
livejournal: http://www.livejournal.com/users/lizbee
The boy was too much like his father. As little as I wanted to think about James Potter, this was the first thought that entered my mind. It was strange to behold him, this miniature copy of his father.
"Slytherin!" cried the Hat. The boy froze, casting a desperate look back at the Weasley he had entered with.
Dumbledore stirred, leaning towards me.
"You will have to look after that boy, Severus," he said.
I did not reply; my eyes were fixed on Quirrel's twitching hands, and beyond, to the Boy Who Lived, taking his seat at the Slytherin table. Young Draco offered Potter his hand. Potter looked at him as if he were a runespoor, and stared longingly at the Gryffindor table.
Brat. Thought he could reject my house did he? I had no idea that such arrogance could be hereditary.
Quirrel leaned forward to study the boy more closely. As if aware of our scrutiny, Potter looked up at us, and a bolt of pain shot through my left forearm.
The boy grabbed his scar, now meeting my eyes fearlessly. And Quirrel…
Quirrel was frozen, glaring at the boy with a hatred I'd never imagined he could possess. But only for a minute; then he became of my attention, gave me a nervous smile and retreated.
Forcibly, I reminded myself that Quirrel was too young to be a Death Eater. He'd been barely twenty when Voldemort disappeared.
Ah, but young Crouch had been nineteen…
I divided my attention between Potter and Quirrel for the rest of the evening.
It was my practice to have a few words with the first years as soon as possible. They waited for me in the common room, guarded by the prefects. I sensed their fear as I entered: a nervous clutch of children, this year.
Malfoy stood in the centre, flanked by young Crabbe and Goyle. He smirked at me as I entered, but I ignored him, and he bit his lip. Even my cherished godson would have to learn boundaries. I would have no favourites within my own house. Indeed not.
No matter who their fathers were.
Potter and Zabini sat towards the back; they had been speaking together through the feast. They were cousins, of course, albeit distant ones. Zabini was fidgeting with his robes, but alone of all the students, Potter alone showed no fear. I had no doubt that he was as terrified as the rest, but he was merely still, revealing nothing.
"Welcome to Slytherin House," I said softly, and marked those who leaned forward to listen, and those who remained in the shadows. "You will not find this an easy house, nor will you find me an easy housemaster. We of Slytherin deal in subtleties, in games of mind and morals, in secrecy and shadows. Those of you who wish to learn may do so, but I will advise you to consider closely the consequences of your actions. Forgiveness is … not a Slytherin custom. Those of you who choose to rely on family or prior reputation," no one looked at Potter, "will find yourselves in difficulties. Those of you willing to excel … will be rewarded."
It was over the tops of most of these students, but some nodded in understanding. I knew most of these children, and more importantly, I knew their families. Malfoy, Parkinson, Nott: they all arrived at Hogwarts with the expectation that I would let them continue the Dark education they had begun at home. And if I did not … well, their families would talk. And sooner or later, Lucius Malfoy would suggest that I should move on, and Malfoy's suggestions were rarely ignored by the Board of Governors.
And who knew what kind of replacement they'd find?
I looked over my newest charges, meeting their eyes and assessing them. Pansy Parkinson was obviously nurturing dreams of expensive robes and jewellery. Malfoy had scowled at my mention of family connections, and then relaxed as he remembered Potter. Crabbe and Goyle merely looked blank.
Ah, but Potter watched me as intently as I watched him, and with as little trust. Another stab of pain ran down my arm, and I saw his fingers twitch as he resisted the urge to touch his scar.
What have we here, boy? What has the Dark Lord left within you?
He studied me, revealing nothing but a hint of childish nervousness.
And the games began.
end