Dulce Et Decorum Est

Chapter Two: Slytherin House

The train platform glittered. It was because of the crispness of the day, the sunlight on glass, and smoke puffed into the air, making it thick and warm. Voices clamored over the noise of the train, which puffed or clanged occasionally in the shimmering heat. Parents fought the instincts to hold their children close to them and refuse to let them leave. The younger boys and girls looked nervous; the older ones, proud to know what the younger ones did not. Friends found one another despite the crowds and, breathless, tried to eclipse the long summer months spent apart in one long, rushed sentence. Harry Potter held Anais' covered cage in one hand, a suitcase in the other, saying his goodbyes to his proud parents. Their faces, though smiling, were also pinched with the promise of a sudden loneliness, lurking just behind the sun.

"If you need anything," James told him, "you can always tell Remus right away." Remus was standing a few feet away with Sirius to give the Potters their privacy. Sirius said something which made Remus laugh, but Harry was too far away to catch the words, though he could hear faintly the laughter that followed them. There was a long moment where Sirius and Remus looked comfortable together, but then Remus caught Sirius' gaze, which had turned to rest on James, and his posture became awkward, his expression withdrawn. Harry watched this impassively, nodding to his father with a fraction of his attention.

"If I need anything," he repeated, "then I'll go tell Remus first." Peter had been busy, so he hadn't come along. Instead, he'd said goodbye to Harry the night before, and had given him a brand new quill with a silver tip as a going away present. This way, Harry could write often to his parents, Sirius, and also Peter, all back at Godric's Hollow.

"And don't forget to write us," Lily added, smiling a tight-lipped smile. James touched her forearm gently, so that the hard look in her eyes and mouth faded.

"I will," Harry promised her. He gave an unusually reassuring smile. It was not often that he smiled. Lily's smile widened in surprise. It was enough for her now to just ruffle his hair, and fall silent at long last.

"And Remus will be on the train with you," James added. He clapped his son on the back. "Go on, then." Quieter, as he leaned down to hug him, James added for Harry's ears alone, "The Nimbus is for Christmas. She gave in. Do us all proud while you're there. Don't get caught." In the pocket of Harry's trousers was a map, of which Lily knew nothing. And, James had explained in no uncertain terms, of which she could never know anything. When Remus was at Hogwarts the previous years, James had shown Harry that a small dot named 'Remus Lupin' on the paper was wandering the scrawled chambers and halls. We've added you, James had told him, as 'H.P.' for now. It'll help with things - with a lot of things.

Harry shouldered his burdens, and waved back to Sirius, then turned his back on everything and followed Remus on board the Hogwarts express.

"You don't have to worry," Remus said. He had a rueful smile on his face. "Despite what James has asked me to do, I won't be breathing down your neck all the time, or even most of the time. But if you do have any troubles or any questions, I'll be around - feel free to come to me, if there's anything..." He trailed off. "Well, you know, I'm sure. Have fun, Harry." With a final nod, awkwardness different from the way it had been earlier with Sirius, Remus ducked into a doorway, and began to get himself settled. Harry watched him for a moment as he lifted up his brand new suitcase - a gift from Sirius just the Christmas before, expensive leather with the initials R.J.L. engraved on the front.

It was a relief sometimes to be reminded of Remus' understanding. Of them all - of James and his three best friends - Remus was the only one who truly respected someone else's right to privacy. Then again, he was a very private man himself, while his three friends were not. Harry didn't mind, but took note of it, and was glad to finally be on his own.

Harry found an empty car almost right away, and had his suitcase on a shelf above the seats, with Anais settled in her cage on the seat beside him, in no time at all. For a few minutes, he sat in the motionless train, staring out the window. The day was still bright. Harry's window faced the platform, where only parents and very young children remained, but he couldn't make out his parents or Sirius in the lingering crowd. He took his glasses off to clean them.

As he did so, the train started, and Draco Malfoy came into the car.

Harry saw him first as a blur in the sliding doorway, a mix of pale gold and black colors, the faintest outline of features and an undefined shape. As Harry put his glasses back on he thought it only made sense that he wouldn't have the luck to spend the trip to Hogwarts alone. He didn't mind, not particularly, sliding his glasses with his thumb up the bridge of his nose. The boy in the doorway was now familiar: blond, delicate face, haughty expression. There was not room in the suitcase and owl cage which the boy carried for a Nimbus, and Harry found himself wondering where the broom was.

"You like Quidditch?" The blond broke the silence, more unnerved by it than Harry was. The recognition was mutual, then. Harry shrugged.

"Liked that Nimbus," he answered.

"It's the best one yet." The boy decided then that he would stay - it was obvious in his expression - and put his suitcase overhead.

He offered Harry his hand. The gesture was practiced and unexpectedly officious for a boy of ten. Harry realized he must have come from an important family, one which thought a good deal about its own importance. "Draco Malfoy," the blonde said. Harry recognized the name, though it didn't stop him from reaching out his own hand.

They shook.

"Harry Potter," Harry said. Draco sat as the train clacked rhythmically over the tracks. At first he reclined, then decided to lean forward.

"First year?" he asked.

"First year," Harry replied. Up close, and now that Harry had his glasses on, Draco was less of a golden blur and more of a ten-year-old boy. He had a haughtiness of expression, while Harry had only indifference. Draco's hands were small and pale, resting on his knees, the dark fabric of his trousers a stark contrast. Harry wondered idly how it was he could be so pale and yet still be such a Quidditch fan. Obviously, if he owned the latest model of Nimbus he intended to put it to good use, and it was next to impossible to fly beneath the sun for any mentionable period of time without showing some sign of it. Harry's complexion, and James' and Sirius' too - as Sirius often joined them to play - all had sun-browned skin from long hours of the afternoon spent speeding through the air beneath the bright sky. Harry had suffered his mother's reprimands more than just once the past summer for showing signs of sunburn after some of his longer practices. James had to plead with Lily each time to allow Harry in the air the next day by recalling Harry's many triumphs in great detail over the dinner table.

"Your father?" Draco was saying. Harry blinked, focusing his attention.

"What?"

"What house was your father in?" Draco elaborated.

"Gryffindor," Harry provided. Draco's brow drew together.

"Potter, is it?" It was clear to Harry that Draco was storing the information. "I think I've heard a bit about your father."

"I think I've heard a bit about yours." There was no conviction in Harry's response, though, and no particular interest. It either disappointed Draco or surprised him, but Harry couldn't tell which.

"Slytherin," Draco said. "My whole family's been, since Hogwarts was opened." Harry, inspired by Draco's behavior, made note. Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, whom James hated and Sirius loathed and even Remus appeared to dislike in the slight tensing of his jaw whenever the man was mentioned in the Daily Prophet. Obviously, the Malfoys were a family much impressed with lineage, heritage and the Slytherin house. Harry, raised by Gryffindors, assumed he should have been offended by this boy's proclivities, but wasn't. He saw no real point in it.

"I don't know about my dad," Harry replied, shrugging.

"Good wizarding family, the Potters." Draco sounded like a parrot, echoing words that were not his own. "My father says you always did have potential."

Harry almost smiled.

~*~

Neville did not feel comfortable. He felt, in fact, decidedly uncomfortable. First of all, the Hogwarts Express was traveling very fast along the track. He could feel every jolt and jostle as if it were the last before they went careening into their deaths. Neville could almost see the headline before him. Tragedy Strikes - Entire Student Body of Hogwarts Killed in Train Crash. Beneath that, he could see a picture of his grandmother, followed by a quote that implied she was blaming him. 'If only he'd used his seatbelt,' she would be sobbing. Naturally, no one could tell her there were no seatbelts, not when she was in a state like that.

After a few minutes without sudden death Neville managed to relax, though only marginally. He supposed he was nervous about other things. He supposed after that supposition that he'd maybe rather die in a horrible train wreck than not, as it would undoubtedly be less tragic than his own activities once he arrived at school. He supposed that if dying in a train wreck saved him from having to get up in front of countless people to be sorted - the Boy Who Lived, a stigma which proclaimed a life as a Hufflepuff out of any bearable future - then he would gladly sabotage the train, himself.

If he had the nerve.

Which he didn't.

Neville did not feel comfortable. He had his hands in his lap, was sitting far too straight-backed, and had been staring at the wall in front of him for three full minutes without blinking. His eyes, actually, were beginning to hurt. For the time being, he wondered if being alone would be preferable to spending the duration of the ride with company. It was hard to make idle conversation while hiding that famed half of his face from view - but he would rather be distracted from a bigger fear by a smaller one. It was an age-old problem which Neville suffered daily. Rock, or hard place?

Fate decided for him, as it so often did. The door to his car slid open, and a tousled red head poked its way in. A freckled face with a smudge of dirt, uncombed red hair, a folded up collar poking up from underneath a hand-knit sweater all combined to comprise the young boy who stood now in the doorway, lugging a suitcase. A sleek rat was perched on his shoulder, chittering to itself.

"Hallo," the boy said, "is anyone else sitting here?" When Neville shook his head no a look of relief flooded his blunt, freckle-spotted features. "Great," he said, "I've been looking for ages for somewhere to sit. Everything else is full up!" The rat on his shoulder leaped startlingly onto the seat across from Neville. He pulled back slightly. Don't think about the rat. Don't think about the rat. Don't think about the really big rat looking at me. Just a rat. It's just a rat. You are bigger than the rat. The redhead, meanwhile, lugged his suitcase with a few worrying bangs and rattles into the car, finally managing to put it up on a shelf overhead. "There we are," the boy said. The suitcase, bulging, old and balanced precariously just above Neville's line of vision, threatened to come down on his head at any moment. Neville swallowed thickly. "Well, anyway," the redhead continued, sitting down across from Neville, "I'm Ron." You look like a Ron, Neville thought. It was an enviable quality, for he looked less nervous than he looked excited, had an armful of chocolate frogs and Every-Flavour Beans, and seemed perfectly content to focus all his attention on the sweets rather than the impending doom - or impending suitcase - suspended by a fraying thread above him. Ron's, Neville assumed, must how found it hard to be unhappy or crippled by anticipation when there was chocolate to be had. "Ron Weasley," Ron added, when Neville said nothing, and, noting Neville's look of longing, finished with, "Here - have a Chocolate Frog."

Neville took a frog eagerly.

"Thanks." He unwrapped it and ate it quickly, before he could feel sorry for it and it took that opportunity to get away. "My name's--" He paused as he almost choked on the frog as well as his own name, then screwed up his courage, and continued. "My name's Neville Longbottom."

Ron's eyes widened. The only sound was the chatter of the rat to itself, barely audible squeaking, and the shoom shoom shoom of the train over the tracks.

"The Boy Who--" Ron stopped himself quickly. "Oh. Uhm. Well." Embarrassment flushed his cheeks pink, which clashed awfully with his hair. "Want an Every-Flavour Bean, then?" he attempted. His expression was apologetic. Neville, who had been expecting a reaction of the sort, couldn't find it within himself to resent him.

"No," thanks," Neville said. His tone was mournful, and he smiled, weakly. "I always get the ones that taste like ear wax." Ron laughed.

"Here - have another Chocolate Frog, then."

"That's all right, I shouldn't. My gran told me I shouldn't eat on the train and lose my appetite for supper." Not that Neville ever really lost his appetite for anything, and especially not for supper.

"C'mon, it's not going to do any harm." Ron held it out to him. Neville could feel Ron's eyes on the side of his face, tracing the scar that curved over his jaw. A slight stab of apprehension lanced through him, and he didn't have the heart to kick it aside.

"Thank you," he said, taking it. "I'll, uhm, make it up to you, sometime."

"S'all right. You don't have to. My brothers got all this for me." Ron's eyes flashed with mischief. "Don't know how they got such a fortune to buy it all, but they certainly didn't come by it through mum or dad."

"Oh," Neville said. "But how--Oh." So he was eating stolen property, and not only that, but he was eating it before supper, which was sure to ruin his appetite. His grandmother would kill him, if she knew. The rat scurried up onto Ron's lap, scrabbling with little, pink paws for solid footholds. For a moment it seemed to look Neville directly in the eye. The moment passed almost immediately, leaving Neville to believe it had been nothing but an illusion. Now, however, he knew with a sudden and giddy thrill that whether he ate Chocolate Frogs every day before suppertime, his grandmother wouldn't be there to scold him. His reluctant and somewhat battered love for his grandmother did battle with his hidden and shameful resentment of her lists and lists of rules.

Then, he ate the Chocolate Frog. Head first.

"Your brothers?" he asked Ron, leaning forward, rubbing chocolate from the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Ron's eyes lit up.

"Well, Fred and George, anyway," Ron said. "The twins. I have a lot of brothers." Neville was surprised with the changed level of comfort in the car. The sound of the air rushing past the windows was no longer as ominous as it had been earlier. On the seat next to him, Neville's toad was less of a slimy disappointment and more of a forgotten factor. Neville scratched his cheek idly.

"Tell me about them," he said.

~*~

"So then father said," Draco was saying, in the middle of something mildly entertaining, when a tousled red head peered into the doorway. He cut off instantly. "Oh. What's this?" The boy who had interrupted them was freckled and familiar. Harry searched his memories and came up with the plump woman in Madam Malkin's just three days ago, and the boy with messy orange hair standing beside her. There were no names along with this recollection, however. Harry blinked.

"Well?" Draco asked. "Are you just going to stand there staring?" The redhead scowled, folding his arms over his chest.

"I was wondering if you'd seen a toad," he replied. His words were laced with indignant embarrassment. Clearly, he was uncomfortable under the piercing scrutiny of Draco Malfoy's haughty eyes. In the past fifteen minutes, he and Harry had been having a perfectly normal conversation, no sign of Draco's sudden affectations to be seen. There was hardly even a resemblance between the Draco of ten minutes ago and Draco the boy sitting across from him now. Harry watched the redhead - a sweater with a hole in the left elbow, trousers with scuffed knees, a smudge of dirt or chocolate on his cheek - with some amusement. If only he knew, Harry thought idly, tugging a thread from the hem of his sleeve.

"A toad?" Draco asked.

"A particularly fast toad, is it?" Harry added, eyes wandering lazily about the car. Draco, he'd decided, was doing a poor job of acting superior. Perhaps it simply wasn't in his nature to be, and therefore no amount of nurture could make up for that primary lack. At Harry's words, Draco blinked, and the redhead's ordinary face deepened in intensity, adopting a fiercely comical scowl.

"A friend of mine's lost his toad and I was wondering if maybe you'd seen it," he snapped out, arms folded over his chest.

"You've a hole in your sweater," Harry continued, just as indolently. The redhead blinked, rage mottled with self-consciousness struggling on his features. "Right there," Harry elaborated, "on your elbow." A rat, peering out from beneath one freckled ear, let out a series of shrill squeaks which sounded something like laughter. Draco thought, for a moment, that the rat was familiar. It wasn't a long moment. After all, he told himself, rats were rats. They all looked the same. Didn't they?

Then it was gone behind the redhead's neck, and Draco snapped out of it. He coughed, drawing all attention to him once more. "You're a Weasley," he said haughtily, "aren't you." When the boy's face turned even redder than before, Draco nodded, smugly. His father's every careful lesson and explanation returned to him. Red hair, ratty sweater and trousers, fairly unassuming expression... "Let's see - it's Ron, isn't it? Ron Weasley." The boy's hands tightened into fists.

"Well, what if it is?"

"Then it is," Harry murmured. "And my name's Harry Potter, and his is Draco Malfoy, and you don't see either of us getting worked up about it." This was exciting as only Quidditch had ever been. Harry didn't often feel excited about things. He hadn't thought much about why or why not; he hadn't cared to. The looks that chased themselves over Ron's plain features were easy to read, bright bursts of raw and unhidden emotion. Ron wasn't in control of their appearances, but Harry was. It was like riding a broom, choosing the direction and the speed to be, if you were skillful enough, the undisputed king of the skies. Harry was better at this than Draco, too, and James had taught him early on the thrill of competition when you had the upper hand.

"It's the way you said it," Ron gritted out. Draco's expression vacillated between smugness and surprise. For a moment, Harry wondered if he ought to have let Draco be in charge of this one, but then thought better of it. Draco just wouldn't have done a good enough job.

"He was just asking if your name was Ron," Harry pointed out, so logically his bored tone could hardly be considered a challenge. "He obviously had a reason to think you were. It's not an insult. Maybe it was a compliment."

"You looked familiar," Draco said. His face was all innocence. Perhaps Harry had given him too little credit. "I think your father works with mine. At the ministry." When realization darkened Ron's eyes and clenched his fists a second time, Draco nodded with satisfaction.

"Malfoy," Ron muttered.

"Now that," Harry said, still barely half-interested, "could be taken as an insult."

"Look," Ron snapped, "I was just asking if you'd seen my friend's toad."

"And we were just introducing ourselves." Harry mussed his hair absently, rumpling it up in the back. It was a habit he'd acquired from his father. His mother always looked at him narrowly when he did it, but his mother wasn't here to do so now. His mother wasn't here at all. "Seemed it was only polite, really."

"Come off it," Ron growled.

"Off what?" Draco again plunged himself into the volley of words, but he was hardly suited for it. He didn't seem preoccupied or uncaring, only eager to prove himself. Harry heaved a long sigh.

"Look, we haven't seen your toad," he began.

"My friend's toad," Ron corrected him. "It's name is Trevor."

"Right, we haven't seen your friend's toad named Trevor, but if we do, we'll be sure not to let anyone step on him. Because that would just be awful." Harry offered Ron a smile so bland it might have put Ron to sleep if he weren't so mad. As it was, Ron had a hard time believing it was intentional enough to be disingenuous. Caught off guard by its guilelessness, Ron found himself sputtering wordlessly, stupidly. He didn't know which of the two boys he should hate more - Harry, for his frustrating taunts, or Draco, for the legacy of his father.

~*~

Neville's rear end met Hermione Granger before Neville himself did. That was the way most things in Neville's life tended to work, so he wasn't surprised by it. He took such sudden mortification for granted.

He was looking under what must have been her seat at the time. The car was empty, save for a big cat curled up on one of the seats, in a slant of sunlight. It cracked one lazy eye open to look at him as he entered, deemed him too unassuming to be a dangerous intruder, yawned, and promptly went back to its nap. Neville wondered if cats ate toads. It would be just Neville's luck if the cat were sleepy because its belly was full of Trevor. Trying not to think that way - trying - he looked first on the floor, then in the compartments, and finally got down on his hands and knees to search underneath the seats. The shadows were dark and dusty. He sneezed.

"What are you doing?" A clipped female voice asked from behind him, above him. Neville banged his head on the hard wood seat above him.

When the stars cleared he found he was lying flat out on his back, looking up at a homely, freckle-splotched face framed by tangled curls. The girl above him had her arms folded over her chest, her lips pressed tightly together. "That's going to bruise," she explained, as if talking to a two year old. Neville blinked, twice, trying to clear his vision.

"I think there are two of you," he said. "I think." The girl rolled her eyes.

"No. Just one. Are you looking for something?" Neville groaned as he sat up, rubbed the back of his head. She was right. Already a lump was forming.

"My toad," he said miserably. "Trevor. He's gotten away. I've looked everywhere."

"Well," the girl said thoughtfully, "he can't have gotten far, unless he jumped out an open window. Then there's really no hope. He's not a jumper, is he?" Neville tried not to panic. He forced himself to focus on thoughts other than what his grandmother would do to him if Trevor was gone - the girl's almost comically large front teeth and the pain in the back of his head were a good start.

"I don't think he's a jumper. Normally he doesn't even move."

"Well, come on then. To find a toad, we'll have to think like a toad. It's really very simple. Simple Spells for Prepared First Years has an advanced finding spell but I haven't had time to practice that one enough yet. We'll have to find him on our own." Neville wondered in a daze as the girl talked if he'd asked for her help. Was it that obvious that he needed it? He hadn't even stood up yet, so he figured it probably was. And, even as he thought that far, the girl reached her hand down to help him up. "I'm Hermione Granger. It's a pleasure to meet you," she introduced herself, heaving him to his feet. "What's your name?"

"Neville Longbottom," Neville said, forgetting to be nervous about his own name. Her eyes widened for a bare fraction of a second. She had, however, far more tact than Ron had, and managed to regain composure quickly, without saying anything.

"A pleasure," she repeated. "Now, about your toad - where was he seen last? We have to go about this systematically, if we're going to have any luck at all."

~*~

"Also," Harry said, "you have some dirt - there - on your cheek. Just thought you might like to know." He wondered how much longer Ron would stand there, in the doorway, taking this. If he were any smarter, he would have fled ages ago. He would have left at the first insult, without presenting Harry with so many opportunities.

"All right," Ron snarled, pushed to the edge at last, "I'm out of here. Thanks for nothing."

He turned to leave.

And collided head-first into the girl Harry recognized from Ollivander's.

It was the funniest sight Harry had ever laid eyes on in his entire life.

"Ow!" cried the girl, and "Watch it!" yelled Ron, and a small, plump boy, who had been standing behind the girl, pulled back quickly to avoid the crash. Draco doubled over in his seat with laughter, while Harry watched the scene escalate with unimpressed green eyes. The two were a tangle of limbs, stumbling in the doorway for a precious few seconds, and then, already precariously balanced, they tumbled backwards, slammed into the plump boy, and all three hit the ground with a chorus of undignified 'Oof!'s.

"Careful, there," Harry said, leaning forward just slightly in vague interest. Draco rubbed at one of his eyes with the back of his sleeves, face made more pleasant for its newly adopted laugh lines.

"I've never seen something so funny in my life," he gasped. And he hadn't.

The girl untangled herself first, pulling herself up and kicking savagely at Ron to get him off her feet. "I have never," she snapped, "seen such," smoothing out the front of her shirt, "complete," fumbling with the zipper of her sweater, now caught on a tangle of her hair, "pathetic," at last getting it free, a look of rage and triumph both, "incompetence in - in - eve!" She stumbled again, tripped by Ron's sudden movement upwards, and stepped on the thumb of the other boy. He let out a whimper and his face was contorted by a fascinating wince. Harry ruffled up the hair at the back of his head once more. The plump boy was small, frightened looking, his round cheeks flushed with sheer, miserable embarrassment. On the side of his jaw was the slight, curved puckering of a half-moon scar, which meant that he was--

"Neville Longbottom," Draco said, voice suddenly serious. "You're Neville Longbottom, aren't you - associating yourself with a Weasley?"

"Now, that," Harry murmured, for Ron's education, "was an insult."

"And the worst of the lot, by the looks of things," Draco went on. His whole manner screamed incredulity. Harry, watching the action as he would have one of Sirius's Muggle movies, attempted to make his mind fit into the conventions Draco had been raised on and trained by. It was hard, but at last, he thought he understood the mentality. While it was an interesting perspective, Harry didn't find it to be particularly so.

"Honestly," the girl said, suddenly defensive, "who do you think you are, telling him whom he should associate himself with? From the looks of things, you aren't all that wonderful, yourself!"

"Gee, thanks," Ron muttered. The hole in his sweater had ripped another good inch, by the looks of things, and he tugged at balefully. "That's really kind of you."

"Shut up," the girl snapped. "Honestly, I'm surrounded by idiots!" She continued to rant, slinging terribly polite insult after terribly polite insult, and Harry was forced to tune her out. When Sirius and James fought, or even when James and Lily argued, it was always far more amusing than this. It was a good thing, too, that Harry shut out the sound of her voice, for if he hadn't, he would never have head it - a low, croaking sound, a poor excuse for a ribbit but recognizable as one, all the same. Harry looked to his left, to his right, then ducked his head under his seat.

"Hallo, Trevor," he said, and reached back into the shadows, clamping his hands on the unattractive creature. "Haven't you caused quite a fuss."

"Trevor!" Neville cried out triumphantly as Harry brought him out into the light. He clambered to his feet and staggered forward. "You've found him! Look - he didn't jump out a window, Hermione! He's right here." Neville's eyes were bright, unclouded, his happiness diluted by nothing, his relief complete. As he held out his hands for the toad Harry looked directly into them. They had none of Draco's shielded pretensions, none of Ron's self-consciousness and defensive counterbalances, none of the girl's - Hermione, was it? - self-importance. Harry pursed his lips, and handed Trevor over. "Thank you," Neville continued, relieved. Harry studied his scar, felt a sudden flare of - jealousy, anger, scorn? - ignite in the very center of his belly. It took him by surprise as nothing ever had before, the intensity of it, as if it was something that by all rights should have been his. It was only a scar, Harry tried to tell himself, and absolutely nothing more than that. Who in his right mind would be jealous of a scar? It wasn't as if Neville had done anything particularly noteworthy to come by it. Harry had known the story of the Boy Who Lived for years and years, and it had never made him feel anything.

"You're welcome," Harry said. "He's had an adventure, hasn't he." But Neville was already cradling the creature and scolding it both, distracted from the disconcerting look Harry had fixed him with. Harry managed with great effort to look away.

"I'm sorry," Ron was apologizing, though Hermione didn't seem impressed. She was still smoothing herself out, though it wasn't much of an improvement. Harry sat back against the seat, stifling a yawn with his palm. He was aware of Draco's eyes on him, of Draco's excitement which was reluctant, awkward, self-conscious. He knew he was not jealous of Draco, knew also that he never would be. Aside from the Nimbus, there was nothing Draco had or was that Harry wanted, or wanted to be. And, furthermore, Harry would be getting that Nimbus come Christmastime. There was nothing within Draco's eyes, no scar of the past on his face, to spark sudden emptiness in Harry's chest. Despite his pomposity and self-importance, Draco was non-threatening. Safe.

The air was fleetingly tense and crisp with possibility. Neville and Ron were standing by the door, plain-faced Hermione between them, and Harry wondered if his place was here, sitting across from Draco Malfoy, a Slytherin boy if ever there was one, whose father was unanimously reviled in the Potter household. But Neville Longbottom's presence repelled him, pushed him down and pinned him with magnetic force to his seat. Draco, too, was watching Harry with a look of admiration, thinly veiled by his child's mask of superiority, and it kept Harry where he was.

The moment passed. It was not made to linger.

"We'll see you at school," Harry said. He wasn't being pleasant, nor was he being unpleasant. Ron's anger, he had realized earlier on, came from his inability to understand why Harry's calm manner offended him so deeply. So Harry used it, not as a weapon but as a tool.

Harry was pleased to note that his words made Neville more nervous than they did the others. While Ron's brow was furrowed and his eyes dark, and Hermione merely appeared to be nonplused, Neville looked at Harry at last as if he recognized him to be an enemy.

"C'mon," Ron told his two friends gruffly, not looking at Harry or Draco. "Let's get out of here." The triumph was small but no less real. That Ron understood at last he could not hope to accomplish anything by staying could be, Harry reasoned, considered helpful. "Berks," Ron muttered under his breath as they shuffled out, sliding the door shut behind them.

"Well," Harry said. "You were in the middle of a story?"

"I don't remember what I was saying," Draco admitted.

"Doesn't matter," Harry said. He shrugged, relaxing. "I'm tired, anyway." Resting his cheek on the palm of his hand, he pressed the bridge of his nose against the glass pane of the window, and let his eyes droop half-lidded while he waited in silence for time to pass. Draco watched him on and off during the entire rest of the ride, not realizing he was staring.

~*~

Harry Potter was the only first year about to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry who wasn't nervous. Even Draco, who had seemed so confident on the train, looked more pale than usual, his eyes unable to focus on any one thing for more than a few seconds. Neville was by far the worst, and Harry was checking to see. He himself felt nothing but calm. No fear of making a fool of himself clutched at his chest, no hopes or worries over house assignment flooded his brain. He rowed himself in a little boat with Draco and a big boy with ham-hock hands across the dark waters without once craning his neck to see Hogwarts itself behind him, and lined up when a pinched, middle-aged professor, who introduced herself as McGonagall, told him to line up. He paid idle attention to the nervous whispers passed back and forth, all around him, almost rhythmically. His robes felt comfortable, the weather cool and the air crisp.

Once in the Great Hall, all first years ordered alphabetically in front of the rest of the school, a stool was brought out, upon which McGonagall placed a beat-up old wizard's hat. Harry was prepared when it made a sound like a throat being cleared, and a mouth opened in its brim. When it began to sing, Harry realized it was far from solemn, and closer to comical, than he'd expected.

I am the hat that sees into the corners of your mind

I'll show you all a future you may be surprised to find -

Will you embrace the teachings of Rowena Ravenclaw?

A blinded hunt for knowledge shall be your only flaw;

Or perhaps it's Helga Hufflepuff with whom you should reside,

Forever timid with the rules by which you must abide;

It may be Godric Gryffindor whose spirit lies in you,

A rash and careless nature shall your bravery undo;

Should Salazar Slytherin mark you as his own,

Without a thought of others, you must spend your life alone!

Once on your head, I'll sort you out, to whither you should go,

Your house's deepest secrets you all have yet to know!

With that, the hat coughed once more, and fell quiet. Professor McGonagall called off the first name written down on a roll of parchment she held before her. "Abbott, Hannah!"

Harry paid little attention after that. Names and their respective houses passed by him, chased by sudden roars of clapping and cheering. Hermione - "Granger, Hermione!" Professor McGonagall called out - walked up to the stool as if she were being sentenced to death and, when sentenced to Gryffindor House instead, was too surprised to be relieved until she sat down with the other members of her house. Harry watched her until the name "Longbottom, Neville!" rang out through the hall.

He turned, focused his attention on Neville, eyes hooded with shadow.

Neville approached the stool with trepidation. His hands were shaking, his knees were shaking, and his stomach had tied itself into countless, sickening knots. He thought as he dragged his feet like lead weights, one after the other, that he'd never make it to the hat - surely, his knees would give way, and he'd collapse before he ever reached the halfway mark.

As he hauled himself up onto the stool, pulling the hat snugly down over his ears, he thought that he was either dreaming, or about to suffocate. Darkness encircled him. He drew in a ragged breath, the Sorting Hat choking him with its musty, old smell. "Well, now," a small voice said almost immediately, echoing against the base of his ear, "Longbottom, is it? Neville Longbottom?"

Not Hufflepuff, Neville thought fiercely, anything but Hufflepuff. Please. Oh please.

"I wasn't thinking Hufflepuff," the small voice told him.

Really? Neville asked. He couldn't believe his good luck.

"GRYFFINDOR!" The hat proclaimed. Cheers as Harry had never thought possible echoed throughout the high-ceilinged room as the Boy Who Lived slipped off the stool and hurried towards the Gryffindor table, smile bright and cheeks red as twin tomatoes with pure relief.

Harry had little time to look over the Gryffindor table and the laughing, proud faces there - he was able only to see that Neville sat down next to Hermione. "Malfoy, Draco!" Professor McGonagall heralded, and Draco made his way to the hat. If only it were possible to hear what went on in the confines of that hat, if anything went on at all.

Draco's eyes rested on Harry's, before they were swallowed up by the Sorting Hat's wide brim.

The air beneath was stale. How many heads had the hat sat upon, and how many futures had it read, predicted and formed, all with one word? Draco swallowed.

"Malfoy." The voice reverberated along the inner canal of Draco's left ear. He knew it was for him to hear, and him alone. The privacy was frightening and unwanted. "How many Malfoys have I sent to Slytherin - too many to count, now; too many to count. Their blood is in your blood. Nothing is more binding than lineage."

I'm a Slytherin, Draco thought firmly. Of course I'm a Slytherin.

"I remember," the hat continued, "a young man - impulsive, reckless, wild, as most young men are - from the house of Black. This was a while ago, though it was after your father's time."

Slytherin, Draco continued, even though now the long wait had made him unsure of what had before been indisputable fact. The word echoed around his skull as a question rather than a statement. Slytherin? Slytherin? Slytherin?

"His mother and father were both descended from a long line of Slytherins, and were Slytherins, themselves. I myself sorted them of course. Each and every one, sure of who they were, based on the house they were raised to believe in." Agonizing seconds of silence scrabbled by. Draco swallowed thickly.

Well? he asked. What happened? The House of Black. The Sorting Hat spoke of his mother's family.

"Because he met someone who changed him, I sent Sirius Black to Gryffindor," the Sorting Hat finished curtly, "which is what I shall be doing with you. GRYFFINDOR!"

But you're wrong, Draco heard himself think, too stunned to move.

"I am never wrong," the hat told him firmly, "now get up."

Draco stood. There were cheers, yes, but he barely heard them. Instead, he saw Crabbe and Goyle, his friends and the sons of his father's friends, look at him questioningly from where they sat at the Slytherin House table. He blinked back at them, blankly. His feet carried him, without any instructions from his brain, towards the cheering Gryffindors, aware that Hermione Granger was glaring at him, and Neville Longbottom simply staring in puzzlement. He took his seat, sunk down gratefully into it, and wished for the first time in his life that the floor would open wide, and swallow him up.

Surprised, Harry ignored the next few names, until twins - Patil and Patil - were sorted into separate houses, and then his own name was called. It sounded unfamiliar; whether it was the sudden importance leant to it or simply the way it felt hollow in Professor McGonagall's clipped tone, Harry barely recognized it. Shrugging and ruffling his hair, he approached the stool, regarded the sorting hat calmly, and then pulled it firmly down over his head.

Hallo, he thought.

"Well." A voice like a worm crawled into his ear, burying itself deep. "That's the first time in years any one of you has said hallo to me."

Harry shrugged.

"Are you polite or are you cheeky?" the hat asked. "Hmm. Good question. Excellent question. Fundamental question, actually, when you think about it. Harry Potter, was it? Ah, yes; I remember your father. His hair was just as dreadful. His glasses just as thick. I put him in Gryffindor. He was an excellent Quidditch player, but perhaps I..." The hat trailed off. "Well, it's early yet, to tell. It's always early, yet, when you're as old as I am. Do you have any preferences, then?"

I suppose I ought to be a Gryffindor, Harry replied, thinking of his father, of his mother, of Sirius and Remus and Peter. He thought of how proud they wanted to be of him. He thought of his father teaching him every trick he knew and Sirius teaching him all the rest, and his mother making them cookies and cocoa on warm winter nights. This was what Gryffindors did, he had always assumed. Gryffindor life was the only life, his life, something he had inherited with his father's hair and his mother's eyes.

"Come now, come now - that's no reason to be anything at all, because you suppose you ought to be it. I asked you if you had a preference. Any preference. Well?"

I don't really care, whichever way it is. Does it matter?

"Didn't you listen to my song?" The Sorting Hat sounded both amused and incredulous. Harry wrinkled his nose against a loose thread that was tickling it.

Not really. I thought it was a bit dull.

"Well," the hat said. "Interesting. Interesting. Yes! I think I have it narrowed down to two. Your parents have told you, I'm sure, about Salazar and Godric?"

Some things, I guess.

"As I remember it - and I was there - they were two fine young men. Both of them were stupid, proud and ambitious, and both of them were clearly destined for greatness. They knew what it would take to create a balance so precise and so precarious it would either have to be a great success...or a dreadful failure."

The school's here now, isn't it? Harry wondered if it would be rude to scratch his nose and then wondered if he mightn't just scratch it anyway. So it was a success.

"You don't really believe that. Do you? Think harder." The voice was now a whisper of silk, slinking like a whisper of power into both his ears. He sat still in his seat, trying to understand the mechanics of it, unable to get the voice out of his head, though he knew it was not really speaking out loud. "Salazar ruined himself, placed all his stock in an heir who would finish his abandoned business for him, and died young. Godric could have prevented his downfall but was too immature to see the truths before his own eyes. Their differences could have made them legends, more than mere mortals - but instead, they let pettiness and neglect turn them down different paths, and forever lost a brighter future they might have left as their greatest gift to their children, their children's children." The hat paused. "They were idiots," it continued, "if you ask me. Selfish fools. There has been much suffering because of it, and there will be much suffering because of it, until their heirs at last complete what they themselves could not, and allow all of us to move past their mistakes and their sins."

Why are you telling me this? Harry asked.

"Because too many people assume," the hat replied. "Besides! You remind me of someone I knew once - you have potential, boy, great potential. What you need is a little ambition. Only one house can teach you the rules by which you will thrive. My choice is made. You supposed wrong. SLYTHERIN!"

As Harry removed the hat he knew the cheers were not for him, but rather for the misimpression and malformed memory of a man long since dead. He didn't know how he knew it, either. Draco's eyes continued to follow him as he joined his comrades in Slytherin, sitting in an empty space between too big boys, one of whom Harry had rowed with on the boat ride across the star-speckled river. He wondered if he knew also what Draco was thinking - that somehow, the Sorting Hat had confused the two of them, had gotten everything dreadfully wrong.

"Welcome to Slytherin," one of the bigger boys said, clapping him on the back. "I'm Gregory Goyle."

"Harry Potter," Harry said, and they shook.

No, Harry thought, no, the hat hadn't gotten anything wrong at all. But, even with that firmly in mind, he could not manage to meet Remus' eyes, which were fixed on him from the table of teachers at the front of the Great Hall, watching Harry closely as they might an untrustworthy stranger.

~*~

For the first time in Neville's life, his happiness felt trustworthy, though his luck seemed unbelievable when Weasley, Ron! was sent his and Hermione's way. Ron took his seat beside them to the whoops and cheers of redhead twins - Fred and George, was it? Or was that George and Fred? - and an older redhead who must have been another brother, but whom Ron hadn't mentioned. Ron, laughing, flushed, had no question in his eyes that this table was where he belonged, and so Neville tried to draw inspiration from that confidence. It was hard going, but he managed it, until Ron leaned over in the general commotion between them and murmured, "What d'you think he's doing at this table, then?" Ron nodded towards Draco, though there could have been no one else about whom he was speaking.

"He seems just as surprised as the rest of us," Hermione cut in, before Neville could say anything. "Shh!" Ron rolled his eyes, but only when Hermione was no longer looking at him.

It was, however, fortunate that Hermione quieted them when she did, for a Zabini, Blaise! had been sent to Slytherin, heralding the end of the Sorting, and a silence which draped itself curiously over the Hall. At the head of the room, Albus Dumbledore stood behind the teacher's table, adjusting his half-moon glasses upon the bridge of his nose. He did not clear his throat or pause to emphasize his importance. Instead, he spoke quickly, clearly and with great cheer.

"Well," he said, "it's dinnertime again," and promptly seated himself once more. A cheer arose from all the houses in the Great Hall, and as it did so, the food appeared.

Neville had never eaten so much in his life, nor did he think he should ever eat so much again. There was simply so much - of everything - and it was all so good! Without his grandmother watching over his shoulder he stuffed himself full to the bursting point, which was what everyone else around him was doing. No one's mind strayed to the stomach aches sure to come later in the evening. Their relief was complete, and this great feast their celebration.

The only person who wasn't making a pig of himself at the Gryffindor table was Draco Malfoy. He hardly looked hungry at all.

With a mouth full of chicken, Ron muttered in Neville's ear, "You'd think he's seen a ghost."

"If he hasn't already," Hermione said, making sure to swallow her food before she spoke, "then he will soon enough."

Neville's lower lip trembled. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked. It came out as Whumpf assa mossa mmn? but Hermione answered him as if the question had been clear as day.

"Haven't you read Hogwarts: A History?" She asked. She looked scandalized. Neville shook his head no, gulping down some of the most incredible roast goose he'd had in his life.

"What's that?" He asked. Whaffat?

"Not everyone's a walking library," Ron pointed out, around a second chicken leg. "Here, pass the ham, would you?" Hermione passed the ham.

"For heaven's sake," she muttered. "The two of you are absolutely hopeless."

"Thanks," Ron said. "For the ham," he added, giving her a look.

"You're welcome," she replied, just as instinctive, and just as unpleasant. "Well, what I suppose I'm asking is, haven't you heard of Nearly Headless Nick?" Ron nodded, while Neville shook his head again.

"George and Fred told me about him," Ron explained.

"Hm," Hermione murmured, her lips pursed. "Sir Nicholas de Mimsy Porpington was his name, when he was alive - he was sentenced to be executed in 1492, but things went all wrong, and his head wasn't ever fully cut off." She took a large bite of the ham, satisfied with herself. Neville wondered for a moment if, in the face of such a gruesome story, he could continue being hungry. The ham went past him, and he realized yes, he could indeed, taking a large slice onto his own plate. "In any case," Hermione went on, "he's the resident ghost of Gryffindor House, so you're sure to run into him sooner rather than later. Peas?"

"Yes, please," Neville murmured. He didn't even like peas. It was going to be hard saying no to Hermione, he had discovered, even when she was only asking him if he wanted vegetables.

"Don't get that look on your face," Ron said. "He's a nice chap. At least, that's what Fred and George say. And sometimes, if you ask him to politely enough, he takes his head on and off for you. Sort of like the lid of a box. Isn't that incredible?" Neville gulped. Peas were stuck in his throat. He had to take a big gulp of Pumpkin Juice to get the image out of his head enough to continue eating. "Anyway, what were we on about before we had the history of Hogwarts quoted at us, in full?" Ron shot a grumpy look towards Hermione. She was smart enough to take it in stride, though it obviously peeved her, for what it really was - poorly concealed jealousy.

"Some of us know how to read," she returned, "that's all."

"We were talking about him," Neville cut in hurriedly, nodding towards Draco, who still hadn't eaten anything.

"Right. He deserves what he's got, that one. No doubt once his esteemed parents find out what a failure he is, they'll--"

"Just listen to yourself!" Hermione exclaimed. She nearly dropped a platter of mashed potatoes in Ron's lap. "Honestly. You're no better than he is if all you can think of is to gloat about it."

"You weren't there," Ron muttered, "when he talked about my dad."

"Boys," was Hermione's only response, and she promptly turned away to listen to the older red-haired boy, who had engaged in what appeared to be a very prolonged and completely incomprehensible conversation about grindy-somethings. Ron heaved a long-beleaguered sigh.

"That's Percy," he said, nodding towards his pole-thin brother.

"Percy the Prefect," George - or maybe Fred, Neville couldn't tell which, yet - added.

"Perfect Percy," Fred - or maybe George; this was going to be hard - tagged on.

"You can tell what a pleasure and a joy it is to have him in our lives," the first twin continued. He clasped his hands to his chest, fluttering his lashes dramatically. The other elbowed him in the ribs and then they both collapsed with laughter. Only a second round of Pumpkin Juice could bring them out of it.

"I'll bet she," Ron nodded towards Hermione, "will just love old Perce. Made for each other, you might say." Ron's face mimicked boredom so grotesquely that Neville couldn't help but laugh. It was the second time he almost choked on his peas. He was saved only by Ron clapping him heartily on the back. After that, Neville calmly and carefully scraped his peas over to one side of his plate, and ignored them for the rest of the evening.

~*~

After the feast, the school was always unexpectedly quiet. The general swell of noise divided into four groups and sent off in opposite directions to each respective house left the Great Hall eerily quiet in its wake. Without the thrum of life and new students and unbridled excitement, the hall in contrast became suddenly lifeless and old.

Remus had left the Great Hall early, before the students dispersed. He went first to his rooms and had unpacked in full, his quill and his ink and his parchment paper on his desk. His old notebook, with each lesson plan for each year jotted down neatly, also rested there. His sweaters were folded neatly in a dresser drawer, next to which his ancient snow boots stood dutifully, for all that they sagged with age. His mittens, Hogwarts scarf, and woolen socks were in the drawer beneath his sweaters, along with his trousers. On top of the dresser drawer was a handheld mirror, a comb, and a collection of photographs. One of Sirius, one of Peter, one of James and Lily on their wedding day; one of himself and Sirius, also on James and Lily's wedding day, where Sirius had been more than just a few sheets to the wind; one of all five of them, just after graduating, looking young and full of life and misdirection. Remus always smiled fondly when he saw that picture, and thought of home - which was not, for him, the place he lived now, with Peter, but rather an intangible memory of his childhood.

The room was filled with a variety of chests, boxes and glass aquariums, and books lined one wall from ceiling to floor. Remus told himself as he always told himself that he really out to have a bookshelf brought in one of these days, and knew also that he wouldn't. One particular chest rattled every so often, until he put a globe on top of its flat surface to hold it still. He moved from corner to corner, making sure everything was in order and keeping his hands busy and his mind preoccupied. It was best not to think about Harry until he'd spoken with Dumbledore about things.

Dumbledore, as always, would have some insight that, though it might not be reassuring, would at least leave Remus with something else to think about during sleepless nights.

Instead of settling down with his books for the evening, he instead washed his face and hands and fidgeted by his desk. He checked the clock, made sure a good forty-five minutes had passed since the feast had ended, and then started off once more through the silent, twisting hallways, to Albus Dumbledore's office. He had learned the password earlier, murmured "Ice Mice!" with great conviction, hurried up the staircase revealed moments later.

It came as a blow to the stomach that he was not the only one who had seen fit to visit Albus that evening.

"Well," Severus Snape said, only half-turning from his tense position in one of Albus's large leather chairs, "isn't this a delightful party."

"Come in, come in," Albus encouraged. He motioned for Remus to sit, and Remus did so, but warily, not allowing himself to get too comfortable. "We were just talking about the Sorting Ceremony. It seems that there have been many surprises this evening; yours among them, I'm sure." Remus flushed. Were his intentions that transparent? Then again - and he should have been used to this by now - Albus' wisdom always had the power to make him feel as if he were nothing but a schoolboy once more, caught in the middle of orchestrating one of James' or Sirius' pranks. He sighed, let go of his embarrassment, as, when he thought about it, it was hardly a surprise at all that Albus should so easily unravel his motives.

"There has never been a Malfoy," Severus supplied dryly, "in the entire history of Hogwarts who has been sent to Gryffindor. That is why I am here; and you, of course, come to call because of your duty to James and your shock at his son's proclivities. Am I correct?"

"As always," Remus murmured. "Unequivocally so."

"Hm," Severus said.

"But you can't possibly have forgotten," Remus continued, "that the young boy's mother was a Black, and, prior to Sirius, there had been no one of that noble and most ancient bloodline sent to Gryffindor, either." The line of Severus' jaw hardened.

"Hm," he said again. His eyes were murderous.

"Now, now," Albus interrupted, "let us not argue about details. So often, I find, the devil lurks within them, in one way or another. It is curious - you both are correct on that count - so let us work from there and speak nothing of details whatsoever." Remus thought he detected an exasperated sigh from Severus' direction, but did not look to confirm it. It was one thing to engage in a routine and pointless battle of words and wit, and quite another to call Severus on a slip.

"I never make a mistake," the Sorting Hat added from where it sat atop Albus's desk. Nerves already slightly frayed, Remus found himself starting on the edge of his seat. Before it spoke up at last, the hat had been unnoticeable as nothing more than a shadowy mass of torn and patched cloth. "And, if you want logical reasoning, something to tell your friends and the children themselves, I can give you nothing more than I gave them. Too much of an explanation is just as damaging as it might be beneficial - both for you, and for the parties in question." There were times in Remus Lupin's life where he questioned his own sanity - they were less frequent these days than they had been, once, but were nonetheless worrying when they occurred. Mentally, he shook his head to himself. If he hadn't grown completely used yet to having serious conversations with hats, when would he?

"But you understand our concern," Severus said evenly into the silence.

"You think perhaps I have one frayed string too many," the hat replied.

"Perhaps." If Severus had any problem saying such things to a hat, he gave no sign of it whatsoever. For a moment, Remus envied him. Rationale took over an instant after that, tell him what he already knew - that, for the most part, it was all an act, with little true conviction.

"I, myself," Remus interjected, "wanted only to speak with Albus of the possible consequences that may be caused by such unexpected conclusions. For," he added, "both the Malfoy child, and James and Lily's son."

"Ah," Albus said. His blue eyes winked behind their crescents of glass, be it from a smile or the late-evening lamplight, Remus would never know. "And Severus, did you wish only to insult my hat?"

"Hardly," Severus replied. His lips were pressed in a tight, thin line. "Though it would seem so, wouldn't it."

"Almost," Albus murmured, "almost." He was silent for a while, traversing the line of his desk and then crossing to sit behind it. He rested his elbows on its surface and steepled his forefingers together, bridge of his nose pressed against them, then the tip of his chin. "The situation is perplexing," he said at last. "I must admit that I, too, am surprised; I would not have expected such an outcome even if I had been told it would be such. Wisdom can guide you only so far. Sometimes, it serves only to hinder you."

"For Merlin's sake," Severus snapped, "Albus, do not speak in bloody riddles."

"It wasn't a riddle." Albus smiled, suddenly cheerful. "I was merely thinking aloud - excuse me, if you will, for such rudeness. Let me see, then, let me see - you want something to tell your friends, do you not?" He fixed his gaze on Remus. "You must tell James and Lily, Sirius and Peter as well, for they will all be expecting news which...they unfortunately expect too much of." Remus nodded. "Tell them that their son is in Slytherin. I know enough of James and Lily Potter to know that they will accept the news, even if they will not truly understand it. As for you," and here he turned to Severus, "Lucius Malfoy will be far from understanding. Am I correct?" Severus nodded. Albus sighed deeply. "Ah, what a mess we have made of things," he murmured. "I wonder how many people now know of Salazar's jealousy, of Godric's indifference. They were but men, after all. Gifted men, powerful men, great men, but men nonetheless, and therein their faults lay. They knew too much of themselves, carved their own natures into stone, ignored the flaws and the contradictions for too long. Now, we bear their burdens - a rivalry whose true source is forgotten."

In the wake of Dumbledore's words, Remus and Severus both were silent. Remus felt a sadness rise up in the air, felt all living things in Dumbledore's office hush. Even the hat drooped more than usual, as if it was not made of a mystery so brilliant that an entire school, countless young boys and girls, depended upon its intuition and judgement. Remus felt that sadness press against his chest, threatening to crush his ribs. Severus must have felt it, as well, for he coughed softly, eager to break the silence before it broke him.

"Well, well, none of that is what you were looking for," Albus continued suddenly, sparked back to vibrant life, "is it? Of course not. Severus, Lucius, I am sure, will know before you can write to him, and as such I would suggest you do not write to him at all. Rather, he will no doubt write to you, and will wish most sincerely that you do not talk to me about it. That is, if I know Lucius as well as I believe I do, which, Merlin help us, it will be grave if I do not."

Funny man, Albus, Remus thought wonderingly. Always manages to smile again. I don't know how he does it.

"There, now." Albus was winding down, rubbing his hands together and starting to stand. "At least I hope this wasn't a waste of your time, Severus; or of yours, Remus. You'll have something to say now, certainly, and something interesting to think about?"

"Thank you, Dumbledore," Remus said, nodding.

Severus made only a sound, aggravation which bordered dangerously on anger.

"I trust you both to see yourselves out, then," Albus concluded. "Do feel free to drop by at any time in the future, whether you have questions, answers, or simply an incomparable desire to insult my hat. Ta." He waved them both out: Severus as he stalked off, and Remus as he followed, bafflement stamped plainly on his face, behind.

~*~

In the hall, it was not as cold as it was chillingly quiet. The hour felt later than it was. Remus paused, unsure as he always was what, if anything, he ought to say to Severus.

Severus solved that problem for him by speaking first.

"One day that man will drive me to complete distraction," he snapped. His hands at his side were held in loose fists - an expression of annoyance only, Remus decided, and nothing more serious.

"Perhaps that is part of his job," Remus replied.

"Part of his job?" Severus laughed harshly. "Of course. Lets you argue with his hat, tells you something cryptic and wholly unhelpful, and then sends you off to bed as if you're a child - certainly, all part of his job. Are we all of us still children to him, Lupin?"

"He's hardly just a mad old man who talks to his hat in his spare time, Severus."

"Ah - not just. But he is. And often."

Remus shook his head, bowing it to hide a smile that threatened to show in his eyes.

"Even you don't believe what you're saying," he said.

"Which is precisely the problem," Severus snapped. In a swish of robes he had turned on his heels and stormed down the hall in the opposite direction from Remus' quarters, making his way without so much as one final parting shot to the Dungeons.

~*~

James and Lily,

You told me to recount for you everything that happens as it happens, and while I cannot do that much - it would leave me with little time to teach, of course, much less to sleep and eat - I am as always your faithful friend.
Harry was from the start perfectly at home here at Hogwarts. He gave no signs of nervousness at any juncture, not even when it came time for the Sorting Ceremony. I promise that I am in no way exaggerating when I tell you that he was the only student there who approached the hat without any sign of worry or trepidation. His bravery would have made the both of you proud. I was not the only one who expressed my wonder at his easy demeanor.
It is the Sorting Ceremony now that I write to you about. I am unsure if Harry will have written to you right away - if he has, this is sure to be a redundancy - but still, it is my duty to keep you well-informed of all it is my place to, without intruding upon his privacy and autonomy.
There were a good many surprises this past and first night, not the least of which being that Draco Malfoy - Lucius Malfoy's son, who resembles Narcissa more than he does his father - was sorted into Gryffindor, rather than Slytherin.
Just as surprising to me and, as I'm sure it shall be, to both of you, the Sorting Hat placed Harry in Slytherin.
I spoke with Dumbledore after the feast had ended, and he reassured me of what I already knew: that you would not fall prey to age-old prejudices of house names and loyalties, and thus the house itself would not matter to either of you for a moment, be it Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, or Hufflepuff. He seems happy here, happy and comfortable, which makes me nothing but glad.

Remus