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I have known very few things in my life with absolute clarity, but this is one of them: I was never meant to be a Hufflepuff.-- Sadie Sanders, Hogwarts: A Memoir, 1925.

Chapter 1

Promises to Keep

Percy looked out his new window at the swirling fog. Something about the gray evening and the empty tower bedroom made him ask questions he ordinarily avoided. Would it work? Would he succeed as he had planned? But the answer was swift. This time, Percy swore, he would get everything right. He had tried so hard in his last position, worked almost continuously, sworn off every luxury, every chance at a life of his own, everything except strong black tea-- only to be forced into an ignominious resignation. He had been three steps away from his own chance to be Minister . . . But He-Who-Must-Never-Be-Named had interrupted, ruining Percy's life once more. This time would be different.

His family didn't understand. His family was able to forget, somehow, to smile cheerfully and go on, always one simple bright day at a time. They didn't remember what Percy did, those endless childhood days of nothing but potatoes, Molly smiling brightly and attempting in vain to transfigure the thousandth potato into a loaf of bread, or even a turnip. And Ginny screaming. Always little Ginny screaming in the background.

That could happen again. If none of them tried, it would happen again. And with Bill and Charlie off spying somewhere, and Fred and George-- Fred and George were actually bankrupt, after pouring all their earnings into some ill-fated mercantile scheme, with their own father's money on top of it. Still, they went on smiling and laughing as if there was no tomorrow. Percy was the only one who believed in tomorrow. They might be in danger from untold powers of darkness-- but they were in danger from the real world, too, from poverty and hunger and everyday human enemies. He had to work. He had to keep his family safe. Even if they hated him for it.

And they would hate him. Percy knew it. He might even deserve it-- he had made mistakes. So many mistakes. The recent one was almost nothing, compared to the memory of a white-faced eleven-year-old Ginny, silent for once in her life, after . . . After some terrible smiling charismatic ghostly monster had taken her over. His sweet little sister had tried to kill. She still had nightmares. And it was all Percy's fault. He had been wrapped up in his own plans, his own hope that he could actually like a girl, care about her, in the way that meant he could have his own family someday. But that was impossible. Percy had made all the right gestures and all the correct movements, had genuinely admired Penelope, but the romance had been doomed from the start. Percy had hidden it because he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was destined to fail. But because he had lied to himself, Ginny had been hurt. 

He had made Ginny scream, and then fall silent. That was unforgivable. Percy would never forgive himself; he could only try to make things better, try to make certain that none of his family would ever want for anything, again.

Even if they despised him. Even if they laughed at his efforts and he had to avoid them for their own good.

But that wouldn't happen. Percy closed his new red curtains and lit the lamps with a flick of his wand. This time, he assured himself, he would get everything right. It wasn't the Ministry, but it was a chance, a real chance. He was back at Hogwarts, the place where he'd spent the happiest years of his life, and he was going to do well. Percy was good at potions; he'd always studied hard, and of late he'd studied even harder. And this position had potential. After all, Snape had been Potions Master, and from there he had become Head of Slytherin, and then headmaster. Headmaster of Hogwarts-- Snape had the chance to form the entire wizarding youth, to make a generation! It was an occupation that commanded respect.

Percy could do that. He knew he had it in him.

***

Harry shifted restlessly in his seat, waiting for his friends to finish their prefectly duties and come find him. It had been fifteen, twenty minutes already; the train was already out of London; where were they? They had so much to talk about-- Dumbledore's death and subsequent ghostly return, McGonagall's resignation halfway through the summer (she had left to help Molly Weasley run the Order of the Phoenix, Harry knew), Snape in charge of the school . . . And Firenze was doing something mysterious in Greece, and Fred and George were bound to be up to something. But even more important, Ron was Quidditch captain. If everyone worked the way they had last year, Gryffindor was almost guaranteed the cup.

Finally Hermione and Ron burst into the compartment. Ron immediately flopped across the seats, taller than ever. His robe was pushed up to his knees, or else he had grown again and it wouldn't stretch-- but his muscles were beginning to catch up with his height at last. Harry envied his friend this new look of adulthood.

Hermione was conducting a line of trunks, with Crookshanks perched on top and her knitting floating along beside her. Everything clunked to the ground as she rushed forward, saying, "Harry! I'm so glad you're here. We have so much to tell you. I've got this new book-- "

"Hermione has the complete and unabridged Hogwarts: A History," Ron interjected. "You'd think she'd have memorized it by now, but no."

"This is different," said Hermione. "There are all new parts. I hope I can finish it before we get to school . . ." 

Ron rolled his eyes and threw a gumdrop at Harry. "Ignore her. She's hopeless. Listen, you've got to hear about our trip."

Ron and Hermione had spent three weeks in Bulgaria with Viktor, meeting foreign wizards and generally having a holiday. Harry had not been allowed to go. He was just about grown up, Lord Voldemort had disappeared again, and Dumbledore was dead . . . But people were still worrying about his safety. It was utterly unfair. Besides, last time he had noticed Ron hadn't even liked Viktor. At least, he started shouting every time Hermione sent him a letter. What had changed? Maybe Ron had finally decided to collect his own autographs? Or maybe Ron had just jumped at the chance to go travelling like his brothers, probably seeing dragons again, while Harry was stuck in cloudy dusty England.

But Ron was already talking. Tripping over his own words, more like. Ron and Hermione had met all sorts of people; they had seen miles and miles of castles; they had encountered a hag who lived in a hut on chicken legs, and bought wine from a satyr, and Harry had been locked in at the Dursleys' the whole time.

"And the Quidditch!" said Ron. "Viktor's family has tremendous amounts of land, he's got his very own pitch behind the house. We were out there every day for hours, working on all sorts of strategies. Just wait till I show you the Lightning Recurve!"

"The what?"

"It's a Latvian play originally, you need the Keeper to feint distraction and dart up, then the Beaters swing round like so-- " Ron waved his arms in illustration, nearly hitting Harry in the nose-- "and the Keeper flies back in the nick of the time, while the other side has all dropped almost to the ground like this. Viktor says-- "

Viktor's grouchiness and Hermione's letters were forgotten; Ron's eyes glowed in adoration every time he mentioned Viktor. He might be captain now, Harry thought, but he still acted like a thirteen-year-old fan. Ron probably hadn't thought of Harry the entire holiday. It was all Quidditch.

Ron babbled on, explaining the Half-Frigate and the Cradleknot. Viktor was the expert, his name mentioned in almost hushed respect. He had helped Ron. He had treated Ron almost as an equal. He had suggested Ron might play professionally, with a few years' work. He had . . .

"Harry, can I tell you something?" Ron's face was flushed with enthusiasm, so the freckles almost blended in.

"You are telling me something, aren't you?" Harry grumbled.

"No, I'm serious. It's, well, it's just . . . You're my best friend, and . . . Promise you won't get mad?"

"I promise," said Harry.

Ron looked over his shoulder at Hermione, who was buried in her book, and leaned toward Harry, whispering. Viktor and Ron were friends now, he told Harry. Really good friends. They had spent hours and hours together, working and flying and flying further, and then . . . Viktor's family didn't have showers, they had these gigantic tubs, and one evening after a particularly long Quidditch practice . . .

"Harry? You won't think I'm weird or anything, will you? You won't get upset?"

"No," Harry muttered, shaking his head.

And then Viktor had reached over, and touched Ron's cock, and his whole body had stirred. This wasn't like Fred and George fooling around. This was something real. Something serious. They had kissed, not slobbery girly dance kisses but real, strong, and that strong tongue had run over Ron's balls . . .

"Harry?" Ron asked. "Are you all right?"

Harry had his eyes shut, imagining it. Ron had been out in the sun all summer, the freckles would cover him all the way down, and he would throw his head back and smile . . .

"Harry? Are you talking to me? Harry?"

Harry couldn't answer. Ron had thrown back his head, he had smiled that perfect open loving grin, and it hadn't been for him, it couldn't be-- Ron didn't--

"Harry? Harry, you promised!"

Harry's eyes were still shut. Ron didn't want him, he--

"You think I'm a fucking-- " Ron began.

Hermione looked up from her book. "Harry! Ron! You have to hear this. Hogwarts: A History lied."

"Hermione, we don't have time for your fucking books, Harry is, is, he thinks I'm a fucking-- I'm going to kill him! I'm going to-- You promised!" Ron stormed from the compartment, yelling incoherently.

"But, Harry," said Hermione. "Harry. They lied to us. Don't you understand? This changes everything."

"I don't care."

"But Gryffindor used to be an-- "

"Shut up!"

Hermione muttered "Boys!" and subsided into her book. Harry was left to stare out the window, at miles and miles of indistinguishable green countryside. Ron was gone; and anyway, Ron hated him. He'd said so himself.

***

Percy took his seat at the side of the staff table, and smiled. He had looked up at the dais so many times, with respect and honor in his heart, and now he was here himself. Many of the faces were the same: Snape sat at the head of the table now, of course, and McGonagall and Dumbledore were gone, but Vector and Binns and Sprout and the rest were in their accustomed places. Hooch was wearing red and yellow ribbon in her hat, to mark her new position as Head of Gryffindor; Trelawney sat beside her, and next to her was the newest Divination teacher, Madame Beauregarde. Madame Beauregarde was very pale. Her long hair could have been blond or white, but her lipstick was bright red. She noticed Percy looking at her and winked, then whispered something to Trelawney.

Percy looked at his plate, his fork, Snape, and his plate again, and hoped that the two women weren't talking about him. Or that they were discussing his motivated countenance and neat attire, if they were. It was a reasonable supposition; Percy knew he always looked ready for work, ready to take on whatever task was handed him. His superiors had been commenting on his eagerness since before he was Head Boy. And now he was going to form another generation. He had the benefit of the newest Ministry techniques-- not the flawed ideas that had led to such an unfortunate situation a few years ago (and the unfortunate decision to require Percy's resignation last year), but real, tested methods. He would strike just the right balance between safety and innovation. He would be an instructor to write home about. 

There was Percy's brother Ron in the back, whispering to Ginny. Perhaps Ron could write home about his brilliance. But Ron was only taking the Potions NEWT because he persisted in the desperate wish to be an Auror. Such an irresponsible career! Ron had never learned to be prudent when he ought; he had missed his chance at Head Boy because of that. And his OWLs hadn't been as good as they might have been, either, not the sort of marks an aspiring Minister or Professor might want. Percy had always had the best marks in the family-- and look how far he had come, because of it!

A murmur rose in the hall, as the first-year students filed in, looking wet and bedraggled. Percy saw a thin boy cleaning his glasses, and smiled benignly at him. You, too, could be a prefect one day, he thought. Or even Potions Master.

Then the Sorting Hat appeared, and everyone was quiet. Percy thought it seemed especially tattered this year; but maybe he was just closer than usual. The Hat bowed right, left, and to the assembled staff. Madame Beauregarde sucked in her breath. Properly impressed, Percy thought. It was good to see that she respected Hogwarts tradition.

There was a deep hissing sound, and the Hat began its song:

Oh, little children, come inside!
I am the Hat, and I decide.
I'll make your character well-known
In this place that you'll call home.
What I name you, you will be,
And you'll bless my pleasantry.
Slytherins are green and great
No-one dares to call them mean
No-one sees them slithering
No-one sees; they work unseen.
Gryffindor is always pushing,
Always wishing, always shoving.
Red and gold for eager children
Easy hating, easy loving.
Ravenclaws are smart but silent
Full of secrets, full of lies.
Promises made to be bent--
But knowledge ends when someone dies.
Hufflepuff is always last,
Stuck with yellow, working long,
Saving pennies, crying fast,
Ordinary, never wrong.
I am the Hat, and I decide.
Bow to me: I am your guide.

Percy did his best to smile cheerfully at the hushed children. What was all this talk of knowledge and dying and decision? When he had been in his first year, the Hat had talked of hard work and treats, and Percy had clutched the sweet somebody had given him on the train, vowing to be worthy of such rewards. That was what Hogwarts meant. Hard work and fair reward. None of these secrets and slithering unseen . . .

But Percy had let his mind wander, and the Sorting had already begun. Professor Flitwick cried, "Bug, Suzy!" and a dark-haired little girl with green ribbons in her braids set the Hat uncertainly upon her head.

"Hufflepuff!" yelled the Hat. So that was all right. Nothing could be wrong, if a dear little girl in green ribbons went to Hufflepuff.

Aaron Busby, Gerald Churchill, Laura Craven: all trotted hopefully to the Hufflepuff table. Dea DelCampo, barely four feet tall, followed them, looking backward at the Hat suspiciously. Edward Eager ran after her; and then came Franzeska FitzHugh, chewing on a strand of hair.

By the time May Jones, Eve Li, and Owen Marshall had joined them, the Hufflepuff table was looking decidedly full, and Percy was feeling worried. They were halfway through the alphabet already-- and where were the Gryffindors? Where, for that matter, were the Slytherins?

"You can't do this!" yelled a chubby boy. "My whole family's Ravenclaw. It is, I swear!" But the Hat was already proclaiming Hufflepuff.

And so it went, through David Nain, David Paine, and Linda Pritchem all the way to Christopher Zhang. Hufflepuffs were overflowing, laughing, dragging benches from their common room; and everyone else was silent. It's all right, Percy told himself. It has to be right: the Hat always is. There was nothing special about this year, nothing, just a very hard-working group of students.

But as Snape squashed the Hat under his arm and called for food, the thing murmured, Full of secrets, full of lies. And even pumpkin strudel and Madame Beauregarde's constantly brilliant smile couldn't cheer Percy up.