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The Art of Self-Fashioning	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 26077 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
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Chapter Three—Starting Fights
            “This is the place.”
            Harry stepped out of the car and looked around, nodding. This was King’s Cross Station, where Professor McGonagall had told him to come. And when he turned his head to the side and sort of relaxed his eyes for a little, looking at what was there instead of what he expected to be there, he could see the hurrying people in robes, with owls in cages.
            Harry put a hand on his own wand, concealed in his pocket, close to his hip. He would do what was necessary to fight for his parents, and that included being on the alert for people who might try to harm him.
            He’d read books on magical history, including recent history, in the past month, too.
            “We don’t want you back over the holidays. Hear me, boy?”
            “Yes, Uncle Vernon.”
            Honestly, they matter so much less than they did, Harry thought, as he began to walk towards where Platform 9 ¾ must be. He would still defend himself from the Dursleys if he had to and get his revenge on them someday, but they just weren’t as important as his parents. He didn’t think they ever would be again.
            Harry wandered up and down dreamily for a little while, thinking of what would happen when he Transfigured his parents’ brains, how his mum would look at him with recognition and his dad would make sure he had the best glasses. Then he looked around and noticed there wasn’t actually a Platform 9 ¾ anywhere.
            But once again, all he had to do was look, and he saw the people in robes with the owls in cages. Three of them waited until most people other than Harry were looking elsewhere, and then ran straight at the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10. He saw them sparkle for a moment, stars seeming to leap to life around their bodies, before they just disappeared.
            That was it, then. Harry strolled after them, and he had to wait even less time for people to look away, because he didn’t have an owl or anything strange like that. And he had practice in getting people not to look at him. He was just the freak, the Dursleys’ unwanted nephew.
            That’s going to help when I’m at Hogwarts, though. Everything Harry had read told him that Transfiguration was dangerous and nothing he wanted to do had been attempted before. If he knew teachers at all, that would make them feel that they ought to “protect” him for his own good.
            But they couldn’t stop him if they didn’t know about him and his plans.
            When Harry came through the barrier, he did stop and gape. The Hogwarts Express was a giant, scarlet steam engine, and it was so loud and busy with people rushing around and clutching their hats and trolleys and hugging each other and yelling at each other that it made Harry’s head feel hollow.
            He shook that head determinedly a minute later, though, and walked on, into the middle of the billowing steam and the noise. He didn’t want to pause or slow down. The train might leave without him! He’d barely been able to persuade the Dursleys to bring him on time. Uncle Vernon had probably only agreed because it meant he’d be gone for ten months.
            Once Harry got on the train, it was less crowded and quieter, and people ignored him. They all seemed to be looking for their mates or their siblings. Harry slipped into an empty compartment near the back and settled in with his trunk and his books.
*
            “Who are you, then?”
            Harry looked up. A few people had peered into the compartment as the hours went by, but they’d all left again when they realized they didn’t know Harry. Harry had bought a few Chocolate Frogs from the lady with the sweets, first because he was hungry and second because he wanted to know how the enchantment on them worked.
            But these people didn’t seem to be leaving. Two of them moved to the sides as if they wanted to block the door. Harry slipped his wand into his hand. He knew bullies from watching Dudley and his gang.
            This time, though, he would be allowed to use the spells that he couldn’t practice all summer. Harry had read about some of the defensive ones until his head was buzzing with information and flicked his wand until his muscles knew the movements by heart.
            “Are you mute? I asked you a question.”
            The one in the center was blond and swaggering. He wasn’t as fat as Dudley, but Harry thought that was the only real difference.
            “Why should I introduce myself to you when I don’t know who you are?”
            The blond boy blinked, and then shook his head. “You ought to know who I am. I’m Draco Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy is my father.”
            Harry would have laughed, but he thought he wouldn’t stop. Malfoy’s name had been in the most recent history book he’d read. He’d been a Death Eater. Oh, he’d said sorry after the war and claimed that Lord Dudders had him under something called the Imperius Curse, but Harry doubted that. It was like when Vernon flattered his bosses and then complained about them behind their backs.
            Harry wanted to say something about exactly how little worth he put on the Malfoy name. But this Malfoy had two large boys with him. Not worth it.
“My name is Harry Potter.” No one would know his name, Harry was sure. He wasn’t famous like the Boy-Who-Lived.
But, to his surprise, Malfoy started and stared at him. “The one with the parents who need help to use the loo?”
Harry didn’t plan it. He was on his feet and across the compartment and he had his wand pressed against Malfoy’s throat before he thought about it. It just was. One minute here, the next minute over there. Malfoy began to choke.
            The two large boys started to swing around, pumping their fists into their other hands.
            “If you touch me, I’ll turn him into a beetle and step on him.” Harry didn’t know if he could do that yet, but it was an interesting threat.
            And it made the two boys hesitate. It was probably the voice he’d used, Harry thought. And the stare. It was the calm voice and stare he’d used on the Dursleys during August. Even Uncle Vernon sometimes looked at Harry as if he didn’t know what had happened to the boy he used to spend the day terrorizing.
            “You can’t do that,” Malfoy gasped. He was almost on his toes now. Harry’s wand was in front of him and the compartment door behind him, and neither one was moving. “I’ll tell my father! You’ll be in so much trouble!”
            Harry laughed. The two boys stopped moving altogether. Malfoy looked as if he’d faint.
            “I live in the Muggle world,” Harry whispered to him. “Your father can’t do anything to me there. And he can’t complain to my parents, either. Can he. I don’t like you, Malfoy. I know who your father is and what he fought for. And I’ll fight any Death Eater who comes after me.”
            Malfoy reached up and made a little gesture. The two big boys opened the compartment door and took one, careful step back.
            Harry considered the kind of truce they were offering. Then he lifted his wand and stepped back, too.
            Malfoy coughed one final time and massaged his throat. He stared at Harry and shook his head. He didn’t look frightened, anymore, but more disbelieving. “You’re going to pay for that, Potter. You may not know how yet, but you will.”
            “I told you what I’d do.”
            Malfoy turned and walked away, tossing over his shoulder, “Crabbe, Goyle. Let’s go. It’s not like this one’s going to be in Slytherin. We’ll teach him and the other Gryffindors a lesson later.”
            The boys, Crabbe and Goyle apparently, looked at Harry and cracked their knuckles meaningfully. Harry just smiled at them, then shut the compartment door. After a second, he tried the Locking Charm on it.
            The door seemed to snick more comfortably into the wall. Harry nodded and settled back down with his book, content to know that no one else would disturb him.
*
            “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here!”
            The gigantic man calling Harry and the others was waving an equally huge lantern. Harry found it easy to follow him down from the train and to the lake, where people crowded into boats. Everyone seemed to be aiming for one where a brown-haired boy sat, his hands folded and his eyes on his lap. Harry wondered absently if that was Neville Longbottom.
            He ended up sharing with a blond girl who didn’t talk, a tall boy with dark skin and a frown on his face, and a grinning sandy-haired kid who wouldn’t stop talking. That actually made it easier. No one asked him his name. Harry just nodded and mumbled a few words of nonsense in response, and then turned and gaped along with the others when they sailed around the corner and Hogwarts came into view.
            It shone, Harry thought. It had so many windows and towers and turrets that it must have lots of places to hide. And the stone walls loomed, and Harry thought he could practice magic on them and never knock them down. He reached out a hand, then realized what he must look like and pulled it back to his side.
            “Are you okay?” That was the sandy-haired boy, looking at him in concern.
            I feel like I’m coming home. But then they would ask why Harry felt like he’d never been home before. Harry managed to smile. “It was just overwhelming, that’s all.”
            “Yeah, I know. Like it takes away your breath.” The boy grinned at him and thrust out his hand. “Seamus Finnigan. My mum’s a witch, and she told me all about it, but she also told me that I would still gasp when I saw it.”
            “I didn’t hear you gasp.”
            Finnigan laughed cheerfully. “You were too busy gasping yourself, mate!” He cocked an eyebrow at Harry, and Harry decided that he could say his name. Finnigan didn’t sound like the name of a Death Eater. Of course, if only his mother was a witch, she might be someone on the wrong side of the war who had married to hide her name.
            But probably not, not if she married a Muggle. “Harry Potter.”
            “Heard of your dad,” said Finnigan, and gave him an awkward pat on the back. “My mum says he was a good bloke. Sorry.”
            “Yeah,” Harry said softly. “Thanks.”
            Finnigan turned to the other people in the boat and stared at them. After a moment, the tall boy shifted, said, “Blaise Zabini,” and glanced away.
            The blond girl nodded and murmured, “Daphne Greengrass.”
            Zabini’s name was unfamiliar, but Greengrass was the name of an accused Death Eater family—one of the ones who had supposedly only donated to Lord Dudders instead of fighting for him. Harry made sure there was a little distance between them.
            “Well, there’s probably two different Houses here, then,” said Finnigan cheerfully. “My mum’s third cousin to your mother’s brother-in-law, I think, Greengrass. Or one of those things. I never bother to listen when she tells me about it. She says that your lot always Sort Slytherin.” He ignored the way Greengrass was staring at him and turned to Zabini. “And you look like the kind to carry secrets with you into Slytherin.”
            Zabini blinked, but didn’t disagree with him. He only said, with a glance in Harry’s direction that Harry didn’t like, “And where you do you think Potter will be?”
            “Gryffindor, of course! With parents like his? Of course,” Finnigan scoffed.
            Harry smiled. Zabini didn’t look impressed, but Harry was starting to think he never did. And he didn’t owe someone who would be in Slytherin anything.
            The boats slid into a dark tunnel and finally stopped at a set of wide steps. Everyone tried to pile out at once, except for Harry’s boat. Finnigan was the one who hauled Harry out onto the steps at last and in between the dodging students, only to stop and gasp at something in front of them.
            Harry looked. Ghosts were swooping towards them, one of them with his head hanging off his neck. Another one looked like a monk. Harry stood there and stared at them. He wondered if his godfather had become a ghost, if there was some way he could speak to him.
            “Good to see you here, then!” The ghost with his head mostly gone nodded to them. “I hope to see you in my House. I was Gryffindor, you know.”
            The monk-like ghost tried to say something, but Professor McGonagall stepped into view just then, holding a long scroll and looking even sterner than Harry had seen her when she visited him. Harry relaxed. Professor McGonagall only had to look around and say, “Silence,” once. Then everyone was silent. Harry caught a glimpse of blond hair from the side and hoped that Malfoy was cold and uncomfortable.
            “I will escort you into the Great Hall,” said Professor McGonagall. “You will place the Sorting Hat on your heads, and it will tell you your proper House. I will call your names in alphabetical order, so maintain it.” For an instant, her eyes lingered on someone behind Harry, as if she thought they would disrupt the order if they could. “Be ready.”
            She turned around then, and Harry stood there and listened to the beat of his heart. He wondered how many names down the list his own would be. Maybe there would be a balance and he would be right in the middle, the way someone with a P-name should be. That would make more people forget about him.
            It occurred to him abruptly that Finnigan had never said where he would be Sorted, and he glanced at him. “Where are you going?” he whispered.
            Finnigan winked. “Gryffindor. No doubt. With the way my mum was?”
            Harry wanted to ask how his mum was, what it was like to grow up with magical parents or at least one, but the doors swung open in front of them then, and they walked into the Great Hall.
*
            Minerva told herself sternly that shaking hands, at her age, were simply a girlish habit, and she straightened her chin and turned sharply away from the first-years to her scroll. She had seen Harry among the others, looking too calm. And there was a Malfoy this year, and the Boy-Who-Lived. She was more anxious about where this lot of first-years would go, which ones would be hers to care for during the next seven years, than she had been for a long time.
            Pretend that boarhound of Hagrid’s is after you. That always calms you down.
            It did this time, too. Minerva pictured scratching the brute’s nose during the Sorting Hat’s song, making it as detailed in her head as she could, and her voice was steady when she read, “Abbott, Hannah!”
            The blond girl who wavered up to the stool and put the Hat on was predictable. Minerva smiled when the Hat sang “HUFFLEPUFF!”, and would have applauded along with the rest, but she had a list of names to read.
            “Bones, Susan!”
            Minerva stood back and nodded as she watched the others come up. She smiled when the Brown girl became her first Gryffindor. Minerva had known members of the Brown family for most of her life, and while—Lavender, she thought the girl’s name was—would be the first Gryffindor among them for some years, she was upholding a fine tradition.
            The rest of the Sorting seemed to hurtle past, towards the one that Minerva most awaited—or perhaps awaited secondmost, beyond seeing where Harry would go. There was only one hitch, with a girl named Granger, who sat beneath the Hat with her mouth moving in small argumentative ways for at least five minutes. Minerva cocked her head. At least once she thought she saw the word “Ravenclaw,” but in the end, the Hat cried “GRYFFINDOR!”
            Minerva decided she would keep an eye on the girl. There might be some small problems with the girl settling in if she had a personality that the Hat had thought would make her work better as a Ravenclaw.
            On the other hand, that’s what someone else might have thought about me, once.
            Then the moment came when she called, “Neville Longbottom!” and watched the rest of the Hall react to the name.
            “That’s him?”
            “I thought he’d be taller.”
            “Or less pale.”
            Longbottom’s face was indeed pale as he jogged forwards. But Minerva didn’t think that was remarkable. She knew Augusta, his grandmother, would have kept him indoors at study and what little wand training he could have before his eleventh birthday as much as possible. Augusta had lost her son and daughter-in-law in one sudden evening. She was sure to try and cling to her grandson as much as possible.
            Once he was beneath the Hat, Minerva could see him sitting with his eyes closed and his fists desperately clenched. She sighed. She thought she knew where Longbottom wanted to go, but the Hat was taking even longer with him than it had with Granger.
            But finally, the Hat said “GRYFFINDOR!” And her table cheered, and Longbottom stood up and wobbled over in a way that showed how tense he’d been, and Minerva caught sight of Severus sneering from the corner of her eye.
            She resisted the temptation to sneer back at him when the Malfoy boy went into Slytherin at once. Of course. But the problem was, Severus would take the presence of the boy in his House as a triumph instead of the punishment Minerva would have considered it.
            And then came the moment when she found herself staring like an anxious parent, as the Sorting Hat lowered over Harry Potter’s head.
*
            Ah, Mr. Potter. I see what you want to be. And I see what you are.
            Someone who can heal my parents? It hadn’t even occurred to Harry that a Hat who could read his thoughts might be able to tell him whether he’d succeed at his task. Then again, he hadn’t even known there was a Hat who could read his thoughts until he was here.
            The Hat paused. Harry didn’t know how he knew it was doing that, but he did. Then it murmured, I can tell you that you are not suited for Gryffindor.
            Harry felt as if the Hat had told him he couldn’t heal his parents, after all. Or at least that Sirius wasn’t a ghost and Harry would never get to talk with him.
            But that’s what I am. That’s what they are. And isn’t it brave to want to do something to heal them and bring them back? Give them their lives back?
            Harry was pleading as he had never pleaded with anyone since he was six. He realized it, and winced. At least no one else could hear this.
            You are brave. But Gryffindor is about more than bravery. It also relies on an—honesty that you do not possess. The Sorting Hat hesitated a second, and then added, Mr. Potter, in truth, of all the Houses, your nature would find its truest expression in Slytherin.
            No.
            Slytherin is not all evil, the Hat said in a coaxing tone. Their ambition can carry them to those heights, but also in other directions. Many great Healers and experimenters have come out of Slytherin. You could—
            No.
            You should think about other things than simply whether your parents would be disappointed in you. You are your own person. You have the right to a fate and a destiny that would make you independent of your parents, if that’s what you wanted.
            NO!
            Harry could sense people staring at him. The Great Hall had been silent with each new name, because they probably wanted to hear which House they would be in, but now there were murmurs and whispers.
            That was the last thing Harry wanted. People who thought he was strange would spend time trying to figure him out, and then laugh if they discovered what Harry wanted. He had to hurry up and make the Hat choose Gryffindor.
            You can’t make me do that. The Hat’s voice was gentle. I can let students have options, but I can’t simply place you in a House that’s completely wrong for you. And I’ll always suggest the one I think best.
            Slytherin wasn’t an option, though, no matter what the Hat said. Harry struck out for second best. What are my other choices?
            Let me see.
            Harry thought the Hat was stalling for time, but then he felt it rifling through his head, as if his memories were being flipped like the pages of a book. A second later, the Hat emitted a soft whistling sound, although that was probably only in Harry’s head, too. Well. You have a passion, don’t you? And that passion is an intellectual one. Better be—
            “RAVENCLAW!”
            Harry whipped the Hat from his head as a table over to the left began cheering. Their colors seemed to be blue and bronze, and there was an eagle on the banner behind them. Harry marched over to them with his stomach churning as if he was about to throw up.
            He’d wanted to be like his parents. But if he had to, he would choose not to be completely unlike them. That was acceptable.
            People shook his hand and thumped his back when he came over to them. There was someone who introduced himself as “Prefect Fleamont Iverson, my grandfather knew yours, tremendous to have you, Potter,” all in one breath, and several students in his own year who stared at him curiously. None of the ones he’d shared a boat with, though. Finnigan had gone into Gryffindor, as he’d cheerfully predicted, and Greengrass into Slytherin, and Zabini was still waiting to be Sorted.
            By the time Harry got some of his mental balance back, Zabini had been Sorted, and yes, it was Slytherin. Finnigan had been right about him.
            I wish he was right about me.
            Iverson stopped talking during the Headmaster’s short, odd speech, but kept right on going after that. Harry listened because he didn’t have a choice, even when they were eating mashed potatoes or thick ice cream that he thought would have kept Dudley’s mouth gummed shut.
            “…we try not to say we’re the best House, it encourages House rivalry, and the professors already have enough of that to deal with when it comes to Gryffindor and Slytherin, you know? Childish, they are. Never shut up about My Grandfather Married a Muggle this and But My Mother’s Family Cut Ties With Muggles Nine Generations Ago that. But we do have the best marks. And we’re the House where you can really study and be in school. The rest of them treat it like a social club, half the time. Well, the Hufflepuffs aren’t bad. And a few of the Gryffindors recognize that we’re here for a higher purpose than having fun. But you ought to see those Weasley twins, what a waste of potential, they could put their older brothers to shame if they only studied. And the Slytherins are counting on having their family connections leverage them into jobs instead of their marks. Not that most of them will have jobs other than sitting on their duffs and counting their Galleons. And then they come to us for help on exams and act like they’re surprised. So it’s the best House for being a good student, you see, which, after all, is what we’re here for…”
            “You just said that we’re not supposed to say we’re the best House,” pointed out a dark-haired student in Harry’s year, who had introduced himself as Boot.
            Iverson flushed a little. “Yes, right. But when one looks at the Houses…”
            That was going to be one problem, then, Harry thought. They would notice if he didn’t keep up his marks. And he had no intention of doing that. Keeping his intelligence hidden would serve him as well here as at the Dursleys. The professors would pay attention to students who impressed them, which meant they would figure out what he was doing. He would probably have to try to be an average Ravenclaw. There had to be a few.
            Harry glanced at the Head Table. The Ravenclaw Head of House, Professor Flitwick, was a small man who resembled the goblins at Gringotts. Harry thought he was the most cheerful of the bunch, bar perhaps the odd Headmaster. That might be a good thing. Happy people tended to see happiness everywhere and were easier to fool.
            There was Professor McGonagall, looking as stern as ever, and a man who wore a turban and looked prone to jumping at the mere twitch of McGonagall’s robe. And there was a man next to him who had oily dark hair and who was glaring.
            At Harry.
            Harry stared back in silence for a second before he straightened his shoulders. He knew that kind of glare. It was the one the Dursleys always gave Harry. For existing. The man was a bully, someone who had decided he hated Harry already.
            “Who’s that?” Harry finally asked when he could get a word in edgewise around Iverson’s torrent.
            “That?” A second-year girl called Chang was the one who followed his pointing finger, and she shook her head a little. “Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin House. He teaches Potions. You don’t want to get on his bad side.”
            Harry half-smiled. The professor had turned away from him, back to his meal, but Harry already knew what was likely to happen. Professor Snape would try to bully Harry, for not being a Slytherin or being the son of Gryffindor parents or for some other reason, who knew.
            And Harry wasn’t going to stand for it. He knew how to deal with bullies.
            They would be only one more obstacle along the path to his goals. If Professor Snape didn’t bother him that much, Harry would ignore him. If he did, he would make sure that Snape couldn’t injure him, the way he had with Malfoy.
            He thought again of his mother’s glazed, blank eyes, the way his father could barely control his mouth.
            And all around him, the chattering and the possible alliances and friendships and politics he didn’t know about faded into insignificance.
            What mattered more than the hell his parents were enduring?
            Nothing.
*
Oryx: Thank you! I think it’s not an exaggeration to say Harry will do this or die trying.
Chester258: Thank you!
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The Art of Self-Fashioning