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The Art of Self-Fashioning	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 26077 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter Five—First Lessons (Part Two)
            “The Longbottom boy is a mobile disaster area.”
            Severus spoke the words without looking at Minerva. He knew what she would do: bristle in defense of her lions. She always did it. It was almost not worth taunting her about them in private, because her response was always predictable and would lead to hours of dragging conversation. The sin Severus could accuse most people of now was boring him.
            In this case, though, they were sitting in Albus’s office, and Albus had asked them to converse about the topic. So Severus spoke the words, and then settled back and tried not to let the rising sensation of intolerable greyness consume his mind.
            “Why do you say that, Severus?” Albus’s voice, so soft and quiet that Severus had once thought it was kind. He didn’t make that mistake now.
            He looked at the bridge of Albus’s nose and answered, “Not a class goes by without him melting a cauldron. He almost pisses himself when I look at him. I hear from Filius that he can’t write an essay on Charms theory to save his life, either. So many splotches and misspellings and simply wrong information. What is the point of the extra training he’s received, if he can’t answer questions that an ordinary first-year should be able to?”
            “You know the way he’s grown up,” Minerva snapped, on cue. Severus sighed, which only provoked her further. “That much training would take a toll on anyone. And the stress of being an orphan, and the Boy-Who-Lived, and not even knowing how you survived—I’ve had to stop the others from asking Mr. Longbottom about his parents’ deaths three times already!”
            Severus thought about informing her of some of the things his peers had asked him about, when he had been a first-year student. But there was a reason that both Minerva and Longbottom had never been considered for Severus’s House. He said only, “If he makes a menace of himself in Potions class, then he deserves what he gets. Where was his vaunted training then? He could have learned at least the basics of Potions theory.”
            “You must be kinder to him, Severus.” That was Albus, and Severus felt something unpleasant stir to life in his gut. That was far closer to the kind of thing he would have expected Minerva to say. “You know what sorts of hopes ride on his shoulders. Minerva is right. It’s a burden too great for a single child to carry.”
            It had been a tiring first month for Severus, for more reasons than Longbottom, but Longbottom had contributed his share to that exhaustion. He raised an eyebrow and asked, “Then why have you required him to carry them?”
            “What?”
            It is like Albus to play innocent now. Severus didn’t intend to back down. He leaned forwards a little and said, “You could have raised him—had Augusta raise him—in one of two ways. In the first, he undergoes training until he becomes the hero that you keep claiming we need. In the other, he would be a normal boy and face the Dark Lord down with the power of love alone that you keep harping on.”
            “The power of love saved the boy. I’m certain it was Alice’s sacrifice that—”
            Severus kept on rolling, ignoring Minerva’s gasp as he interrupted the Headmaster. She would see worse than that if she wanted to stay. “But you cannot have both at once. You cannot tell us that he has undergone extensive training and still expect us to coddle him. I expected to see an extraordinary boy or an ordinary one, one or the other. Not a pathetic one.”
            “You have no compassion in you, Severus Snape! You have no idea what that boy has gone through—”
            Albus raised a hand. He and Severus were looking each other in the eye now, and Severus could feel the subtle push against his Occlumency shields that it seemed Albus exerted with everyone, whether or not he meant to. He couldn’t help it. “Leave, Minerva, please.”
            “Mr. Longbottom is my student.”
            “And we will discuss him later, I promise you.” Briefly, Albus broke the staring contest to look at Minerva and smile. “I will value your input on him. For now, though, old friend, please.”
            Minerva gave a deep sniff and a shake of her head, then stood up and departed muttering about things. Severus was certain she would waylay him to continue the discussion later.
            He did not care. He would be able to lash back with more surety than he could in Albus’s office. For now, he waited, and did not look away even when Albus folded his hands on the desk and tried the “I am disappointed in you, my dear boy” glance.
            “You must not denigrate Mr. Longbottom. You do not know what he has suffered.”
            “I know exactly what he had suffered. You and the press and Minerva and everyone else told me so often enough.”
            “Mr. Longbottom has a problem with—self-confidence.” Albus was picking his way more carefully through this confrontation than Severus had expected him to. “He’s been told all his life what heroes his parents were. He has a lot to live up to.”
            “He can do it outside my classroom.”
            “Severus, you knew that he would be involved in his education—”
            “I did not expect to be involved in his rearing.”
            Albus let his eyebrows furrow. “You mean that. You think he is not ready to be the Boy-Who-Lived?”
            “Is that all you see him as?” Severus shook his head. He did not like the boy, although Longbottom was not the stuck-up prat Severus had thought he would be. The way he moaned and shook when Severus even spoke to another student was as annoying as a puffed-up head. “I wonder if that is why he seems so young. You tell him how great a hero he is, he doesn’t feel he can live up to it, so he tries to be a child to hide.”
            “I only ask you to be patient with him, Severus. You know as well as I do that Augusta would intimidate anyone.”
            Severus held back the snap he wanted to give. He said only, “At least Mr. Longbottom is tolerable. Mr. Potter is not.”
            Albus blinked, and Severus could almost see him wrenching his mind out of whatever groove it had run along. “What do you mean, Severus? I haven’t heard anyone talk about Harry Potter as if he caused trouble. Minerva has nothing but praise for his Transfiguration ability. Filius says he is quiet, but fitting right in with his Housemates.”
            “They do not see him in Potions,” Severus spat. “They do not see James Potter in him.”
            “Well, but how? Tell me.” Albus gave him a sad smile. “It would be a relief to my mind, to turn from talking about the boy on whom our world depends to one who has troubles more befitting an ordinary student.”
            Severus hesitated, but he knew Albus wouldn’t be as protective of Harry Potter as he would of Longbottom. Albus had favored James at one point, true, and Lily had been one of his favorite students. But ten years spent in St. Mungo’s had erased most emotions for them except pity from Albus’s mind.
            “It started with the first Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff Potions class,” he began.
*
            “Who are they, Harry? I think they’re looking for you.”
            Harry turned his head. Boot had whispered into his ear, but most of the other first-year Ravenclaws turned around when he did. Harry had noticed that they tended to move in a pack. He wondered sometimes if they were afraid of older students hurting them if they didn’t, but he hadn’t bothered asking.
            Draco Malfoy was swaggering towards him with the two bulky students, Crabbe and Goyle, behind him. All three of them wore Slytherin ties, of course. Malfoy didn’t carry any books, though. One of his minions probably had them, Harry thought, standing still. They were in the middle of a public corridor, and Malfoy couldn’t simply hex Harry and get away with it.
            “He insulted my parents on the train,” Harry told Boot. He’d shifted around like he was waiting for an answer.
            “Bad move,” Corner announced. He was shy enough to be intimidated by Harry, but he acted like he was happy when Harry might hurt someone else. Harry didn’t understand why. Then again, he had never claimed to understand people.
            Before Harry could respond, Malfoy and his minions came to a halt in front of them. Malfoy looked around and gave a faint sneer. “Surrounded by half-bloods, Potter?”
            “At least we don’t insult people’s heroic parents,” said Goldstein.
            “Did I talk to you? No, half-blood.” Malfoy turned dismissively back in Harry’s direction. “Or are you his mouthpiece now? Too good to do your own talking, Potter?” Malfoy laughed, and on cue his minions chuckled, too.
            Harry sighed. He was bored. Malfoy was going to be an obstacle. He’d already shown up twice in the library when Harry was trying to study Transfiguration and made loud comments at the air, although he’d also left in disgust when Harry didn’t respond.
            “Not too good to do my own laughing.”
            Malfoy immediately shifted a little forwards, ready for the attack. “You should be smart enough to know what will happen when the Dark Lord rises again.”
            Several people around Harry sucked in their breaths, shocked. Harry just stared at Malfoy and said emotionlessly, “At least my parents fought him instead of bowed down to him. Tell me, were the hems of the Dark Lord’s robes dirty? Your father must have spent a lot of time looking at them, so I thought you’d probably know.”
            Malfoy flushed and spluttered in rage and grabbed his wand. Harry didn’t bother drawing his. For one thing, several other people around him had already drawn theirs.
            For another, he’d seen a swirl of dark robes from the corner of his eye.
            “What is this? Ravenclaws fighting in the corridors? How disappointed Professor Flitwick will be.”
            It was Snape, the bully who had glared Harry at the first feast. Harry thought he’d seen Snape watching him several times since then, as well. Harry just looked calmly up at him and then away, towards Malfoy’s drawn wand.
            “Malfoy was going to hex us first, Professor.” That was Patil, speaking earnestly, the way she always did when something offended her sense of justice. Harry sighed without making a sound. He could have told her it was useless. “He just came up to Harry and insulted his parents, and—”
            “No, Professor, that’s not the way it happened at all.” Malfoy had a silver tongue around adults, at least, Harry thought. Of course, so did Dudley. “I was walking along not bothering anybody, and Potter was the one who decided to insult my parents.”
            “Detention, Mr. Potter. With me. This Friday evening at seven.” Snape stared at them with his eyes glittering for a minute, and then added, “And I believe that you are about to be late for my class, little birds.”
            That galvanized the lot of them into motion. Harry followed along behind Boot. He did glance back once, to see Malfoy talking earnestly to Snape, waving his arms around as if he thought that would make his story more convincing.
            Snape wasn’t looking at him, though. He still had his stare fastened to the back of Harry’s robe.
            Harry turned away. So Snape was a bully. He had known that. The task would be to let it keep from interfering with his plans.
*
            “I’m nervous. I know Snape doesn’t like Gryffindors, but no one ever said anything about him not liking Ravenclaws…”
            Harry smiled as comfortingly as he could at Boot while they set their cauldron up. Boot was his partner, of course, the way he was Harry’s partner in most of their classes. Harry didn’t mind that. Boot was talkative, but he did his work fast, and mostly well, and he liked to read. Harry could have had someone like Malfoy want to be his partner instead.
            “It’s unfair!” Boot brought his cauldron down with a ringing slam on the table. “He shouldn’t favor his own House and hate all the others.”
            Harry thought for a second about telling Boot that he was fairly sure the other Ravenclaws had nothing to worry about. It was Harry Snape hated, Harry he kept staring at even before the little fight with Malfoy in the corridors.
            But he didn’t give up any secrets he didn’t need to, and he had to hold onto this one, too. It might be useful someday. Or at least it would keep people from trying to hurt him with it.
            Snape spelled the door shut when he came in, making it bang to with a tremendous crash. A few of the more timid Hufflepuffs shrieked or squeaked.
            Harry had been waiting for it because that was one of Dudley’s favorite tricks, and he didn’t jump. He just looked at Snape as he strode to the front of the classroom and spun around, his arms folded.
            “You should already have read ahead in your books,” Snape said, after a glance that silenced the people who were still trying to talk. Harry watched him. Snape began to pace along the front tables and then back again. He did it slowly, not fast. Like a stalking tiger, Harry thought. He had started researching animals, and some of the books in the library had pictures in them of how the animals moved.
            “You should already know that Potions is a different type of magic than all the other foolish wand-waving classes you might take in this school. Here, a word in the recipe can make the difference between a successful potion and an inferior effort.” Snape showed his canines when he grinned. “Between life and death.”
            An art of Word. Professor McGonagall was right.
            “But you would only know that if you have spent time with your books. Surely not a hard proposition for a Ravenclaw.” Snape spun and ended up with his nose pointing at Harry and Boot’s table. Boot dropped the quill he was holding from a limp hand. Harry looked at Snape. “Mr. Potter.” Harry knew he was probably the only one who heard how much hatred rested in that word.
            It was a different kind of hatred from Uncle Vernon’s. Not worse, though.
            “Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?”
            Harry tilted his head. He had been reading the Potions book last night and had had to look that strange word up. It was probably the only reason he knew the answer to Snape’s question. “In the stomach of a goat, Professor.”
            “And?” Snape pressed forwards as if he wanted to leap right over the table and come after them. Boat moaned a little. Harry just stayed quiet. Moaning wouldn’t help with bullies. He’d learned that a long time ago. “What is it, boy?”
            Boy. That was what Uncle Vernon called him almost all the time, and Aunt Petunia half the time.
            At least he probably won’t say “freak,” since he knows magic, too, Harry thought, and answered. “A stone that can cure poisons, Professor Snape.”
            “It does not cure them, it neutralizes them, and not all poisons. Only most. Five points from Ravenclaw.”
            Harry blinked. He wondered for a moment whether Snape was going to be that picky with everyone, but he didn’t think so. It was just Harry, for some reason.
            And then he saw the way Snape looked at him. Harry wondered something else. What’s he waiting for? Snape liked to pace and walk around the classroom, that much was certain. Did he think Harry should apologize for not knowing something Harry doubted anyone else knew, either?
            Then Harry almost smiled. No. He’s waiting for me to do what Boot did. Show some fear. Break down because he took points. Shriek that it’s not fair.
            Harry stood there, and met Snape’s eyes, and waited.
            “We are going to brew a potion to cure boils today,” Snape announced, and turned away, slashing his wand savagely at the board. Instructions appeared. “Go fetch what is needed and obey these instructions. Now.”
            “Snape’s a monster!” Boot whispered as they moved towards the storage cupboard. “He didn’t even call our names. How does we know who we are and who’s going to do the potion right?”
            “Not a proper teacher, not really,” Patil agreed. Her face was hostile when she turned to look at Snape. “I heard some people say that he didn’t aspire to be a professor at all. He only accepted this offer to be Potions professor at Hogwarts because they needed one and Snape might have gone to Azkaban otherwise…”
            “That’s not the kind of gossip it’s wise to repeat, Patil,” Zacharias Smith said warningly, stopping in front of them for a moment. “Nothing was ever proven.”
            It was proven enough for Harry, though, especially since Patil only shook her head and said, “My parents wouldn’t have told me that if there wasn’t some truth to it.”
            A former Death Eater. That explains a lot. Of course he hates anyone who’s the child of people who fought on the right side.
            Harry decided he didn’t need to worry about it. Harry’s Housemates seemed to think what Snape had done was unfair, instead of blaming Harry for losing the points. That meant they wouldn’t get in the way by being tiresome.
            And Snape wouldn’t care about Transfiguration or Harry’s parents in particular. He was unlikely to do any more than take points and yell in class.
            After years of the Dursleys, it was all very survivable.
*
            The Potter brat’s mind was filled with images of his parents.
            That was all Severus had seen when he tricked the boy into looking directly at him. Nothing about Potions, books, frantic musings on homework, even the relatives that Minerva was telling all and sundry didn’t treat Potter as they should. Ridiculous, Severus knew. The Wizengamot had determined that James had no surviving relatives, and Lily no magical family at all, and therefore the boy would have to grow up with her sister. They had sent several wizards along to explain the situation.
            Severus had heard about that only secondhand, but in those days, his hatred for what had happened to Lily had burned so hot it compelled him to seek out every shard of news connected to her. He knew enough to satisfy him.
            Three Wizengamot members in full splendor had descended on Petunia and offered her the boy, and outlined the situation, including what would happen to her if she mistreated a magical child. Petunia was easily cowed. Severus would say it was her only attractive characteristic. She might dislike any child of her sister’s, but she wouldn’t mistreat him.
            But no. His aunt wasn’t there in Potter’s mind, even though she must have been the one he spent the majority of his time with. It was James lying drooling on his bed, and Lily gazing at her hands.
            Lily…
            Severus let his hand rest for the hardest moment on the edge of his desk, and shook his head a little. He had found that if he allowed himself a minute or so to think about Lily each day, then it was all the easier to forsake the reality of her in St. Mungo’s and turn back to the reality that had to matter to him, that of Hogwarts and his classes.
            He turned about just in time to see Potter shoot his hand out and grab Boot’s. Severus swooped towards them. He heard Potter say, “No, we can’t add the porcupine quills yet. See? We have to wait.”
            “How do you know that, Harry? You’re so good with everything, I swear.”
            Potter just smiled quietly—in the way James would have smiled if someone praised him, Severus thought—and shook his head. “I only followed the instructions. I just read.”
            “But you’re still good.” Boot reached for his mortar and pestle.
            “You should have read those instructions on your own, Boot. I expect better of a Ravenclaw.” Boot stiffened, and Severus gave a little nod. At least someone was as terrified of him as they should be, instead of using the image of a broken James Potter as a shield of some kind. “The next time you enter this classroom, both you and Potter will have found new partners.”
            “Yes, sir.”
            “Yes, sir.”
            Boot sounded as though he was trembling and hated himself for it. Potter sounded as though he was being told the definition of a word he already knew.
            Infuriated, Severus skimmed the surface of Potter’s mind again. He saw James coming out of the bathroom, and Potter’s complete and utter enthrallment with the man’s glasses, of all things. He looks like me.
            Severus pulled himself out, sickened. That was at least one thing he would say for James Potter. The man didn’t spend any time on his appearance, and didn’t care who knew it. He would even brag about the wild mess of his hair as though carelessness showed a superior moral strain of the soul.
            For Potter to think so about his appearance…
            Well. Severus would see what mettle Potter showed in his detention.
*
            Potter showed none.
            He arrived, and Severus laid down his quill and spent some time surveying the boy. Potter acted as though Severus wasn’t looking at him at all. He simply turned his head from side to side, eyes sweeping across the glass jars on the shelves of Severus’s office. He seemed to be as interested in what he saw there as he had been in the instructions for the Boil Cure potion that morning.
            Not very, Severus concluded, and jerked his head at the back of the office, where he had cauldrons stacked that bore stubborn, complicated, spreading patterns of stains. “You are to scrub those. Without magic. Work until I tell you to stop.”
            Potter nodded.
            “What do you say, boy?”
            Potter looked momentarily surprised, as if he hadn’t thought Severus would care that he’d got a nod rather than a verbal answer. “Yes, sir.”
            “Get to work,” Severus snapped, and turned back to the essays he was marking. He continued to watch Potter out of the corner of his eye.
            Potter didn’t complain about the wire scrubbing brush. Or the stains. Or the number of cauldrons. Or the length of time it was taking. He simply used the brush, and bent over the cauldrons, and tipped it over so that flakes of rust and discarded dirt slipped out, and then went to work on the next one.
            But he was doing something. The closer Severus observed him, the more he could make it out. Potter was whispering to himself, the words so soft Severus could, in fact, only guess they were words. Severus frowned and cast a spell that would let him hear what Potter was saying.
            “Unguis, that’s claw. But also finger. Sanguis, that’s blood. Callum, skin…”
            Potter was muttering Latin to himself? Severus sat slowly back. He wondered for a moment why. None of those were words that Potter would use regularly anywhere in the first-year curriculum, even in Transfiguration or Charms. Perhaps Potter’s sudden obsession would have made sense if he had a Dark Arts class, as they did at Durmstrang, but here, Severus could not place it.
            Unless he wants to impress Minerva by studying ahead for her subject. Or appearing to study ahead. The boy has next to no imagination, given that obsession about his parents. Ordinary children let their minds wander sometimes.
            That had been the remarkable thing. Severus had dipped into Potter’s mind several times during the Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff class, and every time, Potter was thinking about his parents. Not lunch or when the class would end or even what petty rivalries and friendships he must have springing up with his Housemates.
            Obsessed with his family legacy. Of course he is. I wonder what he would do if I told him his father was a bully?
            Severus did not intend to make the test, as that would have meant he would also make Potter wonder how he knew.
            “You will cease muttering to yourself, Potter,” he said crisply. “This is detention, not your study session.”
            Potter promptly shut his mouth. Severus stared at his back. That would have merited a protest from most students. Potter, it seemed, had so much supreme ego that he didn’t care what anyone else said or did.
            His father in miniature. If in a different way than I expected.
            Severus turned back to the essays. He had already spent too much time contemplating James Potter’s warped spawn.
            But he did retain one spark of amusement. The boy was going to get some unexpected results if he tried the Latin words he had been practicing in Transfiguration essays. For one thing, callum didn’t simply mean skin. It meant hard skin, specifically.
            Imagine if he tries to write about softening his skin, and uses that word instead. Imagine the look on Minerva’s face.
*
            Oculus, that’s eye. And pupula is the pupil of the eye. If I want to give myself sharper sight, then I have to remember the difference between them.
            Harry leaned across the top cauldron to scrub harder at the other side of it. In the meantime, with his free hand hidden inside the cauldron, he practiced the wand movements he would need to make to cast one spell he’d found in the third-year Transfiguration book, Oculus Aquilae, Eagle Eyes. That book and Professor Flitwick and other books Harry had found in the library said you had to get your muscles used to performing wand movements, or it would be difficult to learn them later.
            Around, down, up. No, probably not at that sharp angle. The book said he had to be careful of that, or he could end up giving the eagle eyes to someone else.
            Around, down, up. That was better.
            Harry moved on to the next cauldron, and worked his hand through the motions of a Tiger Claw spell there, until Snape snapped, “Dismissed.”
            Harry turned around. Snape was glaring at him. Harry shrugged mentally as he laid down the scrubbing brush on the table and walked to the door. He didn’t know why Snape hated him, the way he didn’t know exactly why Uncle Vernon hated him so much. Yes, he had magic, which Uncle Vernon had known and he hadn’t, but Harry thought it would have made more sense to tell him about the magic. Then he could have worked on controlling it.
            Snape was even more of a mystery. But if he could use Snape’s detentions to practice his spells, then Harry thought he could get used to them.
            Even better, he still had half an hour before curfew, and everyone had warned him that Snape’s detentions were unpredictably long. That gave him a little while to look around for a secret spot where he could study. The dungeons were probably the best bet. Even the Slytherins only seemed to spend time in a small portion of them.
*
            “Harry!”
            Harry turned around in surprise. Finnigan had come up behind him and draped a casual arm around Harry’s shoulder. A few of the Gryffindors with him gave them odd looks, but kept on walking.
            No one in their House cares about someone being friends from another House. I bet the Slytherins do. Harry had already seen Malfoy challenge one of the other Slytherin first-years for talking to a Hufflepuff girl.
            “I was really surprised when you didn’t get Sorted into Gryffindor,” Finnigan chattered on as he tugged Harry towards the Gryffindor table. Boot stared at them, but didn’t say anything. “You were the only one I was wrong on, you know. Greengrass and Zabini both went to Slytherin, and here I am.” He grabbed his red-and-gold tie and shook it happily.
            Harry hoped he didn’t look as envious as he felt. The Gryffindors were yawning and eating and joking with each other. There seemed to be most of a whole red-headed family there. What would it be like to have sisters and brothers that you went into the same House with?
            “You only predicted four people, though,” Harry said, feeling like he had to say something when Finnigan turned to look at him. “I mean, it would be more impressive if you’d had a larger number to predict. If you only got one wrong out of ten people, that would be something.”
            Finnigan laughed. “Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that you went to Ravenclaw, after all! That’s such a Claw thing to say.”
            Harry wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what would be good. He settled for shrugging, and Finnigan knuckled his hair playfully and let Harry go.
            “You’re welcome if you want to sit with us, though,” Finnigan continued, waving a hand at some of the other Gryffindor first-years. “This is Dean Thomas.” That was a tall boy with dark skin who smiled a lot more than Blaise Zabini had. “And Ron Weasley.” What must be the youngest of the red-haired boys nodded at Harry. “And…” Finnigan lowered his voice a little. “Neville Longbottom.”
            Harry blinked as he looked at the Boy-Who-Lived. He looked permanently pale, sort of like Malfoy. His lightning bolt scar stood out so redly on his forehead that it reminded Harry of the sores he’d sometimes got when he lived with the Dursleys.
            But Longbottom gave him a wavering smile and whispered, “My Gran told me a few things about your parents. They were b-brave. I hope I can be as brave as they were one day.”
            “Thanks,” said Harry. “I heard about your parents, too. I’m sorry they’re gone.”
            Longbottom nodded and turned away to eat. Harry thought he saw a tear quivering at the corner of Longbottom’s eye, but he certainly wasn’t going to call attention to it. He sat down and listened to Finnigan talk to Thomas and Weasley about Quidditch, and noticed the way that Longbottom seemed to be alone even though he was always surrounded by people who wanted to talk to him.
            It must be lonely to survive Lord Dudders like that.
            Harry was glad he didn’t have to deal with the burden. At least he was just an ordinary person most people would ignore and he had a chance of getting his parents back someday.
            He imagined what it would be like when he had healed his parents. How his father would smile. The look in his mother’s eyes when she smoothed her hand over Harry’s hair.
            It hurt to imagine. But Harry knew he had to, because someday he would have it.
*
            Harry went to Charms after breakfast, with the Gryffindors splitting up because they needed to go to Potions. Longbottom had begun shaking when Finnigan mentioned Professor Snape’s name. Harry had wondered why Snape hated Longbottom, but then remembered, again, that Snape was a Death Eater.
            He probably hated Longbottom even more than he’d hated Harry. Harry felt sorry for the boy.
            “That was kind of low, Harry.”
            Harry blinked and looked up from his Charms book. Boot dropped into the seat beside him and glared. Goldstein sat down on Harry’s other side, looking equally upset. Harry couldn’t see how Corner looked because he was sitting beyond Goldstein at another table.
            “What are you talking about?” Harry asked. He was at a loss as to what he’d done. He hadn’t even lost more House points since the ones Snape had taken from him in the corridor for talking to Malfoy.
            “You went over and ate with the Gryffindors, and acted all friendly with them when you haven’t even spent time with them before.” Boot was taking out his Charms book with big, clumsy movements, like the kind Harry used to make in class when he was trying to hide how much Dudley upset him. “We’re your Housemates and we spend time with you all damn day and you still act like you can’t stand the sight of us.”
            “Language,” Corner whispered in an awed voice.
            Boot ignored him, leaning towards Harry. “I thought I was your friend. And I just realized I’d never heard you call me by my first name and I’ve never seen you smile at me the way you did at Finnigan.”
            Harry stared. His first thought was to wonder why anyone would care. No one had ever cared at his old school. In fact, kids would have screamed in fear of Dudley if Harry had smiled at them or acted friendly towards them. Harry had sometimes done it to people he didn’t like very much, purely to upset them.
            But here…
            “I—didn’t know you wanted me to do that,” he said finally. “I didn’t have many friends in primary school, you know.”
            “Your family never took you to visit anyone else?” Goldstein frowned at him. “My Muggle cousins met my magical cousins. We all knew each other.”
            “I didn’t know I was a wizard until the day I turned eleven,” Harry said, shaking his head. He decided telling them a little couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like they would owl the Dursleys to complain. “My aunt and uncle don’t like magic much. Neither does my cousin. They kept from telling me about magic. Well, I don’t think my cousin ever knew.”
            “What does that have to do with friends?”
            Harry turned to look at Boot. “My cousin kept me from having friends at school. He would beat up anyone who tried. He said that I was—” No, Harry still wasn’t ready to tell them about the word freak. “Weird, and anyone who wanted to spend time with me was weird, too.”
            They all stared at him again. Harry sighed as he watched Patil come into the class. If she heard about this, Harry would never hear the end of it, because she would analyze it to death. “So that’s it,” he said, and shook his head a little. “I really wanted to be in Gryffindor, because my parents were. I shared a boat with Finnigan the first night, and he told me he was sure I would be in Gryffindor. So I was just spending time with them because Finnigan pulled me over there, and it was nice for me to pretend that I was part of the House I wanted to be in for a while.”
            Boot paused, then said, “Well, my name is Terry. And you can act like you know I exist.”
            “All right, Terry.” The name still sounded really strange on Harry’s tongue, but it seemed to keep Boot happy.
            “And I’m Anthony.”
            “And I’m Michael.” Corner’s voice was so quiet that Harry mostly only knew what he said because he already knew Corner’s first name.
            “Anthony, Michael.” Harry nodded to them and looked back at his Charms book. Goldstein moved over next to Corner and started talking to him about the Defense essay they’d apparently been working on last night. Harry had already finished it. He wondered if he should show that he did feel all right towards them by saying something about it.
            But Boot nudged him and made Harry turn around. Boot’s face was pale, like Longbottom, like Malfoy, and he looked deadly serious.
            “I need to tell you something, Harry.”
            “Okay.” Harry waited. If Boot was going to say something about the Dursleys being abusive, Harry knew how to make him stop thinking about it.
            But Boot shocked him. “I think you’re one of the least Gryffindor people I’ve ever met. So I think it’s fine if you have Gryffindor friends and want to spend time with them, but you don’t really fit in with them. Finnigan’s blind if he thinks you do. Maybe you should accept your true House.”
            Harry found himself clutching the side of his trousers. “But I stood up to Malfoy the other day. Wasn’t that brave?”
            “I don’t know.” Boot peered at him. “I can’t tell so many things with you, Harry. I never know what you’re really thinking or feeling.”
            Not Slytherin. I’m not Slytherin.
            But the last thing Harry wanted was to say that, in case it started Boot thinking about things he shouldn’t think about. Harry ended up lowering his head and shrugging. “Sorry. Like I said, I don’t have a lot of experience making friends. So I probably do sound strange, just like my cousin said.”
            “All right. But—please talk sometimes? It’s strange having you around when you almost never say anything. Like having a ghost for a Housemate.”
            “All right, Terry,” Harry said. If Boot wanted him to talk a little more, then he could. “Do you think that Professor Flitwick meant what he said about giving detentions for not studying enough? I think he was joking, but some of the second-years said he does give them.”
            Boot beamed and immediately started in. “No, I think they have to be joking. What’s studying enough, anyway? I need to study more for Defense than Anthony does, but if he punished Anthony, that would just be stupid, because Anthony is really better at the class than I am…”
            Harry nodded throughout the lecture. It was simple, when he thought about it. Instead of nods, sometimes he said a few words. And he called Boot by his first name, which seemed to make him really happy.
            It wasn’t that Harry resented it or anything. It just astonished him. Why would anyone care that much about what he said? Boot and Goldstein had known each other before Hogwarts, it turned out, and Corner fit right in with them. Why would they want Harry as a friend when they had each other?
            It was so weird, having people care about things like that.
*
Eren: Well, I didn’t update it yesterday, but here’s the next chapter.
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The Art of Self-Fashioning