Chapter Text
The Great Hall was filled with excited chatter as the Sorting Ceremony began, but a peculiar hush fell over the room when Professor McGonagall called out the name everyone had been waiting to hear.
“Harry Potter.”
The boy who stepped forward was not what anyone expected. He moved with an eerie calm, his black school robes pristine, his face expressionless as his sharp green eyes scanned the hall. Whispers ran through the students—this was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, but he seemed so… cold, so different from the image that had been painted of him in wizarding folklore.
Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow as Harry approached the stool. There was something unnerving about the way he carried himself, something deliberate. She glanced at Dumbledore, whose usually twinkling eyes were more thoughtful than amused. Even the teachers seemed surprised by the boy’s demeanor.
As the Sorting Hat settled on Harry’s head, it began to hum thoughtfully in his ear.
“Curious, very curious,” it mused, as if speaking more to itself than to Harry. “Cunning… calculated… but there’s more, much more. Ambition runs deep within you. Yes… you would do well in Slytherin, though I sense… hmm… your path is not set in stone.”
Harry’s face remained impassive. He felt no attachment to one house or another. All that mattered was learning what he needed to learn, mastering the skills necessary to survive. He wasn’t here to be a hero. He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to win.
After a long pause, the hat shouted its decision: “SLYTHERIN!”
The hall went silent.
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At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy was the first to react, a smug grin spreading across his face as he watched Harry approach. This was unexpected but not unwelcome—having Harry Potter in Slytherin would be a great boon to the house’s reputation.
Harry sat at the table, barely acknowledging Draco or the others who whispered excitedly around him. He glanced at the Gryffindor table briefly and noticed how Ron Weasley’s face fell in disbelief. There was confusion, even disappointment, on the faces of many students who had assumed that the Boy Who Lived would be destined for Gryffindor.
Across the room, Hermione Granger looked particularly perplexed, her brows furrowed as she exchanged whispers with Ron. Harry, however, didn’t care. He wasn’t here for their approval.
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The Professors’ Reactions
At the staff table, Dumbledore’s expression remained neutral, though his eyes lingered on Harry longer than usual. He exchanged a quick glance with Professor Snape, who, for the first time, seemed caught off guard. Snape’s dark eyes flickered as they locked on Harry—was it suspicion? Interest? Surprise?
Snape watched the boy as he took his seat at the Slytherin table. There was something familiar about the way Potter held himself. He didn’t have the wide-eyed innocence of most first-years, nor the eagerness to please. Instead, Potter seemed to possess a self-assuredness that reminded Snape of another boy from years ago—Tom Riddle.
McGonagall, on the other hand, pursed her lips. Though she tried to hide her reaction, it was clear she hadn’t expected this outcome. Her eyes followed Harry with a sense of foreboding, though she trusted the hat’s decision.
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In the Common Room
When Harry entered the Slytherin common room that night, the atmosphere was one of guarded excitement. Draco Malfoy, always eager to take charge, stepped forward with his usual arrogance.
“So,” Draco drawled, “Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, in Slytherin. I reckon the Daily Prophet will have a field day with that.”
Harry looked at him coolly. “I’m sure they will.”
Draco hesitated. He had expected Potter to be more… chatty. More like a celebrity. But this Potter was reserved, calm, and unnervingly hard to read.
“We’ll show them what real power looks like,” Draco continued, trying to coax some reaction out of him.
Harry merely raised an eyebrow, giving nothing away. “I’m not interested in proving anything to anyone.”
The other Slytherins watched in silence, unsure of what to make of the exchange. Pansy Parkinson whispered something to Daphne Greengrass, her eyes narrowing at Harry’s aloofness.
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Classroom Reactions
The next day in Potions class, the tension was palpable. Professor Snape swept into the room, his usual sneer in place, though his gaze flickered briefly toward Harry. He knew the boy’s reputation, of course, but seeing him in Slytherin robes, sitting so still and observant, made Snape pause for a fraction of a second.
The class began, and as expected, Snape’s attention drifted toward the Gryffindors, particularly Neville Longbottom, whom he could always rely on to make mistakes. But as the lesson progressed, Snape found himself glancing more frequently at Harry, who was brewing his potion with careful precision. Unlike the other first-years, who fumbled with their ingredients and kept sneaking glances at their textbooks, Harry worked methodically, his expression never betraying a hint of emotion.
“Potter,” Snape called out, as he swept past the rows of cauldrons. “Since you seem so confident, let’s see if you can explain the properties of moonstone in this particular draught.”
Without missing a beat, Harry looked up. “Moonstone enhances the calming properties of the potion, slowing the heart rate and reducing anxiety. However, if overused, it can cause the draught to become too potent, leading to a coma.”
Snape raised an eyebrow. The answer was flawless. “Indeed,” he said, though his tone was clipped, as if annoyed by Harry’s precision.
The Gryffindors exchanged nervous glances. This wasn’t the Harry they had expected. And the Slytherins? They were intrigued. Even Draco, who prided himself on being top of the class, couldn’t help but feel that Harry was a rival to be taken seriously.
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