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Chapter Text

The air in Dumbledore's office was always thick with something unspoken. Dust, yes—settled in crevices of the bookshelves and beneath the gleam of strange little instruments—but heavier still was the sense that every conversation here was just the surface of some deeper current. And today, Harry had had enough of being dragged under.

"I'm not doing it," Harry said flatly.

Dumbledore looked up from behind his desk, hands steepled, eyes as unreadable as they were ancient. "Harry, I assure you, this is not a request."

"Well, I'm not a soldier," Harry snapped. "You don't get to order me into battle every time something weird shows up. I'm not your bloody—"

"Tom."

The name slipped out like a curse. Quiet, accidental, but sharp as shattered glass.

Harry froze.

So did Dumbledore.

It hung in the air for a second. Two. An eternity, maybe. Harry's hands, clenched at his sides, loosened just enough to tremble.

"What did you just call me?" he said, voice low. Controlled.

Dumbledore's expression didn't change much—but it changed enough. His posture remained the same, but his eyes widened, only a fraction. Concern, maybe. Regret. Definitely fear.

"I apologize," Dumbledore said carefully. "That was—unintentional."

Harry laughed, once, cold and sharp. "Unintentional," he repeated. "Sure. Right. Just a little Freudian slip, huh, Headmaster?"

"Harry—"

"No. Don't 'Harry' me. If you're going to sit there and look at me like I'm a ticking time bomb, if every time I push back, you flinch like I've grown horns and hissed Parseltongue at you—then maybe you're right."

Dumbledore straightened. "I never said you were like him."

"But you think it." Harry's voice was rising now, heat spilling into his cheeks. "I've seen the way you look at me. Every time I lose my temper. Every time I question you. You're not worried about me, you're worried about what I might become."

"That is not true."

"Then why did you call me Tom?"

Silence.

Harry stepped forward, a bitter little smile curling on his lips. "Fine," he said. "If that's all you're ever going to see—then maybe I'll make it easier for you. Maybe I will be him. I'll stop being your perfect little 'Boy Who Lived.'"

Dumbledore's jaw tightened, but his voice remained calm. "You are not him, Harry. You are more than what you've suffered."

"Tell that to yourself," Harry shot back. "Because it's not me who's acting like a ghost is sitting in this room. It's you. And if I'm already judged for something I haven't done, then maybe I'll stop wasting energy trying to be what you want."

Dumbledore stood. Slowly. "You don't mean that."

"I do." Harry's voice was steady now. Too steady. "And you're going to find some excuse—some noble reason to reshuffle all the Houses this year. Maybe you'll say we've all grown. That we've changed. That maybe resorting us will bring new unity to Hogwarts. Something inspiring and impossible to argue with. And conveniently, you won't bother with the first or second years. They're too new. But the rest of us? We're fair game."

Harry took another step forward. "And when I sit on that stool again, when the Sorting Hat's brim touches my head, it's going to scream Slytherin. Loud and clear. And you'll have your Tom Riddle. Your self-fulfilling prophecy."

"You presume much," Dumbledore said, and there was a new edge to his voice. "To think I would manipulate the Sorting Hat for—"

"For what?" Harry cut in. "The Greater Good? Sound familiar?"

Dumbledore's silence this time was louder than any shout.

Harry turned for the door. "I'm done being your weapon. I'm not going to start murdering people—but I'm not going to keep sacrificing myself for everyone else, either."

He stopped, hand on the brass handle.

"And next time," he said without turning around, "call me by my name."

Then he left, the door clicking shut behind him, and for the first time in a long time, Dumbledore stood completely still—looking very old, and very, very unsure.

Two days later, Harry sat with Ron in the library, flipping idly through a textbook he wasn't really reading.

Ron leaned closer over the table. "So, the re-Sorting's officially happening at dinner tonight," he said, clearly unimpressed. "McGonagall put the notice up this morning. I don't get it, though. Doesn't seem like anyone's actually going to change Houses. What's the point?"

Harry shrugged without looking up. "You never know," he said evenly. "Some people... grow a lot over the years. Maybe it'll do some good."

Ron frowned, but before he could say anything else, Hermione returned with an armful of books.

"Ugh, I swear, someone keeps moving the Arithmancy section," she huffed, sliding into her seat. "Did you see the re-Sorting announcement?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah, we were just talking about it. Waste of time, if you ask me."

"I think it's kind of fascinating," Hermione said brightly. "Can you imagine someone like Ernie Macmillan getting sorted into Ravenclaw? Or Lavender into Hufflepuff? Actually, that might be an improvement."

Ron snorted. "What about Seamus? Think he's going to end up in Slytherin?"

"Not unless they've suddenly started letting people in for blowing things up," Hermione said, grinning. "But I could see Dean in Hufflepuff, honestly."

They went on like that for a while, throwing out names and House predictions, their chatter light and easy. Harry played along, but he wasn't really listening.

Across the room, Pansy Parkinson was spreading out her books on an empty table.

Harry stood up.

"I'll be back in a minute," he mumbled, already halfway across the library.

He reached her table and leaned in slightly, voice low. "Hey... what's Slytherin like?"

Pansy looked up, startled—then her eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. She blinked once.

"You think it's going to say Slytherin," she said quietly. Not a question.

Harry didn't respond.

She closed her book and tilted her head. "Well... We study together in the common room most nights. We look out for the younger ones—help them with homework, make sure no one messes with them. There's a kind of... structure, you know?"

Harry nodded once. Still silent.

"And we wear matching pyjama sets," she added, smirking. "Green silk. Monogrammed. Very posh."

Harry huffed a laugh under his breath.

Draco appeared beside her just then, slinging his bag onto the table. He glanced across the room toward Harry's table, then back at them.

"Are Granger and Weasley going to burn holes through your back, Potter, or are they just trying to telepathically summon you?"

Harry rolled his eyes but smiled slightly. "Thanks, Pansy," he said, stepping away.

"Anytime," she replied, voice light but eyes serious.

He returned to Ron and Hermione, who were both staring at him.

"What was that about?" Ron asked, brows raised.

Harry sat back down. "Nothing. Just... talking."

Hermione squinted. "With Pansy?"

"Yeah," Harry said simply, flipping his book open again. "She's not so bad."

Dinner came quickly.

The Great Hall buzzed with nervous energy. The Sorting Hat sat atop its stool at the front like it was ready to make history all over again, and murmurs rolled through the tables as names were being called.

A third-year Hufflepuff became a Ravenclaw. A fourth-year Slytherin was placed into Gryffindor, to the loudest round of applause yet. There were gasps, laughter, awkward cheers. Some students looked relieved. Some were outright panicking.

Hermione was called.

She walked up with the calm, determined stride she always had, sat, and barely had the hat touch her head before it called: "GRYFFINDOR!"

No one was surprised.

Ron followed shortly after. Same result. "GRYFFINDOR!" He looked incredibly smug walking back to the table.

Then: "Malfoy, Draco."

He sauntered to the stool like he was on a catwalk, sat with an elegant toss of his hair, and the Hat gave a pause—but not a long one. "SLYTHERIN!" it called again.

Draco stood, smirked, and returned to the Slytherin table as if he hadn't just had his identity questioned for five seconds.

And then—"Potter, Harry."

The room went silent.

Utterly, chillingly silent.

Harry stepped up slowly, but with his chin high. As he passed the staff table, he caught Dumbledore's eyes—and this time, the fear was not subtle. Dumbledore looked pale, even in the golden candlelight.

Harry just smirked.

Pansy, still seated at the Slytherin table, was watching him like a cat about to be proven right. She was already smirking.

He sat. The Sorting Hat was lowered onto his head.

"Well, well," the Hat murmured in his mind. "We meet again, Mr. Potter. I was right the first time, wasn't I?"

Harry didn't answer. He didn't need to.

"Very well, then," the Hat said, almost with satisfaction. "SLYTHERIN!"

The room exploded.

Gasps, murmurs, whispers so intense they might as well have been shouts. Ron looked like he'd been hexed. Hermione's jaw dropped—she looked like her brain had hit a wall mid-thought and was scrambling to recalculate everything she knew. Seamus just yelled "What?!" loud enough to echo.

Draco's eyebrows went straight up. Snape blinked—actually blinked—his face caught between amusement and deep, deep suspicion. McGonagall's lips had disappeared entirely. Dumbledore... looked like someone had pulled the floor out from beneath him. There was fear there, yes—but something else, too. Disappointment.

Harry's smirk faltered for the briefest moment.

But only briefly.

He stood, walked to the Slytherin table with measured steps, and sat down in the empty spot next to Pansy.

Draco was on his other side.

"Well, that was unexpected," Draco said, voice low and dry. "Though I suppose that's why you were whispering with Pansy in the library like it was some sort of underground interview process."

Harry didn't respond to that directly. He glanced back toward the staff table—Dumbledore hadn't looked away. That same unsettling combination of fear and disappointment still sat heavy in his eyes.

Harry turned back to his plate, jaw tight.

Before the silence could stretch, Theo leaned over the table, eyes wide and gleaming with mischief. "Did you see everyone's faces when the Hat said it? I mean—Granger looked like someone just rewrote all her notes in Troll. Her eye twitched. Like, actually twitched."

"Weasley looked like he was about to leap up and object—like, actually shout 'OBJECTION!' like it's a courtroom," Daphne said from further down the table, resting her chin on her hand.

"Seamus nearly fell off the bench," Blaise added, not even looking up from his plate. "Had to grab onto Dean like a baby Mandrake. Looked like he saw a ghost—no, worse, like he saw you doing Arithmancy for fun."

"McGonagall looked like she swallowed a lemon whole, stem and all," Theo said, grinning now. "Her hand actually jerked toward her wand like she had to physically stop herself from intervening."

"And Snape," Pansy added, snorting, "looked like someone had told him Christmas was canceled and we were having a Muggle Studies field trip. His mouth twitched. It twitched. That man hasn't smiled in twenty years, but I swear it was a twitch."

Luna, nearby at the Ravenclaw table, had tilted her head so far to the side she looked like she might tip over. "It makes sense," she murmured dreamily. "Snakes shed their skin when they outgrow it."

But it was Lupin—seated between Professors Sprout and Flitwick—who had Harry's attention for just a second. He didn't look shocked. Not exactly. Just... tired. As if he'd seen it coming, but hoped he'd be wrong. His eyes met Harry's briefly, and though his face didn't change, he offered a small nod. Something between be careful and I see you.

"And Dumbledore," Theo finished, practically vibrating with energy, "looked like someone reached into his chest and squeezed his heart just for fun. But slowly. Like, dramatically. I'm talking theatre-level tragedy. I wouldn't be surprised if he faints by dessert."

Draco leaned back in his seat with an exaggerated sigh, swirling his goblet like he was tasting wine. "So, Potter... how's it feel, not sleeping in the lion's den anymore? Missing the smell of burning bravery and poorly hidden insecurities yet?"

Harry didn't blink. "Honestly? Expected this. Wanted it, even."

That made Draco pause.

"I'm tired of pretending to be something I'm not," Harry continued, calm and collected. "Slytherin makes more sense than Gryffindor ever did. I don't want to play hero for people who just want me to break first. At least here, it feels like everyone knows exactly who they are—and they don't apologize for it."

Pansy grinned. "Now that sounds like a Slytherin."

Theo raised his goblet. "To our newest snake, then."

There was a chorus of murmured toasts, clinks of glass against glass.

"Bet the Gryffindor dorms are having a collective crisis," Daphne added. "Half of them probably think you're cursed now."

"Oh, they definitely think he's evil," Blaise said. "And honestly? I support the narrative. Keep them guessing."

"Gives us more dramatic flair," Pansy said with a wink.

Draco smirked, but there was a flicker of something more thoughtful in his eyes. "Well, welcome to the dungeons, Potter. Just don't mess up the aesthetic."

Harry smirked back. "I think I'll fit in just fine."

That night, the new Slytherin dorms felt warmer than Harry expected. Not literally—it was still a dungeon, after all—but something about the dim lighting, the emerald hangings, and the cozy hum of activity made it feel less like exile and more like a fresh start.

Harry entered the room he was now sharing with Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Vincent. Gregory had been re-Sorted into Hufflepuff—something about his unwavering loyalty, apparently.

Draco was lounging on his bed, flipping through a magazine when he glanced up and tossed something at Harry.

"Catch."

Harry caught the soft bundle—green silk pyjamas, monogrammed with silver thread. Neatly folded on top were a pair of green slippers shaped like miniature coiled snakes, their eyes little glass beads that glittered in the low light.

"Seriously?" Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"They're standard issue," Draco said, smirking. "Though I never used those. I've got dragon ones. Much more intimidating."

Blaise leaned on his four-poster, arms crossed. "Most of us just have boring green slippers. Draco here has a thing for dramatic footwear."

"They're practical and fabulous," Draco replied, completely unbothered.

Theo flopped onto his bed and looked over at Harry. "So... why'd you want to be Slytherin, really? You never answered that in the Great Hall."

Harry sat on his new bed, pulling the slippers on. They were oddly comfortable.

"There was a fight," he said. "With Dumbledore. He—he called me Tom. By accident."

Harry paused, the words clawing their way up. "It wasn't just the name slip. It was everything behind it. The way he looked at me. Like he expected me to become him. Like I was one bad day away from turning into Voldemort. And honestly? It's not new. That's how it's always been with him. Since first year."

The others were quiet, watching him.

Harry went on, voice steadier now, like it was a relief to say it out loud. "I've spent years trying to be what he wanted. What everyone wanted. The perfect Golden Boy. Savior of the Wizarding World. Selfless. Brave. Forgiving. But it never mattered. I was always treated like a weapon first. Like a symbol. Not a person."

He looked up at them, eyes hard. "And I'm done with that. Slytherin... it makes sense. I'm not perfect. I don't want to be. I want to be somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere I'm allowed to be angry or ambitious or complicated without someone immediately thinking I'm going to turn into a Dark Lord."

His voice dropped a bit. "The only reason I wasn't sorted here in the first place was because I begged the Hat not to put me in the same House as Draco."

Draco blinked. "Well, ouch."

Harry snorted. "No offense. I was eleven. You insulted Ron's entire family in the first ten seconds we met."

Draco nodded slowly. "Yeah, fair enough."

Theo tossed a pillow at Draco. "Character growth. We love to see it."

Laughter rippled through the room, easy and unforced.

"All right, snakes," Blaise said, standing and stretching. "Shall we make a dramatic, silk-clad entrance into the common room?"

The boys all pulled on their pyjama sets, an unspoken unity in the matching green and silver.

They walked out of the dorms, shoulders brushing, laughing about slippers and past detentions.

The Slytherin common room had a low murmur of voices, a greenish hue from the lake filtering through enchanted windows, and the faint scent of parchment, firewood, and potion residue lingering in the air. Harry hadn't even sat down properly before a group of first- and second-years approached, wide-eyed.

"Is it true?" a second-year girl asked, her voice hushed with awe. "You got re-Sorted into Slytherin?"

Harry smiled gently. "Yeah. Guess the hat just changed its mind."

A third-year boy leaned in, hopeful. "Does this mean we can ask you to teach us dueling spells?"

Harry chuckled. "Ask nicely, and maybe I'll teach you the shield charm first."

Satisfied and grinning, they scattered back to their corner, whispering excitedly.

Harry, Draco, Theo, Blaise, and Vincent claimed the big study table in the corner, their green silk pyjamas almost uniform under the low golden lamps. Draco set down a thick Potions book with a dramatic thud.

"Right, Potter," he said, already flipping to a marked page. "Polyjuice Potion. You're hopeless at slicing boomslang skin, so let's fix that before you blow up the cauldron."

Harry raised a brow, pulling out his notebook. "How do you even get your cuts that thin? Mine always end up like strips of beef jerky."

"Because I have hands blessed by Merlin and the patience of a saint," Draco said dryly. "Also, you're holding your knife like it's a bloody club."

Theo snorted. "He's not wrong."

Draco pushed a scrap of dried boomslang toward Harry. "Here. Try it with my knife. It's weighted properly."

As Harry sliced, Draco pointed to the list in the book. "Start from the top. Ingredients include: stewed lacewing flies—21 days minimum. Leeches. Powdered bicorn horn. Knotgrass. Fluxweed—picked at the full moon. Shredded boomslang skin. And, of course, a bit of the person you want to turn into."

"Hair, right?" Harry asked, still concentrating on the slicing.

"Or toenails, if you're disgusting," Blaise muttered, flipping a page in his own book.

Vincent looked up. "Didn't that one Ravenclaw turn into a half-cat once?"

"Millicent Bulstrode's cat hair," Pansy said as she joined them, dropping onto the seat beside Blaise. "She ended up in the Hospital Wing for a week. Amateur mistake."

Draco leaned closer to check Harry's slices. "Not bad. Still a bit thick, but it won't kill anyone."

Harry grinned. "High praise from you."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Shut up and keep stirring. Once it's thick and mud-like, it needs to bubble slowly—too fast and the entire batch's ruined."

"Also tastes different depending on who you're becoming," Theo added. "Mine apparently tastes like mint and regret."

"Regret?" Harry laughed.

"Yeah. I tried turning into Snape once. Do not recommend."

"Why would you—?"

"Detention experiment. It was a dare."

As the night went on, they kept brewing, the cauldron bubbling at just the right pace. Books stacked high, parchment scattered everywhere, and someone had conjured mugs of hot chocolate. More Slytherins trickled over to help or observe, and it felt... oddly natural.

Harry looked around at the laughter, the sarcasm, the focus. It was a different kind of support than Gryffindor's roaring energy—it was quieter, slyer, more precise. But it was still real.

And it felt like home.

The Slytherin common room was dim and rich with green lamplight, pools of shadow and flickering reflections dancing along the walls. The boys took their usual table—long, wide, and tucked into a corner. The moment they sat, Draco pulled out his Potions kit and slapped a hefty textbook onto the table.

"Polyjuice Potion," he said, flipping the book to the dog-eared page. "McGonagall said we'll be quizzed on it by the end of the week."

Harry groaned. "That one takes a month to brew."

"Yes, but understanding it is half the battle," Draco said, already uncorking several vials. "Come on, what's the first step?"

Harry furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "Uh... lacewing flies? Stewed for twenty-one days?"

Draco nodded approvingly. "Correct. They make up the base and provide the consistency. After that, leeches."

"Which are disgusting," Theo mumbled, flipping through his own notes.

"Powdered bicorn horn," Blaise added. "That one's volatile, if added too fast."

"Then knotgrass, fluxweed—picked at the full moon," Draco continued. "Shredded boomslang skin. And finally, a bit of the person you want to become. Hair, toenail, whatever. Not recommended for half-creatures or animals."

"Because the transformation might not reverse," Harry said, now leaning over the book. "Right. I remember that."

Draco glanced sideways at him. "So you have brewed it before?"

Harry grinned. "Second year. With Hermione. She accidentally turned into a cat."

Theo snorted. "Of course she did."

They fell into companionable silence as they scribbled notes, the bubbling diagrams and potion charts stretching across the table. Draco passed Harry a spare quill when his snapped, and didn't even make a comment about it.

It was easy, strange as that was. Easy and comfortable.

Draco leaned in again, tapping Harry's notes. "This should be clockwise stirring after the fluxweed, not counter. Otherwise it turns tar-like."

"Right," Harry muttered, fixing the scribble. "Thanks."

Draco shrugged like it was nothing, then reached over and adjusted the drawing Harry had attempted of the potion's consistency before the final ingredient.

"Looks like soup," Draco said dryly.

Harry chuckled. "Sorry I'm not a Rembrandt of bubbling sludge."

"You're lucky I'm here," Draco replied, lips twitching.

The lamp above them glowed warm, casting golden light on their faces as they worked—green silk, silver trim, half-finished homework, and laughter tucked quietly into the corners of the room.