Author's Notes: Hello all. I've never written for the Harry Potter fandom before. When the Harry Potter saga came out in both book and movie form I resisted it because I'm stubborn like that. Now, I've read all seven books and watched all eight movies and absorbed pretty much everything I can about the Harry Potter world. That's usually how my obsessions go. I strive for canon accuracy, but have fused JK Rowling's conceptions on subjects not discussed in the books or movies from her numerous interviews. I also crossed book canon and movie canon, using artistic license to determine which version would show up in the fic (partly because of preference and partly because I wanted things to remain interesting for the reader). Where there's no author commentary, I followed where my muse directed.

I've read a lot of Slytherin!Harry fics, but they never answered the question of how simply being Sorted into Slytherin changed Harry intrinsically (I know, I shouldn't be looking seriously for this sort of thing in a fic). So back in mid-October of 2013, I posed the questions to my friends and family 'Hey, what would happen if Harry had been Sorted into the Slytherin House?' Though this was by no means a rigorously randomly sampled survey I was shocked to hear the majority of the time either variations on "He'd be evil and join forces with Voldemort [of course]." or "He'd usurp Voldemort's control and rule Britain with an iron grip."

So, this whole fic-bunny basically is my response to these statements, since J K Rowling herself said that she didn't see those of Slytherin as intrinsically evil. I did not write this fic to make a master's work 'better' or to pass off her writing as my own. Some characters necessarily are utterly the same, i.e. Dumbledore. Of all the characters, Dumbledore's treatment of Harry, particularly his directed dialogue to the Boy-Who-Lived, is essentially untouched from the Rowling's. This for me was simply a literary exercise of imagination (i.e. an excuse to write).

I fully admit that I have borrowed fanon ideas. Also that I was heavily inspired from innumerable HP fics (of every genre) I've read and by thought-provoking fanart conceptions. Up to the beginning of this chapter, Rowling's book corresponded entirely with this loving work of fanfiction.

May you enjoy this adventure.

"Hmm," said a small voice in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult." The hat that was draped over his head kept Harry from seeing the hopeful faces of the students. "Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes—and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting… So where shall I put you?"

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought. Not Slytherin, not Slytherin.

"Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that…"

Not Slytherin! Harry demanded.

"No? Can't be too sure about that—better be SLYTHERIN!" Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. He took off the hat and walked shakily toward the Slytherin table. He was painfully aware that only one table was screaming ecstatically. "We got Potter!" Somebody cried out in glee.

"Potter, with me!" Draco Malfoy waved him over, and since he was the only boy Harry recognized other than Crabbe and Goyle, Harry obliged him. The thickset Crabbe sat like a wall of flesh on the other side of Harry. There were calculating gazes all around him. "I thought for sure you were going to Gryffindor," Draco said unkindly.

Harry stared at the empty golden plate in front of him. It seemed ages ago that he'd eaten the pumpkin pasties on the train.

Professor McGonagall called others up to the stool and they were sorted into the other houses. Thomas, Dean. Turpin, Lisa. Weasley, Ronald. Zabini, Blaise.

None of the other names were placed in Slytherin.

The Hall was suddenly quiet, and Harry finally lifted his eyes from the plate. He could see the High Table properly now. At the end farthest from him sat Hagrid, who deliberately looked away when Harry finally caught his eye.

Harry blinked. Hagrid looked embarrassed for him. But now Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet in front of a large gold chair, beaming at the students. Harry recognized him at once from the card he'd gotten from the Chocolate Frog on the train.

He shouldn't have thought of food again. His stomach ached in waiting.

Dumbledore's arms opened wide, as if nothing would have pleased him more than to see them all there. "Welcome!"

Draco leaned his head close to Harry's ear. "Old nitwit's about to give his yearly speech. I wish he'd hurry up. All of us are starving," Draco hissed towards Harry.

Harry grinned wanly.

"Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Cheers!"

He sat back down. Everybody clapped, though the Slytherins around Harry did it out of the minutest amount of respect. The Gryffindors cheered the loudest. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or not.

"Is he—a bit mad?" he asked Draco uncertainly.

"Mad?" Draco echoed oddly, looking distracted. "Oh, that's right you wouldn't know, would you? Growing up with Muggles." A disgusted look crossed Draco's face. "He's mad alright, but he's a bloody powerful wizard. My dad always said to respect power, even for a Muggle-lover like Dumbledore." The pale boy carefully chewed on a roll. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

Harry's mouth fell open. The centerpiece dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, bangers, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast taters, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.

The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he'd never been allowed to tuck in as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made the boy sick.

Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat slowly. His tablemates were eating neatly, so he mimicked them and took his time, even when his stomach rumbled uncomfortably. It was all delicious.

A silvery-white gaunt ghost appeared over the table and hovered over the food. "It's the Bloody Baron!" Someone called out. Harry continued to eat, even when he saw how horrible the ghost looked.

"Davis," the blank-eyed ghost with robes stained with silver blood said to the second girl who'd been sorted to Slytherin. "Greengrass, Nott, Bulstrode, Crabbe, Goyle, Parkinson, Perks" the ghost greeted solemnly the Slytherin first years from above, "And to the thirty-second generation of Malfoys, I bid you welcome." Then his deadened eyes caught Harry's. "Well, well. In all of my days, I would have never thought a Potter would grace our vaulted House." The ghost floated to the floor. "Welcome, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Hullo," Harry said after taking a swallow of juice from the gold goblet. When the ghost moved on, Harry scooped more of the roast potatoes and roast beef onto his plate.

"Potter," Draco said stiffly. "How can you eat after seeing him?"

Harry shrugged. "How did he get covered in blood?"

"Oh, I heard that—" Gregory Goyle began.

Draco's face turned green. "I hardly think that's a topic to discuss for the dinner table, Goyle," he retorted rigidly.

Gregory's teeth clicked audibly.

When everyone had eaten as much as they could, the Slytherins would eat a peppermint humbug. Harry did too only so he didn't look out of place. Peppermint wasn't his favorite flavor, but he rolled it around in his mouth anyway. While they sucked on that, the remains of the food faded from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the desserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor you could think of, apple pies, treacle tarts, chocolate éclairs and jam doughnuts, trifle, strawberries, Jell-O, rice pudding…

As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their families.

"My parents are pure-blood," Vincent Crabbe bragged.

"You idiot, everyone knows there's elf in your line. Filthy creatures, elves," Draco commented sharply. The others laughed.

Vincent shrugged his shoulders.

Harry didn't see what was wrong with that, but he wasn't about to argue at a table full of bullies.

"It's not as bad as dwarf and goblin," an older male student across from Harry said. He had blond hair much darker than Draco's, but that was all Harry could see of him with the piles of desserts blocking his view.

"My family has purest of the pure," Draco boasted. "I'm a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin."

Harry said nothing, but the others sounded impressed.

"Might you be the Heir of Slytherin?" Tracey Davis, a brunette, asked on the other side of Gregory.

"I'm no Parselmouth," Draco said with a resigned sigh. "A snake-talker," he said to Harry's blank face.

"Is that rare?" Harry inquired trying not to sound overly curious.

The students around Harry stilled.

"Are you implying that someone like you could be a Parselmouth?" An acidic tone mocked and brown eyes flashed dangerously from an older female student. Harry couldn't quite make out the name under her Slytherin badge, though she had a metallic green badge next to it that had a silver snake wrapped slightly around a 'P' on it. Harry wished they'd introduced themselves. He hardly thought it was fair. There had to be about fifty people at this table.

Soon the talk about upcoming lessons farther down the table stopped. When several calculating eyes turned to him, Harry tried not to look as flustered as he felt. "I didn't suggest anything!"

"Well, can you or can't you, Potter?" Draco asked.

"I only did it once," Harry admitted resentfully. "It was a Brazilian boa constrictor at a snake exhibit. It'd never been to Brazil, you see, since it'd been bred at the zoo."

"An exhibit for snakes? Why would anyone do that?" Draco asked airily.

"It was an exhibit with other animals, too. Haven't you ever been to a zoo?" Harry shot back.

"A zoo? That must be some kind of Muggle entertainment," Draco said snobbily. "No wonder they'd keep intelligent creatures like snakes on exhibit."

Harry resisted the urge to punch Draco when he reminded him of many bullies from his primary school life. Feeling quite warm from the large meal, Harry ate a spoonful of ice cream to settle his stomach. He knew he couldn't afford to let himself feel sleepy to relax; he didn't trust his housemates.

When Harry didn't respond, Draco continued to blather on to whoever would listen about his ancestor's accomplishments in his—apparently typical—airy and condescending tone. Harry tuned him out.

While Draco discussed his family's long-winded list of ancestral accomplishments, Harry looked up at the High Table again, not daring to look in Hagrid's direction. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. On the right side of them, Professor Quirrell, in his absurd purple turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.

It happened very suddenly. The hook-nosed teacher looked past Quirrell's turban straight into Harry's eyes—and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry's forehead, something which had never happened before.

"Ouch!" Harry clapped a hand to his head.

"What's the matter with you?" Draco asked shrewdly, hating to be interrupted.

"N-nothing." The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher's look—a feeling that he didn't like Harry at all.

"If it's nothing, then why were you carrying on? It's not your scar is it?" Draco peered closely at Harry's forehead. "It looks puffier than it did earlier," he observed neutrally.

"It's nothing," Harry said quickly. "Who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?" He nodded his head towards the table.

"You know Quirrell, but don't recognize our Head of House? Potter, we've really got to work on that before people confuse you for a Muggle-born wizard."

Harry still didn't understand, and he was tired of his ignorance showing. He assumed that the Head of House was an important position.

"Professor Snape teaches Potions. Of course, he'd rather be the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. If Quirrell hadn't shown up, Professor Snape would already have the position."

Draco grinned to himself. "Professor McGonagall teaches Transfigurations and is Gryffindor's Head of House. Professor Flitwick, that gnome of a man, teaches Charms and is Ravenclaw's Head of House. Next to the Gamekeeper is Madam Hooch. She'll teach us first years the basics of broomstick flying—not that I need it. Otherwise, she referees Hogwarts' Quidditch Games. Madam Pomfrey's the school's Healer. If you're hurt or sick, she'll patch you up no questions asked. And then there's Professor Sprout, the Hufflepuff's Head of House. She'll teach us all sorts of boring things about magical plants and fungi in Herbology class. Professor Sinistra teaches Astronomy…" Draco trailed off giving a look of pity at the overwhelmed expression on Harry's face. "The other teachers aren't important to know since we don't have classes with them until our third year."

"Thanks." Harry had no idea what Transfigurations and Charms were about and had only a small inkling of what Potions, Quidditch, and Herbology entailed. What interested him most was the chance to learn how to fly on a broom.

Harry watched Professor Snape for a while, but the professor didn't look directly at him again though his dark eyes passed over the Slytherin table several times.

At last, the desserts had disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.

"Ahem—just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you…"

"Give it a rest, old coot," Draco murmured derisively. Harry flicked his eyes at him with a frown.

"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes flashed in the direction of the Gryffindor table.

"Those Gryffindorks don't know how to stay out of trouble," Draco whispered. Harry looked over at them, easily picking out the red-haired heads of the Weasleys.

"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors… Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their house teams should contact Madam Hooch."

"Too bad first years can't join," came Draco's dry remark.

"And finally, I must tell you that this year; the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."

Harry laughed, but he was one of the very few who did.

"He's not serious?" Harry muttered to Draco.

"He may be mad," the blond-haired student across from him answered, "But there's no doubt his warning is serious."

"But usually, he gives us a reason," a different girl with one of those 'P' badges added nicely. She had long black hair and brown eyes. "It makes you wonder what they're keeping there that's so important that they wouldn't have notified the prefects ahead of time."

Harry blinked. It couldn't be that grubby little package that Hagrid had taken from the vault seven hundred thirteen in Gringotts?

"And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!" cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers' smiles had become rather fixed.

Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long golden ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

"Everyone pick their favorite tune," said Dumbledore, "and off we go!"

Much to his dismay, the Slytherins—even Draco—began to sing the same song, twisting the words to sound more sinister with a frenetic speed. Harry didn't know the tune at all, but decided to move his mouth to the words, guessing.

The Slytherins finished first, followed by the rest of the school, until only the Weasley twins were left singing along to a very slow funeral march. Dumbledore conducted their last few lines with his wand and when they had finished, he was one of those who clapped the loudest.

None of the Slytherins did.

"Ah, music," the headmaster said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!"

"First years, with us," the older student across from Harry stood and waited. Now, Harry could see the metallic green-and-silver badge on his breast beneath the Slytherin crest that every upper year Slytherin had stitched to their robes. Despite his short stature, the older student seemed to tower even over Crabbe and Goyle with his flat stare. "Everyone assembled? Good."

The rest of the Slytherins emptied out of the room, leaving only two Slytherins with 'P' badges in front of them. "My name is Gilbert van Tellwyenth, a fifth year. I am a prefect."

"I'm Samantha Pitts, a sixth year," the student who'd mocked Harry said. "Also, a prefect."

Harry looked around and saw there were precisely nine other first years standing around him: Four other boys and five girls.

"File up!" Gilbert the Prefect ordered.

The first years immediately stood in two queues, leaving Harry standing alone among their snickers. He quickly stood behind Draco at the end of the boys' queue.

The prefects then went down the line tapping their wand against each first year's tie and left front part and inner hood of the robes. Harry was amazed that his tie had changed into a twisted combination of green and silver and that a Slytherin crest magically appeared on the blank area of his robes.

While Harry inspected the green silk of the hood where black had been before, Samantha the Prefect said, "Very good then. This way!"

"Come on then. Don't fall behind," Gilbert said gently behind him, quietly enough that the others couldn't hear over the sound of their own voices.

Flustered and tired, Harry dropped his robes and followed. Samantha led them down a hall and then down a marble staircase, while Gilbert walked behind Harry.

Harry's legs felt like lead, but he was quite thankful that he was full of food. He hardly cared that the people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice Samantha led them through doorways hidden behind sliding stonework and hanging tapestries.

Long minutes passed as they walked down ever more staircases, remaining in formation, and Harry was just wondering how much farther they had to go when they came to a sudden halt. It was far too chilly now.

"Welcome to the dungeons," the Bloody Baron intoned solemnly. He slipped through the granite stone wall, where a large portrait sat.

"Well?" The very thin woman dressed in emerald green bit out sourly.

"Bezoar," Samantha said crisply.

"Enter." The portrait swung open revealing a narrow corridor, leading into a well-lit, long underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling from which round, silver lamps were hanging from chains.

They shuffled down the stairs. It was much warmer inside the room, which was decked in silver and emerald banners to liven up the grey walls. There were nooks and crannies and different levels to the room that made it look larger than it was. Harry didn't see any windows yet, but when he looked up there were dark arches of glass much like sunroofs Harry had seen once before in an enclosed shopping district.

"Welcome, first years," came a nasal tone. It was the Slytherin Head of House.

Behind Professor Snape stood scores of older Slytherins, who stared coolly at Harry and the others. "Forget your allegiances to anyone outside of your house. They will no longer trust you due to our house's illustrious history in researching the now-forbidden Dark Arts," the Head of House said, looking particularly at Harry.

Harry looked back defiantly.

Professor Snape raised a thin eyebrow, but showed no sign of screaming at him like Vernon Dursley. "We have won the Quidditch and the House Cup for six years in a row. Do not disappoint me this year," their Head of House ground out. "Prefects, instruct our newest students as to the proper protocols and etiquette we Slytherins follow. I must not be disturbed this evening."

The professor spun on a heel, his black robes flaring out dramatically, and stalked out of the room. With a slam of a door down the short hall off the room, the older students broke away, separating by gender to a staircase on either side of them: The girls on the left and the boys on the right.

Harry really would have preferred to sleep right then rather than to listen to another lecture.

"Hello, I'm Gemma Farley, a fifth year," the black-haired student, who'd complained about not being told about the restricted third-floor corridor, said.

"I'm Nicolas Grimmet, a sixth year." He was lanky and had brown eyes and long brick-brown hair. "We are only four of the Slytherin prefects. There's also seventh years Yatin Shah and Viviette Tourens." He then raised his hands, gesturing to their surroundings. "We welcome you to our common room."

A tired Harry glanced around. The furniture was spread out with tables between them, and now that he was farther inside he could see dark arches of windows.

Prefect Samantha said, "For your general notice: We have mandatory dining together at all three meals. Every first year is expected to attend the monthly dueling sessions of their upperclassmen, unless they are serving detention or have had their privileges revoked."

Prefect Nicolas's words followed hers, "The Code of Etiquette is as follows: It is expected that you are courteous to your housemates regardless of bloodline or magical ability. Until you have permission, refer to your housemates by their family name. We travel in groups, never alone. Do not fraternize with students in other houses, unless you must, such as in class. Finally, it is expected that you are polite to your professors, no matter how inept they are. Losing House points is not acceptable for any reason. You may keep tally of our score and compare it to the other houses by looking at the hourglass filled with emeralds in the Great Hall."

When Nicolas paused, a casual Gilbert continued from where he leaned against a column, "You will be granted privileges should you earn House points. Should you lose them, you will receive detention from Professor Snape and a letter of notice to whoever is responsible for you… in addition to whatever other consequences the other reprimanding teacher assigns. If you don't respect us or you break the Slytherin Code of Etiquette, you will earn a detention with Professor Snape. Get three detentions assigned in a given month and you will have lost the observation privileges of that month's dueling session."

"Furthermore," Prefect Gemma added, "Every Hogwarts' House has six prefects, and then there's the Head Boy and Head Girl. Any one of them can deduct House points should you be caught using magic inappropriately, harassing others, or traversing the corridors after bed. As Prefect Tellwyenth just stated, Professor Snape will assign detention if you are caught; my advice is not to do it even if it's warranted."

Harry looked at the sleepy faces of his year-mates and saw that only Malfoy's expression disagreed entirely with Prefect Gemma's advice.

"Finally," Prefect Samantha said sternly, "If for some reason, you are unavailable to have additional detentions because you have earned so many, Professor Snape will then assign independent study, which is really just a fancy term for more detention, during any free or study periods you have during the school day. You will essentially have zero time to pursue your interests or homework without supervision. I sincerely recommend that you avoid this situation. Speaking from my own experience, having Professor Snape personally organize every hour of your day is exhausting and counter-productive to having a pleasant school year. Follow the Code and the school rules and you shouldn't have any problems."

"Do you have any questions?" Prefect Gemma asked kindly.

Harry was too tired to ask any, and it seemed none of the other first years wanted to prolong staying awake.

"Girls with us!" Prefect Samantha barked out. Parkinson and the other Slytherin girls were escorted up the left stairwell with Prefect Gemma.

Gilbert stepped closer to the group. "Everyone else with Nicolas and me," he said and then led Harry and the other Slytherin boys up the stairs. Green, murky light spilled from the torches lining the spiral staircase. Every time the steps leveled off, there was a black door with a silver snake knocker on them denoting a different year's dormitory.

"The more years you spend at Hogwarts, the closer to the common room you get," Nicholas explained. "There are five students per room. If you have any problems with your roommates that you can't sort out on your own, you are to come to me. If I'm unavailable, you can talk to Gilbert, Yatin, or the Head Boy Phyllis Whitehead. The last two are seventh years. Do not bother Professor Snape, unless it is a dire emergency."

"Why only male prefects?" Theodore Nott, a stringy boy with cropped, dirty-blond hair, asked.

"These steps will transform into a slide the instant a girl tries to walk on them," Gilbert answered sounding amused, "The same holds true for the girls' dormitory; we can't step foot there without being physically ejected."

As they continued to climb, Harry's eyelids were drooping. He tripped on a step, catching himself on the cool stone wall next to him. He was happy no one had seen him. A minute or so later, it was with collective relief that the first year boys finally made it to the very top of the stairs. The heavy black door was opened by Gilbert.

Five poster-beds were hung with deep green, silk curtains. Their trunks had already been brought up. Hedwig wasn't in her cage, but Harry didn't worry much about that.

Sconces of green magical fire lit the room with a viridian tinge, and there were curtains pulled back from dark windows. There were medieval tapestries adorning the room, depicting adventurous wizards and witches doing an assortment of odd things.

"I hope you're all early risers," Gilbert said, pointing at the grandfather clock sitting across from the door. "That's been enchanted to scream if you oversleep for breakfast. Any last questions?"

"No, I think we're all very well ready for bed," Draco bit out snidely.

Gilbert's lips quirked in amusement. "Good night, first years. Pleasant dreaming." The two prefects exited, shutting the door behind them.

Walking to his bed—well, the bed where his trunk sat nearest, Harry looked out the window at the lake glistening under the moon. It was a very beautiful, exotic sight after the mediocre landscape of Privet Drive.

"Potter, stop gaping like an idiot and get changed so we can put out the lights." Draco's voice sounded narked.

Harry quickly tore off his robes and changed into his jim-jams, one of Dudley's softer cast-offs, and slipped into the very comfortable bed. The bedspread was green velvet and embroidered with silver thread.

Draco whispered, "Nox." The lights went out, leaving only the moonlight streaming through the windows.

Despite his suspicion of the other boys' attempts to prank him, Harry drifted off to sleep right away.

Perhaps he was too pogged from dinner, but he had a very strange dream. He was wearing Professor Quirrell's turban—which kept congratulating him on his most auspicious sorting into Slytherin and somehow this made it Harry's destiny to join the turban in its quest. When Harry told the turban that he didn't want to be in Slytherin, it got heavier and heavier. He tried to pull it off but it tightened painfully—and there was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with it—then Malfoy turned into Professor Snape, whose laugh was colder and more nasal—there was a burst of green light and Harry woke, sweating and shaking.

He rolled over and fell asleep again, and when he woke the next day before true drawn came he wished he didn't remember the strange dream at all.