HARRY POTTER AND THE SORTING GONE WRONG

It's the small things that change the big picture. Harry never met Ron to warn him against Slytherin house, and so, history is turned on its head. Join Harry as he struggles through hardship and the sea of cultural and political difficulties of pureblood society. Slytherin isn't about to welcome their Lord's vanquisher with open arms, but The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-Anathema won't go down without a fight. Harry Potter was meant to soar, never to drown. Least of all in Slytherin's treacherous waters. Alas, things only get more complicated with Dumbledore's unwelcome suspicions and the very persistent black jornal of one T. M. Riddle.

Book I

The-Boy-Who-Lived-to-be-Anathema

Little Whinging was a decent town for decent folk. Its inhabitants were not the sort of people who would willingly search for trouble or make a ruckus. Far from it, they were the sort of people who cared so much about their outward appearance that they went very far indeed to achieve what in Little Whinging was considered 'normal'. A particularly normal street in this particularly normal town was Privet Drive. In this street especially no one put a toe out of line, for no one dared appear abnormal. And if they did step a toe out of line, it was for perfectly understandable reasons such as covertly spying on the neighbors. Truth be told, Privet Drive's intelligence apparatus was a well-oiled machine, worked hard everyday by housewives and hags alike, and aided especially by the strategical placement of objects which facilitated concealment. There was a plethora of freshly trimmed lawns to pick from, after all, contrasted smartly by white-painted fences stretching out left and right and the occasional fertilized rosebush.

Privet Drive's number four fit this description to the dot. It had a lawn, which, by the looks of it, ought to be nicely cared for (and bade excellent cover for spying) and an equally polished backyard. The house itself was certainly not too small nor too big, just big enough to stand out as a decent property, inhabited of course by decent people. Nothing about it was unorthodox or peculiar; nothing whatsoever hinted at abnormality. Its curtains were drawn at night and open during the day, the mailbox was emptied with care and at regular intervals, the garage held a car of sizable proportions… – sizable just like its owner, one Vernon Dursley. According to Mr Dursley, both his household and his car were respectably decent, (though he wouldn't say no to a new Porsche) and the neighbors had seen no reason at all to doubt his claims. As far as they knew, Private Drive's number four was inhabited by a charming family of three, rather well off – though perhaps a little lacking on the charitable side.

What many didn't know, however – largely to the Dursleys titanic efforts – was that within the house dwelled something… odd. Something that was not quite right, not quite like the Dursleys and their white fences and trimmed lawns.

That something was a ten-year-old boy. His name was Harry Potter, and he was many things. Of those few who did know about Harry Potter's existence, many claimed that he was trouble, parroting largely the Dursleys themselves and their constant punishing of the boy. Others went further, thinking him a delinquent or even a fence, while the remaining neighbours were of the opinion that he was just a child. But most concurred in one thing: there was something bizarre about Harry Potter.

He was skinny, with knobby knees and a pale complexion. He was bespectacled, his clothes ratty and too large for him. He was may things, but fashionable was not one of them, whispered the gossiping housewives. What they didn't know was that Harry Potter was also a great cook.

That particular morning, like many others, Harry had devoted his skills to making breakfast. He had just flipped over the bacon in the frying pan when Uncle Vernon, a large, stocky man with eyes like tiny icicles, came stomping into the kitchen.

"Comb your hair, boy!" he barked at Harry. He tended to do that. Like clockwork, once a week, Uncle Vernon would squint over his newspaper and gripe about Harry needing a haircut. Contrary to popular belief, Harry had likely been to the hair salon more often than all of the boys in his class put together… but in spite of Uncle Vernon's best efforts, his dark hair remained a crow's nest.

Harry was busy frying eggs when Aunt Petunia traipsed into the kitchen along with his cousin, Dudley. Dudley's hair was blond and vapid, just like Petunia's, but he had otherwise taken more after his father and his walrus-like complexion. In Harry's humble opinion, his cousin looked like a pig with a wig. In Aunt Petunia's eyes, he was the very epitome of a little angel.

As usual, it didn't take long for Uncle Vernon to disappear behind his newspaper, while Dudley busied himself by banging on the table with his new Smelting stick. But even through all the noise he was making, they all heard the clattering sound of letters in the mailbox.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his newspaper.

"Harry should do it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Dudley should do it."

"Put him down a peg with your stick, Dud."

Harry dodged the incoming swing and went to retrieve the mail. There were three letters inside the mailbox. One was a postcard from Aunt Marge, probably made up of Vernon's sister retelling all about her holidays in Wight and about how she wished the Dursleys could be there – minus Harry, of course. She liked to make a very clear distinction.

Next was a plain brown envelope… but Harry's eyes quickly skipped right over it and latched onto a letter, a letter addressed at him. Its envelope was thick and heavy, made up of a yellowish sort of… parchment. There was no stamp, and the address was written in flowing, emerald green calligraphy. And what an address!

Mr. H. Potter, it read.

The Cupboard Under the Stairs

Private Drive, 4

Little Whinging

Surrey

Harry reread it with elation. His hands were itching to open it as he turned the envelope over. There was a purple crest with an 'H' on it, but before Harry could truly stop to examine it more closely, Uncle Vernon bellowed from the kitchen for Harry to get back, making some kind of unsavory joke about his checking for bombs concealed within the mail. Harry was about to return inside as he was, but then he thought better of it. Something was holding him back. Call it intuition, but Harry could already see the Dursleys ruining his first correspondence ever. Last time at the zoo, he'd been grounded for two months and Uncle Vernon had just lifted the punishment yesterday. Needless to say, Harry wasn't keen on a repetition.

But would the Dursleys truly mind if he had a pen-pal? What if the letter was from a lost relative who wanted to come and retrieve him? Harry felt his stomach jumping in glee at the possibility. Surely, the Dursleys wouldn't mind that. It couldn't be from the library or anything, because Harry had no membership cards whatsoever, and school was already out, so who?

Just as he was pondering over this, Harry picked up on the scraping noise of a chair. To his horror, it was Uncle Vernon's thudding footsteps that followed. They were headed his way. Harry only had a split second to think as he fumbled around with the mysterious letter. Should he conceal it? Or should he show his uncle? Perhaps it'd be best to wait and see what it said first? But what if Harry got caught?

For better or for worse, when Uncle Vernon made it to the door, the letter was safely stashed in the front pocket of Harry's overly large sweater, courtesy of Dudley's hand-me-downs. Uncle Vernon wouldn't be able to tell it was there.

And just like that, such a small choice would be enough to change everything.

Harry handed Uncle Vernon the remaining correspondence and promptly fled his presence, returning to the kitchen to resume his cooking. The bacon had burned over slightly while he was away, and so Aunt Petunia made him eat those particularly charred slices, but Harry was too happy about his letter to care. He went through the motions of breakfast mechanically, drowning out Uncle Vernon's inane chatter about Aunt Marge being constipated and Dudley's boasting about Smelting, his prospective high school. Harry himself would be attending Stonewall High, where he'd be free of his cousin's reign of terror for the first time in his life. Without Dudley there to scare off the other children, perhaps he'd manage to make friends… though Harry's hopes had been significantly dampened that very morning when he'd spotted Aunt Petunia dyeing some lumpy old clothing black. According to her, the rags were Harry's uniform-to-be. He didn't need to be a genius to know how the other children would react to that kind of garb.

It was a good thing that the letter had come now, for it had shooed all of his concerns out of the window. In fact, Harry was so intrigued by it that he shoveled the usually cherished bacon into his mouth, barely even savoring it. He was devouring his sparse meal at a pace faster than even Dudley's, and soon, the plate was clean.

Cheerfully stashing it away , Harry excused himself to the loo. The loo was the only room he was allowed into which could be locked from the inside, and as Harry figured that he wouldn't want Uncle Vernon barging in on him while he read the letter, the loo would have to do. Once he was sure not to be interrupted, Harry lowered himself into the toilet-seat and reached into his front pocket with quivering hands. This was it.

Again, he was greeted by the strange (yet accurate) address written in copperplate, and the purple crest with an 'H'. Looking more closely now, Harry could spot four animals imprinted on it. A lion, a serpent, an eagle and a badgder. Bellow them, there was a tiny inscription. Harry squinted at it. 'Draco dormiens nunquam titillandous' it read. Harry figured that it must be written in Latin or the like, and his curiosity was piqued even further. Though then it occurred to him… what if the letter was written in Latin also? But his concerns proved to be unnecessary, for it was scripted in perfectly understandable English.

Dear Mr. Potter, it began.

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September.

We await your owl by no later than 31 JULY.

Yours sincerely,

M. McGonagall,

Deputy headmistress

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

HEADMASTER ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, first class. Grand sorc. Chf. Warlock. Supreme Mugwump. International confed. of wizards)

Harry was positively gaping by that point. Say what? A school for wizards? And he, Harry, was to attend it? Harry could feel his eyes filling with tears. Impossible. He was no wizard. Magic didn't even exist. It was all a lie, a false hope. 'That's it,' he thought ruefully. 'It was a prank all along.' The Dursleys were bound to be laughing at him downstairs.

Harry felt rage building inside of him. He was mad. The Dursleys always ruined EVERYTHING! It had been a long time since he'd felt anger this intense. It was building in his gut, suffocating, leaving Harry almost breathless. He was so furious that he couldn't help but to scream. Harry didn't want to quit the room, didn't want to see the Dursleys laughing at the prank, thriving at his misery. This was too much. All the pent up frustration of his two-month grounding had taken over, and Harry screamed and screamed and could hardly check hi need to break something. Harry didn't even hear the deafening noise which resouded through the house, or hear Vernon banging at the door. He didn't realise that the faucet had burst, didn't aknowledge the water which streamed wildly into all possible directions, drenching Harry and the letter and his general surroundings. Right, the letter. Harry madly crushed it into a ball, a wrinkled piece of crashed hopes which he stuck into his pocket. He didn't even want to see it.

It was to a scene of utter chaos which Uncle Vernon stormed into after finally unlocking the door two minutes later. The faucet was broken and leaking water everywhere. Harry, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the chaos, undeterred, screaming at the top of his lungs. His clothes were completely drenched and his round spectacles so wet that it was unlikely he could still see anything at all.

"Get out, boy!" Vernon howled furiously. Then he made a wild dash for his toolkit in the garage.

Harry, meanwhile, had been banned in the garden until dry, where he succeeded in calming himself down a little. On one hand, he was terrified of the upcoming punishment, which he was sure his uncle would dish out as soon as the incident was resolved… but on the other, he was still reeling about the faucet. How slim were the chances of something like that happening?

Harry snorted. It was a mute point, since the unlikeliest of things always seemed to happen around him. What had been the chances of the crystal suddenly vanishing back at the snake house in the zoo? Or of his teacher's wig to suddenly turn blue? Now that he thought about it, Harry could recall quite a few strange events happening around him, always when he was really angry, or scared. Almost like… but that couldn't be, could it? Harry pulled the crumbled letter out of his pocket, noting with puzzlement that it wasn't even the slightest bit wet. He stared at it, thinking wildly. Could it be real after all? Could he do magic after all? It seemed preposterous to even consider, but Harry now held hope. He wanted, no, needed it to be true. Hogwarts had to be real. Just then, Aunt Petunia called Harry from within the house, and, stomach filling with dread, Harry returned inside.

To his surprise, Uncle Vernon didn't punish Harry at all. He seemed to think that there had been something wrong with the plumbing system, and kept bragging about how Dudley would have held himself together like a man had the same happened to him, as opposed to Harry's 'terrified' screeching. This reduced Harry to the laughingstock of Dudley's gang for the next few weeks, but it definitely beat being grounded in the cupboard. In the meantime, Harry himself had come to the resolution to reply to the mysterious letter in order to find out the truth once and for all, but there was a problem. He had no idea what this McGonagall person meant by 'awaiting your owl', and there wasn't even a remittent he could address his reply to. In the end, he'd come to the conclusion that it would be best to just go to the post office and ask for help. The issue with that plan was that the post office was located quite a ways off, and Harry would have to ask Uncle Vernon for a ride, which he knew would never be provided. Telling the abnormality-abhorrent Dursleys about the letter didn't seem like a grandiose idea either, considering, so what was Harry supposed to say? The situation seemed hopeless.

However, Harry's chance to drop by the post office came sooner than expected. The Dursleys had all been invited to attend to a football match along with Piers and his family. Piers was Dudley's best friend, more shrewd and mean-spirited than even Dudley himself, and as such, he'd happened to make sure that Harry wouldn't be able to tag along to the match no matter what: there were only three extra tickets, and Harry's name was in neither of them. He would have to stay at home. But since Petunia and Vernon Dursley would have hated to leave their precious house at the mercy of Harry for the grand total of three hours, that put them in quite a tight spot. Harry, however, had been eager to provide a solution. It was straightforward enough: he'd steer away from the prying eyes of the neighbors that his aunt was so afraid of, to instead spend the allotted time loitering around on Dudley's old bicycle, far, far away from private drive number four. After numerous tantrums from Dudley and pacifying promises of new bikes from Aunt Petunia, Harry's request was granted. And so, even in spite of his cousin's loud protests, he soon found himself riding on Dudley's old bicycle in direction post office.

Luckily, Harry's orientation-sense had hitherto always been good, and it didn't fail him this time either; he made it to the post office without a hitch. It wasn't until he was standing behind the counter that he began to get doubts. He was just a ten-year-old boy, looking to send a reply letter (which he'd carefully crafted during the course of an entire afternoon) to a mysterious direction which wasn't even provided. To top it off, his reference letter was completely incongruous with conventional mail.

"Can I help you with something?"

It was Harry's turn in line. He'd just have to hope for the best. Fingering the letter in his pocket, Harry nervously explained the strange circumstances surrounding it and hoped that the attendant would believe him.

"Hogwarts, you say?" repeated the man. "I feel like I've heard that name before at some point… Claire? Come over here for a 'sec."

To Harry's elated befuddlement, another attendant scurried over to them. Did Hogwarts really exist, then? He waited impatiently as the first employee briefed the other over the situation. Harry uncomfortably wiped the sweat building over his brow and tried not to show how out of his depth he felt. With a start, he realized that 'Claire' was staring at his forehead, her eyes like saucers.

"May I see the letter?" she interrupted her colleague abruptly, still staring at Harry.

"Sure…" Harry handed it to her, just as the other attendant turned elsewhere, a chagrined look on his face.

"Yes!" The woman shrieked gleefully, taking Harry's hands into her own and shaking them impetuously. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Harry Potter! I'm Claire Smith!"

"Err, likewise…" said Harry.

The woman kept excitedly staring at him for a few seconds, until apparently coming to the realization that she was making Harry uncomfortable. She harrumphed, blushing.

"So… about your Hogwarts letter… I'm assuming you don't know how to send a reply?"

Harry nodded.

"Don't worry dear, let me handle that. It's actually a bit tricky to do without owls, but…"

"So, err," Harry interrupted, "is it truly real? Hogwarts, I mean."

"Oh, yes!" gushed the woman. "Of course, you don't know about that? But you do know that you're a –" Claire trailed off suddenly, glancing around the area like a spy in a movie. "Tell you what, I'll invite you to tea right over there and then we can talk!" And with no further ado, she sauntered over to the manager and started speaking to him very quickly.

In less than a minute, Harry found himself seated opposite to this strange woman in an adjacent cafe.

"So…" said Claire speculatively, "how much do you know?"

"I think I've done magic a bunch of times, maybe, and the letter said I'm, uh, a wizard," Harry muttered.

"Well of course you are, Harry Potter! Don't you know anything?"

Harry shook his head mutely.

"Okay!?" Claire exclaimed hysterically, as though his admission were the most unexpected thing in the world. Harry was becoming distinctly uncomfortable. "Okay," Claire began again, composing herself. "I'm certainly not the most indicated person to do this, but… Welcome to the wizarding world, Harry Potter!"

Harry gulped. "So I'm really a wizard? Are you a sorceress, then?"

"The common term is a witch, but no, I'm a squib," said Claire dryly. "Basically, I was born in a magical household but I can't do magic myself."

Harry stared at her, at a loss of what to say. Was this Claire person like the Dursleys, who hated magic? Should he congratulate her or express his condolences? As though sensing his inner turmoil, Claire waved him off, reopening the Hogwarts letter and flipping through an enclosed list of spellbooks and other necessities.

"It hasn't changed a bit," she whispered, seemingly lost in her own world.

Harry coughed awkwardly to regain her attention.

"Err, about those books…"

"You're wondering where to buy them? Don't worry, I'll give you directions."

"No," said Harry. "It's err, I don't think my…" he screwed his eyes shut, wishing he could be anywhere else.

"Yes?"

"I don't think the Dursleys would really want to buy this stuff… Actually," Harry confessed, "They don't even know about the letter."

"Huh?" said Claire. "Who's that, your mysterious 'relatives'? And of course they know, all magical children get one."

"They… I don't think they know I'm magical."

"What? That's bullshit!" burst out Claire. "So they've never told you anything? About… everything?"

Harry frowned.

"They usually got mad when freakish stuff happened."

Claire seemed to be at a loss for words, gaping at Harry like a stranded goldfish.

"Alright," she said, regaining her bearings. "So you're worried those Dursy guys won't support your attending Hogwarts, correct?"

"Exactly," said Harry.

"Hmmm… Well, this much I can tell you: you won't need to worry about the expenses, just drop by Gringotts – that's the Wizarding bank – and tell them what's going on. As for your relatives actually allowing you to go…" Claire wrinkled her nose, as though the mere notion of Harry failing to do so were inconceivable, "Well, you only need to know that, as long as you write them an affirmative reply letter, the personnel at Hogwarts will make sure you get to go and talk to those Dursies if necessary."

"Really?" asked Harry. Claire smiled at him.

"Really. And now… shall I point out where to go in order to get your school stuff? The place is called Diagon Alley…" She was lost in thought for a moment. "You know what? Scratch that, I'm hiring you a cab."

"What? No! I couldn't—"

"Nonsense," interrupted Claire, pressing a wad of money into Harry's closed fist. "I'm glad to have met you, Harry Potter. Really glad."

Harry's mouth fell agape. That was the first time someone had ever said something like that to him. He knew in his mind that it would be terribly rude to accept the money… but how else was he going to get to London and buy his school stuff? His Hogwarts stuff. He could barely believe it. What if this was all just an elaborate ploy to kidnap him or something? It all seemed too good to be true. He eyed Claire, who was calling a cab on her phone, with a sliver of mistrust. Wasn't it real convenient that she just so happened to be a 'squib', unable to prove the existence of magic? It simply didn't make any sense. Why would this complete stranger be willing to just give away her money for him? Why? Why would she go so far? Was it her job to help out clueless children like Harry, who had no idea how to send a reply to Hogwarts? Was there somebody like her in every post office?

"Can you prove it?" Harry asked intensely. "Can you prove somehow that magic exists?"

Claire looked at Harry with a strange gaze, then reached for her handbag.

"See this?" She'd taken out a photo. A moving photograph. Harry stared at it with shock, but, as if that weren't enough, Claire began pulling out more objects, each one of them more outrageous than the last. Finally, when she'd pulled out a blow-drier that was most definitely larger than the handbag itself, Harry exclaimed:

"Okay, okay! I believe you! Magic is real!"

"Yup, and you're gonna be able to make yourself a handbag like this one in only a few years' time," said Claire wistfully. "Isn't it amazing? Now off you go, Harry Potter! The cab's here!"

And indeed, it was. Harry stood up uncertainly. It felt completely anticlimactic to just leave Claire behind without repaying her for her kindness somehow…

"Thanks for all the help…" said Harry sincerely. "I mean it. Someday, I'll make it up to you."

Claire had laughed at his words, shrugging them off and waving him goodbye as he departed on the cab, but Harry had made up his mind about the whole thing. He would. Shrugging, he stared out of the window… his thoughts drifting to 'Diagon Alley', and 'Gringotts', and Hogwarts… Harry smiled. He was a wizard, and this was the beginning of his journey.

A/N:

So. Here it all starts. Next chapter: the sorting! R/R And do tell me if you spot any mistakes :)