Disclaimer: Profitless fanwork.

Credits: Characters and setting by J.K. Rowling. Beta and britpicking by wandering in thought space (thank yooooouuuuuu). Errors by my stubbornness. Title and opening quote by John Bunyan.

Series summary & chronology: see profile.

Art will be posted in the crossposted chapters at Archive of Our Own. Links will be in my profile. There is at least one per chapter in this story, and I hope to keep that up. Requests are welcome; no specific promises, but I usually do the ones that inspire me.

Shameless begging
Please, please review. Not only does it keep me motivated to post (seriously, exposing my baby to the world is often much harder than writing, and takes emotional energy I don't always have), but telling me what you like may pay off. I don't finish fine-tuning my stories until they're posted, and sometimes not even then. You might also inspire art.

Canon Compliance
It is advised that the reader be familiar with the biography of Harry Potter written by Ms. Rowling. The reader should be aware that this excellent and illuminating seven-volume series was fact-checked by Ms. Skeeter rather than Miss Granger. It therefore cannot be relied on in the matter of dates. Furthermore, Ms. Rowling's books are written from the point of view of their subject, and not only contain a distinctly pro-Gryffindor bias but largely confine themselves to what Mr. Potter saw, heard, assumed, and speculated, rather than strictly adhering to historical fact.

This is a Slytherin story, and truth is subjective.

I have a Key in my bosom called Promise, that will, I am persuaded, open any Lock in Doubting Castle.
—The Pilgrim's Progress

September, 1971: First year

Evan was on his guard. The Welcome Feast had been amazing: more well-made and satisfying food than even Mulciber could eat, although he'd certainly tried. Obviously the school was lulling them into a food-coma from which they wouldn't be able to rouse themselves to… well, something. Argue with the rules, maybe, or ask inconvenient questions, or just make trouble.

Personally, he wanted to spend all night wandering the halls and taking sketches to send home. Not that his parents hadn't seen the place every day for seven years themselves, but his father always said that fresh eyes made a sight new.

He wasn't going to wander, though. The unrealistically blond prefect, Malfoy, had been very clear about how displeased he would be if anyone lost Slytherin points, or even just attracted negative attention. After what he'd done to the scarecrow boy just for saying one sentence at the feast in a marked accent and bad clothes (to a mudblood, admittedly, which did make it much worse), no one was going to risk it.

Nearly setting the Sorting Hat on fire had been uncivilized, too, but also somewhat impressive in a first year. The suggestion of power and the lack of restraint had probably nullified each other. So, one might conclude, it was just the talking that had gotten him zapped.

The scarecrow had asked, afterwards (almost incomprehensibly, and not just because of what Malfoy had done to his face. It wasn't even a musical kind of incomprehensible), where one went to get fixed up. He'd repeated the directions carefully, written them down, and then asked the prefect if the spells would wear off on their own before breakfast.

Frowning, Malfoy had told him they would, and he'd nodded and turned away to start unpacking his books. Having his fingers fused together gave him some trouble, but he was managing. "Aren't you going?"

The kid turned (Evan had to look away from his face), and said stonily, "You didn't curse me in public. So united front's important."

Malfoy looked at him coolly for a minute, one eyebrow up. Then he turned to the rest of them. Mulciber had been sniggering at the scarecrow's misfortune. This would have been unwise of him if Evan had cared, because everyone had heard McGonagall say his first name right out loud, and he was wide open to be laughed at back. Evan and the curly-haired one, Avery, had just been paying quiet attention.

At least, he thought Avery was paying attention. His father said Avery's father Thaddeus was a sharp customer. From the way the son had been acting at the feast, though, Evan was wondering whether he took after his other parent. There was something about the eyes.

"Your yearmate's a disgrace," Malfoy told them, not much less contemptuously than he'd spoken to the scarecrow, "but he has a proper team spirit. Slytherin can work with that." He flicked a finite at the skinny boy, leaving him looking (almost) normal again, except for his jaw hanging open for the long moment before he snapped it shut. "It's up to you to make him presentable. Be quick about it, or you'll answer to me and Slughorn won't have anything to do with you."

That last part seemed an odd threat. Evan opened his mouth to ask about it, but Avery was faster. "How are we supposed to do that?" he asked, eyeing the bony collection of nearly rags contemptuously.

"I don't care," Malfoy said, and headed back for the common room. His hair fanned out and caught the light as he turned. It was so pale Evan didn't even know what colors a person would mix to paint it.

Not wanting anything to do with any of this nonsense, Evan fished his bathrobe out of his trunk and went to take a shower. When he came back, Avery and Mulciber were both unconscious, fallen against the walls as though they'd been hurled into them by an explosion. He stared at the scarecrow.

"No one's 'fixing' my robes before I know they won't botch it," the scarecrow stated, meeting Evan's eyes levelly. "I'll take bossing-about from him, he's in charge. You lot aren't."

"I can barely understand a word you say," Evan told him. "The robes are nothing, next to that."

The scarecrow gave an unpleasant smile and said something like 'pig-melon.'

"If you say so," Evan said. Even if that was supposed to be an insult, he just wasn't interested. "But don't talk in public until you've listened more, will you?"

"Don't talk in public until you've listened more," the scarecrow parroted. It wasn't mockery; he was clearly making a good-faith attempt to mirror Evan's accent.

"Not good," he said, "but better."

The scarecrow didn't come anywhere near smiling at him, but the mean look in his dark eyes eased out. "What should I do about these, d'you think?" he asked, plucking at his robes. They weren't just patched, but had odd seams here and there that suggested they'd been cut down. They weren't even regulation Hogwarts black. They must have been once, but they'd faded to a grubby charcoal.

He considered telling the scarecrow to ask a teacher in the morning. There was the possibility, though, that Malfoy would take umbrage if there was still an obvious disgrace among them at breakfast. He sighed. He didn't want to be involved, but not troubling himself would probably not be worth the trouble.

"My cousin Narcissa's in our year," he said reluctantly. "She might know some clothing spells. Or one of her sisters might. Give me your robes; I'll see if I can get hold of one of them."

The scarecrow nodded. He pulled his robe off, and dug a spare out of his trunk to hand to Evan. His shirt and trousers were, if possible, worse. The shoes actually hurt Evan's eyes, they were so scruffy. Too big for him, too, and he wasn't even wearing enough socks to make up the difference.

"You're welcome," Evan said dryly.

"You're doing what you were told," the scarecrow said. His effort to enunciate made him sound like he was being more patient than he wanted to be. Or maybe that was what he was doing. Hard to say. "I'm cooperating."

Evan didn't like that much, but he looked at their other two roommates. They didn't look like waking up anytime soon, and stood (sprawled) snoring testament to the fact that the walking botch was fully capable of not cooperating.

"Fair enough," he allowed, and went to find Cissy. She didn't quite see the gratitude situation the scarecrow's way, but was willing to take sketches of herself and her roommates to send home in trade instead of an IOU. Evan felt he'd gotten off lightly, even when the tiny one giggled at him in a way that sounded neither shy nor innocent.

When he got back with two almost-presentable sets of robes, Avery and Mulciber were still out cold. He didn't see the scarecrow anywhere. What was his name? Something sharp, awful, and unwizardly. "Snide? Snood?" he called.

"Snape," the scarecrow called back from the bathroom. After a pause, "Snood? Really?"

"Did you get lost?" Evan asked cordially. His mum was very good at cordial; she could make anyone blush.

"Maybe?"

That was unexpected, so he went in. The other boy was staring in perplexity at the shower, occasionally reaching out to touch the pipes or faucet.

"You've never seen a shower before," Evan said flatly. Even with the kid's clothes as awful as they were, it was hard to credit.

The scarecrow gave him a sullen, aggressive look, hunched his shoulders, and visibly decided to brazen it out. "This one's complicated. I'll work it out," he said with narrow, flinty eyes, daring Evan to make something of it. Then he looked back at the controls. To be fair, they were complicated, and had a lot more to them than just a temperature dial. In a grim tone, he added, "Eventually."

Evan sighed again, aggravated. "I suppose we'll all be in trouble if you haven't washed by morning," he said with vague resentment, and showed him how to work it. This time he did get a nod of thanks, at least. "Muggleborn, are you?"

"No."

He didn't look like he was lying. Or like someone who'd never heard the word and was saying no on reflex. And he had stunned the other two. "Well, that's something. But look, I'm not going to have to lead you by the hand all year, am I?"

The sharp face drew tight. "Go get your beauty sleep, Rosier," Snape snarled. "I can bloody well manage."

"Glad to hear it," Evan replied, and went back into the bedroom.

Before he did the rest of his unpacking, he pulled out the copy of Nature's Nobility his father had sent with him so he could check up on his yearmates. He left it on the bed with the horribly battered footlocker, with a note. It read,

Better learn who you can swear at.

In the morning, the book was on Snape's bedside table, not the rubbish bin. It had a bookmark in it, but not so far in as to be an obvious lie to get Evan off his back.

Evan nodded a little to himself, thinking that Malfoy had been right. A little coaching was needed, yes, but then they could all happily get down to the business of politely pretending the grotty, uncivilized pleb didn't exist.

Art at AO3; link in profile