Note: This is a rewrite of the very first story I ever wrote in English. I'm proud of it, and I still love the idea behind it, but I like to think that my writing has improved somewhat since I first started out, so hopefully this version will be a significant improvement.

Warning: Canon-typical child abuse, bullying, driven!Harry, probably bad language

Enjoy!

Better be Gryffindor

The Sorting Hat does not see what is, for the present is malleable and forever changing. It sees potential instead, and so the children may not always go where they belong, but they always go where they can become great. Its choice may not be a good one, but it is always the right one.

Chapter 1 The King of Gryffindor

This may not be happiness, but it is greatness.

—George B. Shaw

The moment Professor McGonagall called his name, Harry Potter could feel the sudden rise of tension in the air. Where before many of the older students had been chatting and whispering with each other, there was a moment of heavy silence as he stepped forward, before the Great Hall exploded into not very quite whispers once more.

The noise reminded Harry of Aunt Petunia when she had the neighbours over for tea, tittering and talking in low tones that were nevertheless meant to be heard. It was not a pleasant comparison, and Harry fleetingly considered turning around and walking straight back out of the door again.

Not that he would — certainly not with his relatives of all people on the other end of that road, but some reflexes were hard to suppress. And Harry had long ago learnt that these types of whispers — the ones that were so poisonous they shouldn't grow and yet flourished in ways the truth never did — were the kind best avoided.

All those bright eyes staring at him at him, filled with curiosity, untold expectations and a startling amount of reverence, didn't help either. Harry felt like a particularly unattractive bug under a microscope. Or possibly Dudley's shoe, what with the sense of looming doom he was beginning to feel.

"The Harry Potter!"

"I didn't know he would be here this year!"

"Do you think he really is the Boy-Who-Lived?"

"I saw him on the train!"

"He's kinda scrawny though, don't you think?"

But, for better or worse, Harry was used to whispers and narrowed eyes following his every step. Refusing to entertain laughable thoughts about returning to the Dursleys, now that he had finally escaped them, Harry walked towards the professor in quick strides. He was careful to keep his expression calm and unimpressed — a look mastered by enduring Aunt Petunia's endless praise of Dudley for ten years without laughing, which was hard — and his back straight enough to let the words slide right off it.

Harry had spent ten years as the infamous orphaned delinquent of Privet Drive. Ten years of ignoring his cousin when he jumped down the stairs hard enough to make his cupboard's ceiling creak and shake as though they'll break any second now and bury him beneath the rubble. Ten years of pretending not to notice Mrs. Number Seven locking the doors whenever she saw him walking by the house. Ten years of thanking Mr. and Mrs. Number Two for the cookies they gave him for taking care of their yard during the holidays. Ten years of rumours and whispers and distrust, of smiles filled with pity and paranoid hands clutching their wallets just a little tighter.

Ten, long years.

Watching the students before him crane their necks to get a better look was intimidating, but also infuriating.

Thankfully, Professor McGonagall chose that moment to lower the Sorting Hat onto Harry's head. The agitated student body disappeared from view, replaced by the dark, matted inside of old fabric and a husky voice loud enough to drown out the never-ending whispers. Which wasn't as comforting as it could have been. Oh, Harry had always been a freak, but even he knew that hearing voices did not speak for one's sanity.

Of course, he was being judged by a talking hat, so maybe, just maybe, things were different in the magical world. That, or they were all bat-shit crazy. A possibility that could not, in good conscience be discounted, considering they left the fate of their children in the hands of a talking piece of clothing.

Setting the matter of his sanity aside for the moment, Harry focused on the voice inside his mind.

"My, my, you're an interesting one, aren't you?" The hat — at least Harry desperately hoped it was the hat — chuckled huskily.

Harry wondered if talking hats could smoke. If so, the one on his head should probably cut back on it. Not only was he setting a bad example for students all-around, if his voice got any raspier, it might actually hurt to hear.

There was a moment of silence. When the hat hastily continued, Harry thought he sounded almost a little guilty.

"Yes, well… You've got talent, there's no doubt 'bout that and a sharp mind to back it up… And so eager to prove your worth. A strong sense of right and wrong… not easily swayed in your stance, are you? Yes, a strong character indeed. Now, where shall I put you, Harry Potter?"

Harry frowned. From what he understood, it was the Sorting Hat's job to choose a student's place, not his own preferences. Then again it was just a hat. Perhaps it was an old artefact that was simply charmed to recognise and verbalise the subconscious desire of those who wore it?

"I resent that thought, young man!"

A few days ago, Harry would have thought it impossible, but it turned out magic did in fact get old. Especially when inhabiting a mind-reading piece of clothing incapable of making decisions. Who would have thought that the novelty would wear off this quickly? Yet another question to be pondered at a later date.

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes — nobody would see it anyways, so what was the point? — Harry contemplated the Sorting Hat's previous question.

What did he want from Hogwarts? Where did he wish to go? What was he hoping to find?

Presented with these loaded questions, none of which had an easy answer, Harry floundered. His goals had always been simple, concrete. Be faster than Dudley (so he won't catch you). Swipe a piece of cake while Aunt Petunia is busy catering to Dudley. Get away from the Dursleys.

But Hogwarts? Hogwarts was already the fulfilment of every goal Harry had ever had, just by offering him a way out. Harry hadn't yet given a single thought to what he would do once he got there, what he would wish and strive for. He'd been to caught up in the impossibility of living a dream come true. A mistake he now seriously regretted.

And then Harry remembered.

Not the talks about the condemnation of one house and the wonders of another, no. Not the hero-worship in the eyes of a red-haired boy, nor the foul words spoken by another year mate. Harry remembered the wandmaker Hagrid had taken him to, on his first visit into the magical world, Mister Ollivander. He remembered the expression the man had been wearing when looking at his creation in Harry's hand and seeing another boy long since grown in his place.

The odd mixture of disgust and a self-centred sort of pride born out off one's own achievement. An admiration tainted by fear and horror, but genuine nonetheless, when Ollivander had spoken of the feared Lord Voldemort.

It was strange, perhaps, for those who did not know Petunia Dursley very well, but in that moment Harry had been reminded of her. Of the way she had looked at him sometimes, when something particularly freakish happened around him.

Of the satisfaction that expression had brought him, a cold, colourless kind of happiness that wasn't more than a twisted shadow of the real thing, but still close enough. The closest he had ever gotten, where his relatives were concerned.

"After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things— terrible, yes, but great," Ollivander had said.

And Harry thought of the perpetual sneer on Aunt Petunia's face when she was forced to speak about him. Recalled the wary or pitying glances the neighbours would throw him. Remembered the disappointed exasperation his teachers had worn when faced with yet another hopeless case, and he knew with a startling sort of clarity that those were the expressions these people would wear when talking about him.

He thought of Hagrid's shudder when speaking a simple name, of the glimmering fascination in Ollivander's eyes, the shadows lying underneath the eager excitement the magical world had welcomed their hero with.

And Harry wanted.

He wanted to be great. He wanted to prove himself, and, more importantly by far, he wanted to prove the Dursleys wrong. Harry wanted to matter. To be remembered. Not as the poor orphan without a future. Not as the thankless brat destroying everything he touched. Not as the Boy-Who-Lived, a title Harry could barely connect with himself. No. Harry wanted more. He wanted to be remembered for his own achievements.

In that very moment, Harry made his decision. It was a choice he would never be able to take back.

Squaring his shoulders, Harry steeled his spine, determination and stubbornness his only allies in the storm that was sure to follow.

"Slytherin," Harry thought, certain he'd made the right choice. "Put me into Slytherin, please."

"Hmm." The hat hummed.

Harry wondered if it had been taken by surprise. Did the hat have a working understanding of the times he was living in? Did it know about the current views of each house? Or was it an ancient relic, stuck in a time long passed?

"I admit you'd do well in Salazar's house, where your power would be respected and your strength and belief would be tested and honed relentlessly. But I wonder if it wouldn't be a mistake-"

"Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin!" Harry repeated, again and again, gripping the edges of his seat tightly. He couldn't fail. Never again. He was so tired of not being good enough.

"You're a driven individual." Having only a voice to go on, Harry nevertheless imagined the Sorting Hat shaking its head at him in silent admonishment. "You possess many qualities Salazar treasured in his students, and I have no doubt that his house would help you improve every one of them. But Slytherin isn't the only house you'd do well in, and-"

"Why bother asking for my opinion if you ignore it anyway?" Harry snapped angrily, thoroughly done with the ramblings of the invasive, lying, bastard on his head.

He'd asked, hadn't he? He'd asked, and Harry had told him, and he couldn't remember the last time he had genuinely wanted something and dared to ask for it, and he'd trusted the hat, damn it, had trusted him to listen. So why—

The Hat chuckled, but it didn't sound very friendly. "Because your answer reveals more about you than you realise, Mister Potter. It has been a long time since I've been faced with such a challenge, a long time indeed. But no, I've made up my mind. Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness, Mister Potter, no doubt about that, but to uncover your true potential better be GRYFFINDOR!"

The last part was shouted out loud into the Great Hall, and Harry heard the deafening applause from his future housemates before he had even managed to get the damn traitor off his head. Trying to mask his disappointment, never mind the righteous anger, about his sorting Harry moved slowly, to give himself just a bit more time before he would once again be faced with the always present stares.

Thus, he heard the last words the hat whispered into the depth of his mind clearly — and they would stay with him for a long time to come.

"Remember Harry Potter, there are no secrets better kept than the secrets everybody guesses."

Before Harry had the chance to process the hat's last words, never mind demand an explanation, Professor McGonagall took it from his hands and shooed him towards his new table.

Then there was a swirl of red and gold, loud clapping, congratulations, curious questions, blinding smiles, whispers about a king and his knights, and the strange words of an old man with a long beard, wearing the strangest robes Harry had ever seen.

It confused Harry at first why the first years had to be led to the Gryffindor common room by two prefects — who hadn't even introduced themselves — separately from the rest of their house. Weren't they all going to the common room anyways?

But as they climbed through the portrait of the Fat Lady, the purpose of this manoeuvre became startlingly clear: They had deliberately been delayed so the older students would reach the tower first and could prepare for their entrance.

Having grown up with a bully and his five friends, Harry was understandably wary about the initiation he suspected was going to take place this evening. It didn't help that the students from all years seemed to be present, quietly waiting for them. Not a good sign at all.

The seating arrangement they were presented with in the Gryffindor common room was anything but randomly chosen, that much Harry knew for sure. In fact, the way the older students were positioned in a half-circle around a couple of majestically-looking armchairs reminded Harry a little of an old book about the tales of King Arthur. The lounging chair in the middle couldn't be mistaken as anything but a throne.

An odd choice, considering the Wizarding World wasn't a monarchy as far as Harry knew. Or was it?

The first years were herded into the middle of the room, right in front of the circle of thirteen chairs. Each chair was covered in Gryffindor-red velvet and occupied by a student, the youngest of which was at least fourteen, probably fifteen years old. Harry immediately dubbed them the Arthur Knights in his mind, since that seemed to be the kind of image they wanted to project. It was only fitting.

And from the arrangement alone, there was no doubt that the one placed in the middle, was the king.

Looking around Harry noticed that, although the students of every year were present and scattered all over the room, there was an invisible line separating the ordinary students from the Arthur Knights. The most notable difference being that the Arthur Knights were facing the newcomers with irritatingly neutral faces, whilst the rest of the Gryffindors was focusing on them.

Harry tensed. There was an underlying tension in the air, just waiting for someone to inflame it, and it itched. The unsettling stare of more than one Arthur Knight seemed focused solely on Harry too, which did nothing to put him at ease.

Something was going on here. A power play, obviously, and for some reason it seemed he had been volunteered as a player. Or an example. The other first years had noticed it to, if the heavy silence was anything to go by. Yes, Harry did not have a good feeling about this.

After a terrible long moment of quiet appraisal, one of the sitting boys stood, drawing the attention of everyone to himself. He had dirty blond hair, a strong forehead, and thin lips.

"Welcome to Gryffindor." His words were slow and measured. The boy seemed friendly enough, approachable, but there was something about the way his gaze flickered over them, observing and judging, that rubbed Harry the wrong way.

"By now you will have already heard many stories about our house and the great people that have attended it over the years. Most of them are, of course, true and we take pride in their achievements, though you should always strive to outshine them. But like every house of Hogwarts, there are some things that you will never speak of outside these very walls. Secrets that are ours to guard, ours to know but not to share. These secrets are under a permanent Silencium — a secrecy charm — and you will not be able reveal them to anyone not of Gryffindor. You will know which secrets I refer to as you learn them." It seemed the boy — and once again Harry noticed the chosen speaker had not introduced himself — added that last part as a reassurance.

The effect was somewhat countered by the way his expression darkened suddenly and the welcoming smile he wore gained an edge of something cruel. "I recommend you do not try to betray these secrets. The Silencium will punish you — as will we."

At that, more than a few of the older students chuckled darkly. But what worried Harry far more were the select few who flinched.

"In addition to the school rules, Gryffindor has its own set of laws that you are expected to follow at all times," the speaker continued calmly. "You'll find copies of the rules at the common board, and an additional set in your dorms. Most of them are self-explanatory, but if you are unsure of their meaning, ask. Ignorance of the rules is no excuse and will not save you from punishment. Understood?"

Harry nodded along with everyone else, as he had learnt to do in the face of one of Aunt Petunia's tirades. He was similarly impressed — meaning not at all — with the introduction speech. Somehow, he had associated Hogwarts not just with 'away from the Dursleys' but with freedom. It was becoming more apparent by the second that he had spoken — or rather hoped — too soon.

That… bothered him more than Harry wanted to admit. Hogwarts was supposed to be different. Hogwarts was supposed to be better. Hogwarts was supposed to be magical.

"Good," the speaker continued. And seriously, what was it with wizards and witches and not introducing themselves? Harry had read something about "names have power" somewhere but this was ridiculous.

"That leaves me with only one more thing to cover today. The house of Gryffindor is lead by the king. There can only ever be one king at a time, and every king creates his own command structure. We-," here the boy waved at the group of students around him, "-are his knights. The king's most trusted. We stand directly beneath him and above all of you. For the most part, none of us care about what's going on in your life or what you're doing with your free time. You will not approach us unless we address you first. If there is an issue you want to bring to the king's attention, find a prefect and they'll pass on the message. But if the king or one of his knights tells you to do something, you do it. Nothing is above the king's word. When the king speaks, you listen and you obey. It's that simple. There is no breaking his rules because trust me when I say you don't want to find out what's going to happen if you do. Any questions?"

Harry gritted his teeth against the urge to speak up. He was too confused and off-balance, too angry about the quick death his hopes for Hogwarts had just died. So this was it, was it? He was a wizard, he had magic, and he was supposed to play loyal dog to some stuck-up bastard who fancied himself a king?

That was the new start he'd been promised?

Perhaps the worst, most surreal part was how everyone just seemed to accept the nameless boy's words. Nobody had laughed and told them to pull the other one. No one had rolled their eyes or made a joke.

Sure, they were only eleven and the older students made for an intimidating picture, but weren't any of his year mates even a little sceptical? As far as Harry knew, no book had mentioned this type of power play within the houses. Had the Gryffindors built a kingdom from nothing? Was that even possible? Or had the foundations been already there? Were they backed by some unwritten rules only the magically-raised knew and understood?

And while he was on the subject of kings, what kind of rules did a king establish? Which domains did he have actual control over? Was he recognised by the other teachers? The headmaster? Or was his existence part of that Silence-spell-thingy? How did a king even "get the crown", so to speak? Was it an inherited title or an earned one?

Suffice to say, Harry did have questions. A quick glance towards his new year mates confirmed that he wasn't the only one. The girl with the bushy hair from the train — Hermione? — in particular seemed about ready to vibrate out of her skin with eagerness.

Her hand was in the air before the speaker had finished his introduction. Harry's joined her at a more moderate pace.

Despite Hermione's obvious enthusiasm, the chosen speaker gestured towards Harry first.

"How exactly does one become King?" he blurted out the first of his many questions that came to mind. Harry couldn't help it. Something about that title bothered and intrigued him in equal measures.

The speaker blinked, apparently not having expected this particular question. He blinked again. Then he snorted.

Harry's eyes narrowed. The boy hadn't really done anything — yet — but Harry didn't like him. At all.

"You're an ambitious one, aren't you?" The older boy smirked condescendingly. "Don't worry," the words were sugary-sweet, designed to infuriate and alienate — which was working fabulously, by the way, "there isn't a chance of you inheriting the crown, little one."

Harry twitched, at both, the ridiculous nickname — he didn't think it was arrogant to believe that everyone here knew his name, they had made that more than obvious after all, there was no reason to call him little one — or that saccharine tone of voice.

It wasn't even an answer. At least not to the question Harry had asked. But as the other Gryffindors laughed alongside the speaker, Harry flushed, feeling an achingly familiar mixture of humiliation and righteous fury desperately pushed down, down, down, and he was so damn done with feeling weak.

It wasn't fair. Hogwarts was supposed to be different.

Harry swallowed. The knot inside his chest, made of everything he wouldn't, couldn't, let loose, tightened. And there it was, drumming along the strands pulled way too tight around his rip-cage; the insatiable need to prove them wrong.

All these people standing around him, laughing at him, high on the power it gave them. So eager to discard him, all too ready put him down. As though nothing had changed.

Harry clenched his hands into fists. Narrowed, green eyes fixed their gaze on a young man who was sitting on the chair in the middle of the formation, six knights on either side. He looked ordinary, with flat, brown hair and equally dark eyes. Neither handsome nor ugly. Neither muscular nor pudgy.

He was the King. Despite his underwhelmingly average appearance, there was no doubt in Harry's mind. Suddenly the older one looked up, met Harry's stare with a dismissive disdain that kicked what was left of Harry's warped sense of self-preservation straight back to Privet Drive. Along with common sense, common curtesy, and that nice thing named self-control.

"Bow to your king," the speaker called out.

Harry stood frozen in place, back ramrod-straight, eyes stuck on unappealing brown. Refusing to so much as avert his gaze.

It was reckless. It was unplanned. It was so incredibly stupid.

Right there, in front of the king, in front of the knights, in front of all of Gryffindor, Harry challenged the king's reign.

And in the ensuing silence, damning him, Harry vowed wordlessly that one day, he would become their superior. He would become king. The Arthur Knights would fall, their empire perish. Even if they didn't know it yet. Harry didn't care how reckless it was. He didn't care that he had neither allies nor power, that he was just a first year no one would take seriously.

He had spent all his life bending himself to other people's demands so he wouldn't break, but there were lines he refused to cross. Vows he wasn't willing to commit to. Orders he wouldn't follow.

Because he was Harry Potter, and he didn't bow to anyone.

End of Chapter 1

To the surprise of absolutely no one, I'm sure, this story was and is heavily inspired by a lot of Slytherin!Harry fics I've read. There's a type of what-if AUs that portray the House of Snakes as a very political house with a strict hierarchy, power play etc. I hope you know what I'm talking about, if not, let me know and I'll recommend you a few, because I love that trope and there are amazing works in that category that I can re-read endlessly.

That said, I always thought it ironic how many fics clearly ridicule the idea that all dark wizards are in Slytherin etc. only to then put their dark!Harry into - you guessed right - Slytherin. It's not that I'm not addicted to that trope because I totally am. It's just that it's my belief that a dark Harry could come from any house, for any number of reasons. This fic is my attempt to explore the oppressive, political, viciously cutthroat, strictly hierarchy-defined way of life we often see in Slytherin fics and asks:what if — perish the thought! — Slytherin actually isn't that special?

Purebloods are in every house, after all. Manipulation, mind games and power plays aren't reserved for the snakes.

Sorry for the rambling, just trying to put some of my feelings into words, which always ends messily. Anyways, I hope you like this rewritten version (I certainly think it's a big improvement) and I'd appreciate if you take the time to share your thoughts in a comment! For any first-time readers: exactly how much trouble our dear Harry just managed to get himself into, what do you think? :)

Have a great weekend, everybody!