It made complete sense in hindsight. After Voldemort's fall in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, Harry – along with Ron – had been swept into Auror training with barely an acknowledgement of his consent. It was assumed that he wanted it, and it was assumed that he was ready for it. Perhaps Ron was, with his lust for adventure and desire for fame and respect. Harry, looking back, felt that perhaps he should have taken a long holiday instead.

After three years of training and a year working closely with Mentors, Harry and Ron were put on teams. They made good progress, and had excellent performance reviews. Harry was always keen to keep working, and his drive to further his career was what eventually drove Ginny away. But the more he worked, the less he had to think about everything that had happened, everyone that had died, and what it all meant to be The Boy Who Lived to Defeat Voldemort. After only a year on a team, Harry was promoted to a be a Leader, and took on his very own team of Aurors. Ron followed the year after. Harry's team eventually rose to the top, and took on the department's most critical missions. Then at only age twenty-four, he became a Mentor. He was leading the way with zero fatalities on his watch – no team members, and no criminals. There were whispers all through the Ministry that Harry Potter would be the next Head of Magical Law Enforcement when the current Head retired. At age twenty-seven, the Head retired and to no-one's surprise, Harry was promoted.

Which lead, he supposed – in a roundabout fashion – to his current situation, in the minister's office. Kingsley was staring at him mournfully over a stack of paperwork, his chin propped delicately on his interlocked fingers.

'I'm all right,' Harry asserted again. Kingsley sighed.

'You're not been cleared for duty, Harry.'

Harry scoffed, but didn't say anything. He didn't have a very strong argument.

'It won't happen again,' Harry said quietly, but he had been saying that all week. Nobody seemed to trust him.

'Be that as it may, I'm still required to put you on leave for at least two weeks.' The minister gave him a pointed look. 'You do what you want with that time, Harry, but I strongly suggest you get some help.'

'What then?'

Kingsley sighed.

'Then you will be re-evaluated. Until then, Stewart is pushing to put a doppelganger into service to prevent...panic.'

'You're joking,' Harry blurted. But Kingsley shook his head and stood. He took a small glass phial out of his pocket and popped it open, coming over to Harry and holding it out.

'One for each day, now.'

Harry looked up at Kingsley and delicately separated one fine hair and plucked it from his head, wincing at the pinprick of pain that followed. He placed it defiantly in the phial, and Kinglsey cocked his head.

'We will be seeing you Monday, then.'

With that, the minister strode out of his own office, leaving Harry alone.

Harry defaulted to Potions Duty now. Instead of purchasing from outside, the MLE department frequently sourced the work within its own walls. There was always someone out with an injury or on parental leave who was adequate enough at brewing and could restock the shelves. Polyjuice Potion, Mutamorph Potion, Pepper-Up Potion, Blood Replenisher, Veritaserum, various antidotes, and even a small batch of Felix Felicis was always on hand. While a certified doppelganger went around pretending to be Harry to prevent panic from the public and mayhem in the media, the real Harry sat at home brewing potions. Monday morning after dropping off another single hair with Kinglsey, he returned to his flat and set up a lab in his sitting room.

He still hadn't picked a counsellor that could help him with this so-called post-trauma stress that Hermione seemed to think he had, but perhaps he would peruse some listings online. He wasn't entirely sure whether it would be better to have a wizarding counsellor or a Muggle counsellor, yet.

A batch of Felix Felicis was already in progress, so he checked on and saw it was coming along nicely. He smirked to himself in remembrance of his old Potions professor. He donned some dragonhide gloves and began prepping the intensive Mutamorph Potion.

The potion was developed as an alternative to Polyjuice Potion – only it created a body-swap situation instead of allowing you to take on another person's appearance. The magic worked into the potion, however, would only take hold if both parties were willing. It was a prime tool for Aurors working sting operations, or under cover. And frankly, Harry was surprised Kinglsey only wanted his hair for a Polyjuice. It would be harder to uncover a doppelganger in his actual body, after all.

Despite the safeguards, it was a highly controlled substance. A permit was required to brew, and anyone caught attempting to buy the ingredients to brew it would be taken into custody and questioned if they did not present their permit.

With initial ingredients combined, Harry pulled off his gloves and set a glass stirring rod to mix in slow revolutions, while lavender flames danced below the cauldron. The potion was simmering nicely. Harry went to his bookcase, remembering the Sorting Hat and how it had wanted to put him in Slytherin. Even without a Potions master as his Head of House, here he was, brewing potions for work. If only Snape could see him now. He pulled his ratty first year Potions textbook off a shelf, and smoothed the cover as he circled back to his potions. He let the book fall open in his hands as he got back to his cauldron of Mutamorph Potion. A gentle sift of something – dust, hair, assorted bits – trickled out of the spine. Right into his potion.

'No!' Harry shouted at once, snapping the book shut and throwing it aside. The potions glowed an ethereal blue and a plume of smoke exploded upwards, choking Harry instantly with a thick, chalky cloud. It filled his eyes, nose, and throat. He stumbled back, coughing and hacking. He let his eyes stream as he caught his breath. His eyes stung. His tears felt thick on his face. He wiped at his cheeks hastily, and felt viscous scum on his hands. Bollocks. He shut his eyes hard for a few seconds, and then opened his eyes. Still cloudy and streaming. He did it again, and there was no change. Clenching his eyes shut again, he took a deep breath, trying to calm his rapidly escalating anger.

Standing up straight, he let his breath out, distracting himself from his eyes by thinking about the mess he undoubtedly would have to clean up. He momentarily entertained the thought of burning the place to the ground and simply starting over. It would no doubt be a disaster.

He coughed once more, swayed with a slight dizziness, and opened his eyes. His breath left him like he'd been slapped right in the diaphragm. His eyesight was clear, but his flat was gone, and not in the burnt-down-starting-over way. Harry was standing in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The hall was full of students, candles floated overhead, and there were whispers.

'Potter, did she say?'

'The Harry Potter?'

Harry broke out in a cold sweat and wiped at his face, blinking several times. He looked all around him, but the scene remained stable. There was no potion residue on his hands. His cheeks were clean and dry. His eyes were no longer itching and burning.

'Mr. Potter, please. We are waiting.'

Minerva McGonagall was standing just at the edge of his field of vision, holding a scroll and the Sorting Hat. She smiled encouragingly as he turned to look at her. She gestured to a stool.

'Come now. You must be sorted. Sit.'

Someone behind him gave him a gentle push and Harry stumbled towards the stool. What was going on? Was he dreaming? Was he unconscious in his flat with potions left brewing? He sat heavily on the stool and started turning around in his seat when his vision was covered – the Sorting Hat was placed on his head.

'What is going on,' Harry thought wildly.

'You've been here before,' the Sorting Hat mused in his ear, with a trace of amusement. 'You're a step out of time, young man,'

'What?'

The Hat chuckled and Harry held himself rigid on the stool as sweat trickled down his back under his fresh school robes.

'You've had a potions accident!' the Hat prompted. Harry nodded. 'And now you are here, in your eleven-year-old body.'

'How do I get back?' Harry thought frantically.

'You can't,' the Hat said simply. 'The scenario that put you here cannot be replicated in reverse,' it explained.

Harry started to hyperventilate.

'Breathe, not-quite-so-young Potter. There are worse fates.'

But Harry wasn't listening. He pulled the Hat off numbly as it shouted 'SLYTHERIN!'

He froze. The Great Hall was silent. McGonagall looked confused, and Harry was finally able to turn around to look at the head table. Hagrid was there. Trelawney was there. Flitwick was there.

Dumbledore was there. Dumbledore looked as confused as McGonagall.

Snape was there. Snape looked disturbed.

Quirrell was there. A sharp pain shot through his scar.

With a strangled cry, Harry collapsed in a dead faint, the Sorting Hat still clutched in his hands.

Harry jerked awake suddenly, wrapped in a falling sensation, and found himself in bed. Sighing, he collapsed back into his pillows and reached for his glasses on the nightstand. It had been a dream, then. Perhaps he had not even started brewing yet today. But as he put his glasses on, he realized he was not in his bed in his flat, but was in a bed in the Hogwarts hospital wing. Quiet voices were speaking on the other side of a white curtain that had been drawn around his bed. Frowning, Harry reached for his wand, and whispered a spell to amplify the voices so he could hear them.

'Poppy says he's healthy. Blood sugar is stable. Must've been a shock to his system,' Harry heard Minerva McGonagall mutter.

'A shock to all our systems,' Severus Snape added. 'How could the offspring of James and Lily Potter be a Slytherin,' he mused darkly.

'It is a tad concerning,' the voice of Albus Dumbledore admitted.

There was a pause.

'It's brilliant,' Snape said, obviously smirking. 'Potter must be rolling over in his grave.'

'That's enough, Severus,' Dumbledore said tersely.

At this point, Harry threw back the covers. He got out of bed and marched around the curtain, his robes rather wrinkled now.

'Ah, Harry,' McGonagall said with emphasized volume, instantly silencing Snape and Dumbledore's further bickering. 'How do you feel?'

Harry winced and shook his wand surreptitiously to end the spell, which had caused McGonagall's normal speaking voice to nearly deafen him. He took a deep breath.

'Strange,' he said at last, letting his breath out. 'But also hungry.'

Dumbledore smiled and with a silent nod, took his leave.

'Professor Snape will take you to get a snack and escort you to your dorms. He is Head of Slytherin House,' said McGonagall helpfully. She smiled at him, and followed Dumbledore out, giving one last look over her shoulder before disappearing through the doors.

'Please follow me, Mr. Potter,' Snape said smoothly, and they left the hospital wing.

'Next time you are in the Great Hall, I advise you to leave your histrionics at the door,' Snape instructed as they journeyed into the dungeons. He directed Harry into his office, and Harry obediently sat at the desk. Snape conjured up a tea tray piled with sandwiches, and a flask of pumpkin juice.

'The feast ended hours ago,' Snape explained as Harry loaded a small plate with sandwiches. 'It would be inappropriate to send you to bed on your first night with no supper. Once you are finished eating, I will take you to the Slytherin dormitory.'

'Thank you, sir,' Harry said between mouthfuls. It was emotionally overwhelming to be in Snape's presence. He found himself sneaking furtive glances, and if Snape noticed, he did not let on. His eyes burned with the promise of tears, and his head was spinning, so he tried not to think too much about the fact that it was Snape sitting right across from him.

'Were you not expecting Slytherin House?' Snape asked lightly as he passed the juice over.

Harry choked and coughed, pounding his chest and excusing himself.

'Ah, actually, that is practically the only thing that has made sense this evening,' Harry said with a half-smile, and Snape's eyes widened infinitesimally. 'The Hat said I would be a good fit for Slytherin, but also for Gryffindor.'

Snape eyed him shrewdly.

'That would seem contradictory, if you knew the Houses.'

Harry laughed, feeling tears building.

'Not in the least, if you knew me.'

There was a comfortable lull before Snape spoke again, allowing Harry to get control of himself.

'Have you done any reading for your classes yet?'

Harry nodded absently.

'Then what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?'

Harry held back a smile.

'Draught of the Living Death, sir,' Harry answered promptly, taking a drink of his juice. 'It's a powerful sleeping potion.'

Snape nodded in approval.

'Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?'

'In the stomach of a goat,' Harry said smugly, putting down his goblet to stare Snape down. 'It is, by itself, an antidote to most poisons.'

'What is the difference, then, between monkshood and wolfsbane?'

'They are names for the same plant, which is also known as aconite. It's the main ingredient of the Wolfsbane Potion.' Remembering he was supposed to be eleven years old, Harry looked up at Snape hesitantly. 'Right?'

Snape looked mildly impressed.

'You take after your mother,' he said softly, and Harry felt the sting of tears at his eyes again.

'Nobody says anything about her,' Harry said, unable to keep the bitter edge off his voice. 'Everyone always told me how much I look like my Dad.'

Snape gave him an appraising look.

'We were friends, she and I. I'm sure there are many things I can tell you about her.'

Harry wiped his hands on a napkin and pushed his chair back.

'I'd like that, sir.'

Later, as Harry climbed into a strange bed in a strange dormitory, he felt overwhelmed by homesickness. He desperately wished now that he had at least been sorted into Gryffindor, where he would at least have his familiar friends around him, instead of sleeping in a bed next to Draco bleeding Malfoy. Perhaps he could seek help from Snape, he thought. He drifted into a fitful sleep, wondering if the Sorting Hat had been right, and that he really was stuck here, in his eleven-year-old body.

And as he got ready for bed, the Head of Slytherin House considered his new student. Potter was an enigma. He reminded him strongly of Lily Evans, or perhaps even himself. Severus rolled his eyes at the fact that the boy looked so much like his father. He knew first hand that one shouldn't be judged only on their outward appearance, his hand curling softly around his left forearm as his thoughts swirled. He had, after all, ended up in Slytherin House.

The boy was a touch small for one his age, but nothing that couldn't be remedied with good food, sleep, and exercise. A nutritive potion did come to mind; he would have to speak to Poppy about it, seeing if Potter could be added to the list of students who received supplements in their food.

What Severus couldn't get over was the fact that Potter had been sorted into Slytherin. His sorting had taken the longest by far, and Potter's dramatic reaction had created an uproar. He had taken the boy to the hospital wing himself, letting Minerva and Albus continue to oversee the sorting. The boy had been pale, sweaty, and mostly unconscious except for the occasional nonsensical mumblings about the Ministry, and his flat. Nothing that he nor Poppy had tried could get the boy to wake. So they let him be.

Not only had the boy been sorted into Slytherin, not only had he accepted it, but he had expected it. He seemed to have a keen mind for potions, and had already gotten started on his reading. Indeed, Severus couldn't help wondering what the year would bring for The Boy Who Lived.