The girl was just like Lily.

He cursed and threw the bottle of firewhisky at the wall.

He had been prepared to hate the girl, the daughter of Potter. He had been ready to hate a little girl with a square face and messy black hair. For years he had pictured her thus, allowing the rage to roil in him whenever he thought of her. He was not prepared for Lily in miniature. He was not ready for a girl with a friendly face and gentle waves of red hair. And he could not stand to see hazel eyes peering out at him from Lily's face.

She was supposed to be Potter all over. She was supposed to be arrogant, a bully, cruel, hateful, all these things and more. She was supposed to be someone he could hate. She was not supposed to be Lily all over again. How could he be cruel to her when she so resembled his only real friend, the friend he had killed?

And worse, she had been sorted into Slytherin. There was no way he could avoid the girl. She was his responsibility. He was the one she was supposed to come to, confide in. And she would need to—the rumors that she was a dark witch were no doubt already swirling about the school. If only she were a Gryffindor. Then she would not be suspected. Then she would not be hated. Then he would not have to deal with her. If only she were McGonagall's problem, and not his.

He balled his hands into fists, ready to strike; he wanted to hit something, to break something. Fate was toying with him, making the girl resemble her mother. And fate was winning; he was weak, letting one girl do this to him. He hated everything, including himself. He struck the stone wall as hard as he could. Pain flared in his hand and his knuckles bled.

His chest heaved as he struggled to control his breathing, to exert some measure of control over his emotions. This outburst had to end. He was no fool who wore his heart on his sleeve—he was a Death Eater, a spy, a master Occlumens. He could do this. He could calm down and comport himself with dignity.

A knock sounded on his door. He stalked across the room, fighting to regain control of himself. He opened the door to find Dumbledore standing there, serene as ever.

"My dear boy," he began. Severus was tempted to slam the door in his face, but instead bade him entry.

Blue eyes flickered across the room, taking in everything from the papers strewn across the floor to the shattered glass on the ground. The room was in utter disarray, having suffered from Severus's angry attentions for the last ten minutes. It was a sickness with him; in his anger, he could not help but destroy. His carefully constructed balance was gone; the Lily look-alike had destroyed it.

Dumbledore placed a wizened hand on his shoulder. Severus flinched away. "Whatever you have to say, old man, I don't care," he said.

"Severus," Dumbledore said. "I—"

"Don't," he said.

"I realize this is difficult for you," he said.

"Difficult? She looks like Lily! She was supposed to look like Potter!"

Dumbledore gave him a piercing look. "She did not choose her appearance to torment you, Severus."

He laughed a bitter laugh. "But that doesn't change things, does it?"

"No," Dumbledore said. "I suppose it does not. You must endeavor to see the girl for herself, my boy, not her mother, nor her father. You will only make yourself miserable if you continue down this path."

"It's too late," Severus said. "I've already gone down it. How am I supposed to make her hate me? How am I supposed to treat her like I'm a Death Eater?"

Dumbledore sat down in a high-backed arm chair, crossing his legs. "You do not. You treat her as you would any student."

"And how do I do that when I've sworn to protect her?"

"You protect her from afar."

Severus glanced towards the mantle of his fireplace. There sat a picture of him and Lily, charmed so only he could see it. Dumbledore had once asked if he was ashamed of their friendship, since he went to such lengths to hide it. He was not ashamed of Lily. He was ashamed of how he had destroyed what they had. Friendship was a precious thing, and he had been a fool to throw it away for a lifetime of servitude. He considered the picture for a moment, thinking of what Lily would want him to do.

"You cannot afford to confuse the child for her mother," Dumbledore said. "She is an eleven-year-old girl, not a confidant to burden with knowledge of your sins."

"I know that," he snapped. "I was hardly going to confess my secrets to a foolish school girl, no matter what she looks like."

Dumbledore looked at him, his eyes twinkling. He felt a prickling sensation in his mind. Dumbledore was trying to use legilimency. Severus snorted. The meddlesome old man already knew all his secrets. There was nothing left to discover, besides the depths of his pain. But a vicious feeling overcame him. He shut his friend and mentor out, throwing him forcefully from his mind, not caring how well-intentioned the intrusion was. He cursed Dumbledore's near pathological need to have an almost omniscient level of knowledge.

Severus stood from him chair, straightening his frock coat. With as much coldness as he could muster, he said, "If that was all, Headmaster, I bid you goodnight."

With still twinkling eyes, Dumbledore rose from his chair and strode out the door.

Severus swore and left his chambers behind the Headmaster. He had a speech to give.

*HP*

They walked through the dungeon corridor, footsteps and voices echoing against the stone walls. The torches gave off an eerie glow. Pansy and Draco drew closer together. She wished Ron had been sorted into Slytherin with her, so she would have someone to share this new experience with. But being alone was nothing new for her, so it didn't bother her much.

The prefect, Gemma Farley, came to a stop in front of a bare stretch of stone wall. It was dark and the torches behind them cast shadows on the wall. "Anguis," she said. And then the wall faded away to reveal a passage, at the end of which was a cozy looking room cast in spectral blue-green light.

"Amazing," Theodore Nott said, more to himself than anyone else. "We're under the lake."

"Of course we are, you idiot," Draco snapped. "Anyone who has opened Hogwarts, A History knows that."

The weedy looking boy flushed red and muttered something under his breath.

Draco moved to sit on a comfortable looking leather sofa.

"Stay standing," Gemma snapped. "Professor Snape wants to speak with all of you."

Draco scowled and stood up straighter.

Gemma stood perfectly still. Hazel tried to mimic her dignified manner but found herself shifting from foot to foot and sharing glances with Theodore. She hated being kept waiting—it was a favorite tactic of Uncle Vernon, making her suffer from anticipation of her punishment instead of simply getting it over with. Hazel could deal with most things in the here and now but struggled with the abstract something hanging over her head. She could only hope her Head of House was not of a similar disposition as Uncle Vernon.

Five minutes later, Professor Snape walked through the common room door. Hazel thought he was even more off-putting up close—his hair was clearly in need of a good wash, his nose was hooked and crooked, and his skin sallow. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, he was an imposing figure, despite being on the shorter side of average. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Hazel was surprised when he was the first to look away.

"First years," he said, his voice deep and nasally. "Welcome to Slytherin House. You have been sorted here because you are ambitious, cunning, and resourceful. In Slytherin, we look after our own because we cannot expect anyone else to." His dark eyes flicked across the row of students, resting only briefly on Hazel. "I will not hear of bullying within this house. Any breach of this expectation will be punished…severely. If you take issue with a housemate, you will bring your concerns to me. But elsewhere, outside my office and this common room, you will present a united front."

Hazel glanced at Malfoy. He had already broken the rules. No bullying. He had been horrid to Ron, mocking him for his poverty and insulting his family. Hazel had no doubt the blond boy disliked her now that she had refused his overtures of friendship, if what he offered could even be called that. Enmity had displaced any chance for amicable relations between them. But Hazel was not sorry—she was not going to make friends with the wizard version of Dudley. As much as she wanted friends, she would not demean herself to have them.

"Do you understand the rules?" Professor Snape asked, looking at each first year in turn. Everyone but Malfoy nodded in assent. Instead, he turned to Hazel and smirked.

"Miss Farley, if you could escort your charges to their room," Professor Snape said, before sweeping out the door.

"Yes sir," the prefect said, though Professor Snape gave no sign he heard her.

Hazel followed Gemma down a set of stairs to a bedroom with five beds in place. She looked around to her roommates: Pansy Parkinson, Millicent Bullstrode, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis.

Pansy sneered at her as she pushed past her, taking the bed furthest from the door. She started unpacking a lurid pink trunk into a dresser at the foot of her bed. Hazel had never realized that one person could have so many clothes; surely the trunk was somehow magically expanded to accommodate so much stuff. One look around told her that Tracey was no different—she was neatly folding her wide selection of lacey robes too. Hazel wondered if she ought to have gotten something pretty to wear on the weekends; all she had to wear besides her school robes were faded old dresses Petunia had found in a charity bin.

Millicent looked dully around before flopping down on the nearest bed. It occurred to Hazel that Millicent was not a pretty girl, nor did she seem particularly bright. Her jaw was wide and jutting and she resembled a hag Hazel had seen in one of her books. Chiding herself for the shallow thoughts, Hazel decided to reserve judgment until she actually heard the bigger girl speak.

As Hazel chose her bed, Daphne offered her a small smile. She was already unpacking too but didn't have as many personal items as the other girls, so she was already almost finished. Hazel decided she would unpack her trunk tomorrow morning—she was quite tired.

Her heart leapt as she sat down on the bed. The mattress wasn't lumpy and was bigger than her entire cupboard. Pansy was loudly lamenting having to share a room with four other people, but Hazel didn't care. For the first time in her life, she had an actual bed, not a dirty mattress stuffed into a cupboard. She might have minded having to share if there was no privacy, but there were thick curtains draped around the bed's canopy. Any time she wished to be left alone, she could simply draw them shut. It was much more than she had dared to hope for.

Daphne smiled at Hazel again. "I can't believe I'm actually here—I've looked forward to coming here my entire life."

Hazel looked to the floor. She wasn't about to admit that she hadn't known magic existed until a month ago—they would think she was daft. She had the distinct feeling that being raised by Muggles was not something she should advertise after listening to Malfoy's words about Muggles at dinner.

"I've been looking forward to it too," Hazel said. That wasn't exactly a lie—she had been looking forward to coming to Hogwarts, to at last escaping the Dursleys, to being able to make friends.

Hazel changed into her pajamas as the other girls wrote to their parents, informing them of their sorting. Hazel felt a small pang in her stomach, wishing she had someone to share the news with. Though she was accustomed to being an orphan, she still yearned for family, and failing that, just someone who cared. She was used to having only herself, but that didn't make it any more enjoyable. She still carried the emptiness and loneliness around with her every day, but she hoped that would soon change. Maybe now that she was at Hogwarts, she would have friends at last.