The Boy-Who-Lived to be Hated
As Harry heard his name called to be sorted, he felt his gut churn and his head spin. The last few weeks had been the most confusing, overwhelming, and stressful weeks of his life. He found out that he wasn’t just a muggle-raised orphan, but he was the bloody boy-who-lived. He was famous for something that had happened when he was a toddler. For his parents death. Which, for the record, was not the result of a drunken car crash. Apparently, they had died defying a wizarding hitler of sorts. Harry’s first impression of the leaky cauldron was not very impressive, especially not when he compared it to the colorful and bustling diagon alley.
Though, while diagon was enchanting and enthralling with its colors and charms, the bustling alley made Harry feel like he was being suffocated by the people around him. It most definitely didn’t help that whenever the poor boy was spotted in public a full on mob was formed around him. This resulted in the anxious child taking shelter in the pub. He had gotten quite close to the bartender,
Tom, who would kindly and patiently answer all of Harry’s constantly accumulating questions on the wizarding world and wixen culture.
The two of them would talk for hours on end, and he had many good book recommendations on different subjects and they discussed points of interest. Harry particularly liked the idea of the sport called quidditch, which was a bit like football or rugby but on a broom. The man was also pleasantly unbiased when it came to discussion regarding Hogwarts houses. Tom had told the boy his parents had both been in Gryffindor, so naturally next to everyone assumed he would be sorted there.
At that Harry had internally grimaced. He had a few speculations on his sorting based on Tom's descriptions of the houses, but he really hoped he wasn’t sorted to Gryffindor. Harry disliked loud noises and constant banter. The idea of being in a house of reckless hooligans, (Tom has assured Harry that not all Gryffindor students would fit that description, to which Harry simply nodded numbly) nevertheless stuck in a cramped dormitory with such shenanigans for seven years, made Harry want to convulse.
Tom simply smirked in response to Harry’s obvious dislike of the idea and continued on.
While visiting Gringotts, Harry learned of his immense fortune. The shock of going from penniless to dripping with gold, (or galleons, he should say) was immense. Harry also learned (after a painfully long lecture from his goblin account manager, Griphook. He was still processingthe knowledge that goblins existed in the first place, honestly) that he was not only rich, but the heir to the house of Potter and once he was of age he would claim his seat on the Wizingamont, which was the prestigious wizarding court. He had an enormous amount of political power and was chastised for not being properly informed. Promptly after that first visit Harry set out to buy every books on wizarding politics and sentiment magical creatures and their customs. A few hours and almost 300 galleons later, the pale boy collapsed into his usual chair at the front of the leaky, head buried between the pages of The Guide to Proper Heirship, by Marcarios Bones.
He had only vaguely heard mutters about “bloody ravenclaws and their books” when Tom forcefully yanked Harry out of his book inspired trance to eat.
When it came to Hogwarts, the subjects most intriguing to Harry were Potions and Transfiguration. Ancient runes also held great interest, though since he wouldn’t be able to attend classes until third year, Harry focused on the former. He bought dozens of books on the subjects, and had taken a liking to the idea of becoming an animegi. While his time spent talking or simply living with Athena had always been nothing less than amazing, he sometimes wished he was a snake
like her. He wished he was really her hatchling, and not the bloody boy-who-lived. He most definitely was going to figure it out, regardless of the legal implications or the consequences of if it goes wrong.
But the thing that kept Harry fully submerged in magic was his wand. Hawthorn and Hornbeam, 12 ½ inches with a dragon heartstring core. It had taken Harry almost two hours to find his wand, but boy was it worth it. When his hand first touched the handle, he'd never felt so truly alive. The two woods combined together to form a jagged pattern, almost as if struck by lightning. It was both dangerous as it was beautiful. It was perfect. Athena must have felt something too, because she had coiled tighter around his waist and was hissing happily.
Replaying the memory in his mind, Harry slowly walked up towards the scruffy old hat. It honestly didn’t look like much, but the child could practically taste the powerful ancient magic seeping out of it.
He replayed the words Athena had been reassuring him were true since the night he escaped.
I am Harry Potter. I am powerful. I am more than the freak the dursleys pushed around. I bow to no one.
And with a deep breath, Harry sat down on the stool his gut clenched. He ignored the tense yet eager silence of the students, the intense looks from the professors. The shrewed glares coming from a large number of students in green. Harry ignored them all as the ancient hat was draped over his head, and a voice filled his mind.
Ah yes, Harry Potter, I have been waiting for you. The hat thought with a chuckle. Quite brave you are, but oh! The wit! And such unremarkable cunning, my my mister potter, this will be quite difficult. You would do well in Gryffindor, with that bravery and your reputation. Both your parents were Gryffindor you know- Harry’s own mental voice cut the hat off with a sharp retort.
‘If you dare even suggest once more putting me in the house of red and gold with those temperamental lions, I’ll happily burn down this castle with you inside it.’ Harry thought with an edge of coldness. The damned hat let out what could only be described as bellowing laughter, which was unnerving coming from a piece of worn fabric.
My my mister potter, interesting you are indeed. You would serve well as a Ravenclaw among peers who likewise share your desire for knowledge. You would grow to be a fine young man and make yourself a living in any area you may pursue. The hat says.
Harry considers this for a moment. He could live a nice life, a quiet life. Maybe pursue a career in potions... Out of nowhere, Harry could feel his wand burning at his side.
No. That’s not what he wanted. He didn’t want an easy life, a life where he was mediocre. He wanted to be great. No, he wanted to be the greatest. With his mind set and his hands clenched with determination, he let all his dreams of power and ambition to do anything and everything to obtain it flood out of him. The hat seemed to sit in a stunned, weary silence, before letting out another laugh, albeit this one softer and more hesitant than the former ones.
Yes, there is no doubt. You will obtain what you seek in the house of Salazar. You remind of another boy who was sorted green as well. He too was ambitious and cunning, and longed for power. Recognition. He was a proud parseltongue. He led himself down a very dark path, one I hope you will not find yourself treading across. You can become what you desire in….” “SLYTHERIN!!!”
Harry was the slightest bit shaken as his mind reeled at the similarities between him and the student the hat had described. He wanted to believe in his heart that he was wrong, but the last parselmouth to reign over Britain was the only one to fit the hat’s criteria. In his heart he didn’t want to be like the man who killed his parents, who took away everything from him. But a tiny, sick part of himself was glad. Glad to be so closely compared to someone of such power, such influence. Harry felt so sick and conflicted he didn’t notice the fact the entire great hall had been reduced to pin drop silence. Both students and faculty were staring at the boy incredulously, and almost two minutes go by before the sorting resorts back to normal. Harry was still deep in thought, mind swimming with worries and regrets.
He didn’t want to be like Voldemort. He didn’t want to be a deranged murderer. He wasn’t.. he couldn’t be like the dark lord, right? How could he, a boy whose parents were killed by Voldemort, ever become another one of him? That was the question Harry continued to ask himself over and over again.
For a brief time on the train ride to Hogwarts Harry had sat next to a boisterous red headed boy, but the boy left soon after he noticed Harry was frankly more interested in the train mechanics and his potions book than he was with the redhead.
Harry had thought, just maybe, they could still be friends. Sure, their first interaction didn’t go great, but what can you expect from a child so used to being ignored or beaten up when other children were over? Harry’s hope dissipated completely when he caught the boy glowering at him with pure hatred from over by the Gryffindor table.
Harry didn’t let any disappointment leak into his features. Something you master while living with the Dursleys is the art of faking indifference and bottling emotions. Being rejected wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence, but for some reason it still hurt more than it should.
———————————
It seemed that most of Slytherin decided to completely ignore Harry’s existence. Some others, like Malfoy, decided it was their life goal to make Harry as miserable as possible. The whole ordeal got even worse when he remembered that potions class, the class he was looking forward to the most, was taught by their head of house. The head of house who made it clear he wished Harry had never been born and apparently planned to make it Harry’s problem that he was.
Oh he tried. Harry tried so hard to prove himself. But each time he was only met with curses, each one darker than the last. One curse left Harry in such bad shape that he couldn’t use his wand arm properly for weeks after.
But Harry wasn’t about to give in. Harry knew this situation all too well. This was no different than muggle primary school. And the thing he learned in primary school was this: do not report it.
When Harry was around nine he tried to report his abuse to his one alright teacher. They called the Dursleys themselves to ask if such was true. Soon spinning tales of the criminal child, the pathological liar who manipulated poor adults into thinking good, upstanding citizens would ever mistreat their nephew. And the teacher believed it. Harry got punished both at school and at home, but had to take a week off of classes due to the beating he got being so severe he couldn’t walk or talk.
When a nine year old Harry returned to primary school bruised, battered, and malnourished, they sneered at him and called him an attention seeker.
This was no different. Professor Snape wouldn't believe Harry. Even if he did, he would probably laugh and tell Harry he deserved it. Part of Harry thought he really did.
So, after a night spent awake considering his options, he decided he would do what he always did.
Lie low.
He wouldn’t need to dumb himself down to failing level, like he was forced to did while at the Dursleys.
Harry Potter would be a mediocre student. He would be quiet, concealed, and blank. He would never let anyone see him for what he is: a freak.
Harry knew Athena would object to his plan. She would tell him that he needs to earn his place and show the wizarding world why he is the boy-who-lived. But Harry didn’t want that. He didn’t want to be here in the first place. He just wished he’d died that night instead of his parents, silently glad at the very least they never had to meet him or see what a no good freak he turned out to be. And with that, Harry Potter staired out the window of his shared dormitory into the depths of the black lake. He watched the waters until the sun came up and he prepared himself for the nine months of hell ahead of him.