Chapter Text
Harry blinked the sleep out of hs eyes, squinting through the musty darkness, trying to orient himself. The aching hollow in his stomach and weakness of his limbs informed him he was half-starved.
Again.
The unique and hatefully familiar smell compounded of stale urine, old blood and fear overlaid with that disgusting not-lemon scented cleaner told him he was back in his cupboard.
Again.
Well, damn. It was probably shortly before his eleventh birthday again, too, given that's when he'd found himself last time. The day his Letter came and all the insanity that had marked both his lives had started.
He sighed, staring sightlessly up into the darkness, and reviewed his second life - which had been even more an unmitigated disater than his first. Upon waking up, back in his cupboard after a few decades of comparatively happy family life, (once he'd accepted that he was back in a past he'd thought long-gone and had no idea why) he'd tried to end things faster, get the whole Voldie-Horcrux-martyr part of his life over and done.
To say it hadn't gone well would be an understatement.
He'd sent letters to both Molly Weasley and Madame Bones. Ms. Weasley to inform her that her son's pet was an animagus Death Eater who'd been sleeping with her kids for years (Molly was nothing if not protective, and it wasn't even technically a lie) and that she needed to stun him and take him to the DMLE as soon as possible. And Madame Bones to inform her that Sirius Black had never had a trial and that proof of his innocence should be arriving with in a few days.
Unfortunately, Molly, being her loud and rather explosive self, had not gone about it with any sort of subtlety and Scabbers had had enough fore-warning to slip away.
Without the proof of his existence, Bones had dismissed the claim of Sirius' innocence, and with Pettigrew on the loose with nothing further to lose, Voldemort had been revived even earlier.
Since Voldie hadn't known about the blood protection Harry's mother had left him, they'd either used a different ritual or gotten some other 'blood of the enemy' (it's not like ol' Voldie didn't have more than one) and the end of Harry's first year had exploded in a bloody, terrifying round of death and war no one had anticipated.
And he'd gotten inescapable proof that Albus etc. etc. Dumbledore was absolutely not the genial, grandfatherly figure who deeply regretted the 'necessary sacrifices' made in the name of the Greater Good.
No, Albus Dumbledore liked his secrets and Harry had known far too many of them. No longer the naive little puppet willingly dancing to Dumbledore's tune on Dumbledore's choice of stage with Dumbledore pulling the strings to tell the story Dumbledore wanted told, the old man had quickly declared Harry 'tainted' by the Horcrux in his scar - not that the Headmaster had used the word Horcrux, but it was obvious he'd known from the start what Harry was, and done nothing whatsoever about it.
Voldie had eventually been defeated because Harry did know where and what all the other Horcruxes were, but he'd learned quick and hard that he couldn't trust any of the adults to be competent, or to give two shakes of a rat's tail about him.
And now here he was, back in the past. Again. With just as little clue as to why as the first time. er... second time? First time trying to live his life a second time.
Whatever.
He'd be playing things differently this time. It had become devastatingly clear that the adults were all idiots and couldn't be trusted with anything truly important. His classmates were still just kids - he'd made the mistake in his second life of treating them as the battle-hardened adults they'd grown into - and couldn't be counted on. So it was up to him. He'd have to make full use of every bit of courage and cunning he possessed, all his knowledge about the people, events (and items) involved and all the determination and hard work his emaciated body could manage (more than most people would think, to look at him) plus the small amounts of wandless magic he would be able to cast at this age.
He was going to get this done and then live a good life, dammit!
Aunt Petunia banged on the door and he reluctantly sighed and went to prepare breakfast.
When the mail came, Harry slipped his letter under his cupboard door so Dudley couldn't see it to tell Uncle Vernon. There would be no fleeing-cross-country nonsense this time.
Before his birthday had even rolled around a few days later, Harry was throroughly sick of the Dursleys and had thrown together the beginnings of a plan. He treated himself to an early birthday present and slipped out the door at midnight with extra clothes, food, a wad of cash from Uncle Vernon's wallet, and assorted small valuables and useful items tucked into the ratty backpack he sneaked out of Dudley's second bedroom. (Having even a small bit of Magic was so useful.)
The trip to London took a few days, but Harry was more concerned with remaining undetected than with speed, and it's not like he hadn't learned a few things about camping and scavenging over his last two lives. It was warm enough to sleep in almost any moderately sheltered spot, and he spent more than one night on his journey in public libraries and churches that *should* have been inaccessible after hours. (Alohomora, Wingardium Leviosa and Protego were among the few spells he could reliably cast wandlessly at this point (the last due largely to the truly excessive amount of practice during his first life as an Auror), but all together they served his needs well.) With his body and magic so underdeveloped (again), and without a wand, he couldn't cast the full complement of wards and charms he and Hermione had used to ensure their safety the first time around, so he relied a lot on physically hiding and a lifetime or three of learning to walk silently and avoid attracting attention. But as he wasn't needing to avoid Death Eaters actively searching for him, either, the weak Disillusionment charm he could manage wandlessly was enough in a pinch, though it left him rather wrung out. (And all the practice he was getting was making him really really good at his small handful of wandless spells; he fully expected to have most of them wordless by the time September 1st rolled around. He was really looking forward to getting his wand, though.)
Harry spent the last week of August camped out in the British Library a few blocks away from King's Cross, eating foods straight from the cans - tinned food being among the cheapest options he could carry without concern for spills - and washing up in the public restrooms after hours. He was used to cleaning up after himself and between looking utterly harmless and his magic, he slipped right past the notice of any and everyone.
The money he'd pilfered from Vernon's 'emergency' funds was nearly gone by September 1st, but he'd rationed well enough to have a halfway decent breakfast of tinned peaches and cheap white bread before heading out early for King's Cross. (He'd eaten far better since leaving the Dursleys than he ever had under their roof.)
He'd debated with himself whether or not to approach the Weasleys again before ultimately deciding that it would give him no particular benefit to meet them early. Without the bulky trunk and Hedwig's cage he'd been burdened with in his two previous lives, it was easy to slip through the crowds.
The train ride was uneventful. He tucked himself into a corner and listened to the bustle in the corridors, his shabby clothes and 'shy' attitude dissuading the older Hufflepuffs who eventually settled into the compartment from bothering him much. They were polite enough and the makeup he'd stolen from Aunt Petunia served well enough to hide his all-too-recognizable scar. Hermione came by with Neville, looking for Trevor the toad again. Malfoy poked his head in and sneered, but the presence of the 'Puffs and lack of obvious 'Boy-Who-Lived' had him soon leaving.
Lunch was the last of the bread and a tin of haricot beans. (It was easy to tell which 'Puffs were muggleborn - they were the ones not confused by a can opener.)
At the end of the interminably long ride, when the time came to change, Harry slipped off to the washroom and Disillusioned himself. It would never do for some well-meaning 'Puff to ask about his lack of robes. Not that he'd be hiding the situation, but 'Puffs were likely to try to fix it and he had a different entrance into the Wizarding World planned. (Knowing too much had gotten him a short life and painful death last time. This time, he was going to play up his ignorance.)
Hagrid was, as before, guiding the first years. He seemed slightly distracted, probably looking for Harry. The path down to the lake was every bit as dark and treacherous as he remembered, and Harry took advantage of the nervous jostling of the crowd to pick Ron's pocket. A pause in the darker shadows at the side of the path, a hard flick of his wrist and a few rubber bands later, Scabbers was a rat-burrito, coccooned in the empty bread bag at the bottom of his backpack. (Harry didn't really care if the rat suffocated. He knew from his time as an Auror that a dead Animagus would still revert to human form when hit with the appropriate spell. He'd send the rat off to the DMLE c/o Madame Amelia Bones at the first opportunity; he really needed Sirius free.)
The first sight of the castle was as breathtaking as both other times he'd stood in this spot, and the boat ride was uneventful. Harry stayed to the back of the group when Hagrid presented the First Years to Professor McGonagall, a hitch in his voice as he murmured something too indistinctly for Harry to catch more than his own name. (Harry averted his eyes, trying not to think of the last time he'd seen McGonagall. Even the toughest witch could be taken down, and she'd fought like the Lioness she was till the very end.)
Predictably, Malfoy sneered about his lack of robes once they were left on their own. Harry had been rather counting on Malfoy, actually, to give him the perfect opening to introduce his story. Keeping his eyes down and posture slightly hunched - not quite enough to seem deferential, but slightly more than just 'shy', he spoke clearly, wanting as many people as possible to hear without making it seem like he was deliberately talking to anyone but Malfoy.
"I don't have any robes. I got a letter with a long list of things, but no instructions on where to buy them."
He could tell several of his yearmates were listening in - some more discretely than others - as Malfoy sneered about muggleborn stupidity.
"I am not sure what a muggle born is or whether I am one, but ignorance is not the same as stupidity. Do you have the ability to read minds? Because I don't. And since nobody told me anything about where to go or how to pay for the things on the list, I fail to see how else I could have learned them."
Hermione - the one constant in his first round of school years, the first, desperate hunt for Horcruxes, his friend who might never be - interjected, "Why didn't the professor who delivered your letter take you 'round Diagon Alley for shopping?"
"The letter came by regular post. Was yours different?"
"Oh, yes!" The floodgates opened and he (and everyone else around them) were treated to the start of a play-by-play description of 'it was so interesting and I got all these books and I can tell you all about...'
She was interrupted by the usual shrieks as the castle Ghosts came through the walls on their way to the Great Hall. Harry flinched violently, playing up the muscle memory this body still had, and moved to put his back near the wall - even though it had just been made perfectly clear walls were no obstacle to ghosts.
He was grateful when Hermione put a hand on his shoulder. "It's ok. They won't hurt you. I read all about the House Ghosts in 'Hogwarts, A History'." Maybe she could be a friend again, once she lost those massive rose-colored glasses where books and authority figures were concerned. Still, she was looking at him with something akin to kindness. (He'd try to make sure she at least survived, this time.) He nodded and pushed away from the wall as Professor McGonagall came to lead them away.
(Fortunately, between his deplorable state of dress, Hermione's monologue, and the ghosts, everyone was distracted enough to not think to ask how he knew about the train.)
Mutterings and whispers started up again among the First Years as they walked to the Sorting. From what Harry could glean, the talk was fairly split between wonder for the Great Hall and its enchanted ceiling, nervousness over the impending Sorting, and gossip about him. Specifically the egregious oversight that had both wizard-raised (over his lack of decorum) and the muggleborns (over the lack of an escort and explanation) confused and upset. (His blatantly disingenuous comments about his family situation when Lavender Brown tried to extract some juicy bits of gossip had them looking quite concerned. Justin Finch-Fletchley even tried to find out his home address. Excellent.)
"Oh, what's your name?"
"I'm the Dursley Freak. You can call me Freak." he stated matter-of-factly.
(He heard one of the Patil twins whisper frantically to the other "Is that normal for muggles?" "I don't know. Maybe it's like Harry, or Mary - a name that sounds like a different word?")
"Wait, really?"
"It's what everyone but the teachers at school call me, so..." Harry trailed off uncertainly.
"Hmmm..." Justin looked at him consideringly, "and what do the teachers at school call you?"
"Harry Potter." (Yes, the swell in furious whispering was fully expected, and all of a sudden, even the Pureblood snobs who had been ignoring him were paying attention.)
"Abbott, Hannah." Professor McGonagall's voice interrupted any further questioning.
The Sorting proceeded as he remembered - and why would it not? There had been nothing to disrupt whatever expectations or influences had convinced the Hat to Sort them thus the first time.
"Potter, Harry."
Harry meekly kept his head down and walked forward. He'd laid a foundation among his peers, now it was time to tweak the act just slightly for his Elders. Cowed but not Broken, standing despite his fears and traumas, wearing a mask to hide the mask that hid his true self, following three rules: never look someone in the eye (bonus: avoids Legilimency!), speak clearly when spoken to, apologize like everything is your fault. He was hoping to send off so many conflicting signals and blatant red flags that they'd buy whatever story he spun. (And if it didn't quite work, well, he'd spent years being reviled as a liar and hated by both sides of the conflict for some truly ludicrous reasons. He'd survive. He already had his education and just needed time to grow into it. All he needed was his Gringotts Key and he'd manage.)
(Speaking of Gringotts...)
McGonagall looked at him sternly over her glasses. "Where are your robes young man?"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. McGonal, ma'am. I ..." Harry fumbled to pull out the letter from his stained, torn pack, "I got this letter, but it doesn't say where to buy these things. ...and I can't really afford them anyway. I thought I'd ask if there are some for lend? My Primary school always had a few extra textbooks, and the teachers were usually ok with me borrowing a pencil as long as I returned it. I promise I'm careful with things, ma'am, and since Dudley doesn't go here, there shouldn't be a problem with him stealing and breaking them."
Professor McGonagall's lips pressed angrily into a thin line. "The correct form of address is Professor, not Mrs., Mr. Potter. Please sit down. Your Head of House will speak with you after the Sorting to make arrangements for your school supplies."
Harry deliberately cringed back from displeasure evident in her voice, "Yes Mis- Professor McGonalgall, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am." and hurried to take a seat.
::hmmm... well, this is interesting. You've been here before and had quite the time of it.::
Harry almost chuckled, the Sorting Hat had said something similar last time as well. ::Yeah... I kinda want Hufflepuff, to be honest. I could use some trustworthy friends.::
The Hat did chuckle. ::You'd eat them alive with your secrets and paranoia, and I'm afraid Griffindor simply won't suit you this time. You have outgrown the space you fit before. But don't worry. I'm sure you'll find reliable allies are just as useful as loyal friends and do well in:: "SLYTHERIN!"
To be fair, he'd half expected that. Knowing that Snape had vowed to keep him safe didn't help much, but Harry now also knew that the less he reminded the man of James Potter, the more likely it was that he'd actually get some degree of grudging protection.
Dinner was ... interesting. He once more told his story of ignorance and poverty to explain his lack of proper robes. It was Pansy Parkinson, of all people he'd never expected, to exclaim that that was ridiculous! The Potters had been quite well off and it was well known that he'd been living in luxury.
Harry shrank in on himself, inwardly chuckling at the chance to finally debunk those ridiculous storybooks. "I don't know why you'd think that. I didn't even know magic was real until I'd gotten my letter. I'm just the Freak. Nobody special." He focussed on his dinner for a while to avoid laughing in anyone's face while they tore into this new facet of his life vs his supposed 'history'. (Apparently Pansy had been quite a fan of the Little Harry's Adventures series, and Draco had read enough of them to actually contest the details with her. Who knew?)
Throughout the table-wide debate, Harry kept a surreptitious eye on the head table. Dumbledore's confusion and displeasure were easy enough to see, now that he had two lifetimes worth of deciphering the old man's riddles and evasions. Quirrell glanced at him periodically, but didn't seem to be paying Harry any more attention than he did any other newly-sorted First Year. (All the better, in his mind.) Snape was watching. Harry wasn't sure whether the man always watched his new First Years with such intensity or whether it was merely the inclusion of his own unwelcome self that had the dour Potions Master's attention so riveted to the Slytherin table. He'd started out glaring at Harry, disdain in every twitch of his face, but as the meal progressed and Harry hunched over his plate, protecting it, as he flinched from raised voices and sudden movement, as he let hints of his life Under the Stairs slip into the conversation, the glares subsided into mild confusion and eventually what may have been concern.
After the Feast, when everyone was dismissed to their dorms, Snape approached him. "Mr. Potter, a moment of your time, please."