Harry glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still flailing its branches threateningly. He was sore, bruised, and scratched. Pain was something he was used to, after all, he lived with the Dursely's. He could manage this. Flexing his wrist, not broken, Harry nodded, turning to stare at the castle grounds.

"Come on," he said wearily, "we'd better get up to the school ..."

It wasn't at all the triumphant arrival they had pictured. Thinking back, Harry knew it was a mistake. He had missed Cassiopeia's first train ride. He had wanted to be there, calming her nerves and supporting her. And he had missed it. He could only hope she and Ginny were able to entertain themselves.

Maybe Hermione would join them. Harry mentally scoffed dismissing the thought almost immediately, no, she already showed her dislike. Rolling his eyes, Harry resigned himself to a friendship that probably wouldn't make it through the school year. No one dismisses my baby sister. She was annoying anyways.

Still, cold and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the grassy slope, towards the great oak doors.

"I think the feast's already started," Ron exclaimed, dropping his trunk at the foot of the front steps and crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window. "Hey, Harry, come and look - it's the Sorting!"

Harry hurried over and, together, he and Ron peered in at the Great Hall. Innumerable candles were hovering in mid-air over four long crowded tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle.

Maybe, just maybe, they could sneak over to the Gryffindor table to watch the sorting. Looking over the group of first years, Harry tried to find his little sister to little avail.

Overhead, the bewitched ceiling which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with stars. Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, Harry saw a long line of scared-looking first-years filing into the Hall. Ginny was amongst them, easily visible because of her vivid Weasley hair. Harry knew Cassiopeia would be around her; eyes searching intensely, a smile spread across his face because he knew of only one person with a particularly raven-colored head that gleamed almost blue in the candlelight.

Cassiopeia.

Harry could only see a fraction of her body, but she seemed to be okay. Next to her were two blonde girls and Harry couldn't help the pride that swelled up in him. Already making friends.

Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her hair in a tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers. Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed and dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin).

Harry remembered putting it on, exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its decision as it muttered aloud in his ear. Thinking back, Harry was curious to know what the Hat had meant by "finding his true family" in Slytherin. Initially, Harry had been relieved to be sorted in Gryffindor – he hadn't expected to talk the Hat into not placing him in the House of Snakes. Now, however, Harry knew that Slytherin had an incredible bias against them – a bias he had fed into. Maybe I can still find my family. Warmth pooled in his chest, expanding and making Harry's tense form relax. He'd create his own family, unlike the Dursely's, and surround himself and Cassiopeia with that of which they had never experienced before.

A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called forward to place the hat on his head. Harry's eyes wandered past him to the place where Professor Dumbledore, the Headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon glasses shining brightly in the candlelight, and, several seats along, Harry saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in robes of aquamarine.

Harry wasn't sure how he felt about the Headmaster. He had felt like a chess piece last term. He could admit that he was more curious than what was good for him, but he shouldn't have been told or given ample opportunities as he should. While it was great in the moment, Harry dreaded to think of Cassiopeia in a similar position.

He had had all summer to think about the year and surely three first years should not have gotten past their professor's defenses as easily as they had.

Any child who knew 'alohomora' could've opened the door on the forbidden floor to find Cerberus. Harry's jaw clenched at the thought of Cassiopeia stumbling upon the room. No, that didn't make sense. The castle crawled with children and that was one of the first spells they were taught. Why would a first year spell be the only safeguard against a room they were told from the start was forbidden?

The obstacles themselves bewildered Harry. For as much as he downplayed his intelligence in class, a habit left from constantly having to do worse in class than Dudley on orders of his loving aunt and uncle, Harry truly wasn't that stupid and he did read his course books.

Why would devil snare be Professor Sprout's defense when it was taught in her class how to defend against the plant? Not to mention the information about the light-hating plant in their first year potions text.

Everyone knew Ron was a skilled chessman. He played the upper years in the common room and won constantly. It was fitting and a bit suspicious that their next task would be to play as pieces on the murderous chess board. It was also suspicious that another task would be tailored to Harry's own strength – flying in search of the key to unlock the door. He wasn't the youngest seeker in a century for nothing. Surely a charms master like Professor Flitwick could make a more intricate defense?

Harry could admit, the only challenging defense had been Professor Snape's. He may dislike the man for his behavior towards him –he was cruel and vindictive, sarcastic at best-, but the potions master had earned Harry's respect for his art. How could he not? Professor Snape was the youngest Potion Master in the British Isle with numerous discoveries and potions under his belt.

His defense was logical and Hermione had been right. Not many wizards used logic; focusing primarily on the magical defense and offense they could offer.

There was also the comment Dumbledore had made when Harry had woken in the Hospital Wing. "You did do the thing right." Harry was good at his masks, he had hid the need to narrow his eyes and glare at the Headmaster then. Do the thing right? So you knew. He knew, and yet he let three first years do his job. Harry was no stranger to manipulations, he was manipulated for most of his younger years by his guardians and, later, he used the same tactics on his primary school teachers having them believe he truly was an unfortunate soul given a rough hand at life.

Speaking with Cassiopeia about Hogwarts, and with the knowledge of what his own first year was like, Harry couldn't imagine his little sister being in half the amount of danger he had been in. He would've killed someone, or worse, had Cassiopeia been in the predicaments he was in.

So, yes, Harry was not completely awe-struck over the aging Headmaster, not when too many things didn't add up. He needed to research and find out just why the Headmaster had allowed his school to have lackluster defenses.

And he certainly wasn't bitter about Dumbledore denying his request for sanctuary. I'm sure it's not that bad, Harry he snarled mentally. Your relatives care for you, he snorted. No, I told you they don't. Harry wasn't at all bitter and held no resentment.

Really.

None.

"Hang on ..." Harry muttered to Ron. "There's an empty chair at the staff table . . . Where's Professor Snape?"

"Maybe he's ill!" said Ron hopefully, making Harry snort and shove his shoulder lightly.

"Maybe he's left," Harry entertained briefly, "because he missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again!"

"Or he might have been sacked!" Ron cheered enthusiastically, smiling.

"That would be worse, who'd -"

"Or maybe," said a very cold voice right behind them, "he's waiting to hear why you two didn't arrive on the school train."

Harry spun around, a full body flinch wracking down his form.

There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape.

He was a thin man with sallow skin, a hooked nose and greasy, shoulder-length black hair, and at this moment, he was smiling in a way that told Harry that he and Ron were in very deep trouble.

"Follow me," Snape ordered, running an appraising eye over the two first years.

Harry winced, and, not daring even to look at each other, he and Ron followed Snape up the steps into the vast, echoing Entrance Hall, which was lit with flaming torches. A delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the dungeons.

"In!" he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and pointing.

They entered Snape's office, shivering. The shadowy walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of revolting things Harry didn't really want to know the name of at the moment. The fireplace was dark and empty.

Snape closed the door and turned to look at them.

"So," he said softly, "the train isn't good enough for the famous Harry Potter and his faithful sidekick Weasley. Wanted to arrive with a bang, did we, boys?"

Harry barely restrained his eye roll. Yea, famous for the murder of his parents. Famous Potter - that I am. "No, sir, it was the barrier at King's Cross, it -"

"Silence!" Snape snapped coldly, cutting Harry off.

"What have you done with the car?

Ron gulped. This wasn't the first time Snape had given Harry the impression of being able to read minds. Was that even possible?

But a moment later, he understood, as Snape unrolled today's issue of the Evening prophet.

"You were seen," he hissed, showing them the headline: FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES.

He began to read aloud.

"'Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old flying car flying over the post office tower ... at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing ... Mr. Angus Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police' ... six or seven Muggles in all. I believe your father works in the misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?" he said, looking up at Ron and smiling still more nastily. "Dear, dear ... his own son ..."

Harry felt as though he'd just been walloped in the stomach by one of the mad tree's larger branches. If anyone found out Mr. Weasley had bewitched the car ... he hadn't thought of that.

While he held indifference to the Weasley matriarch for her behavior, not just to Cassiopeia but to her own kids, Mr. Weasley had been nothing but genuinely kind. He took time to speak to Harry, even if it was to state his curiosity regarding muggle items – it was genuine interest. And the conversations weren't reliant on that, Mr. Weasley always asked Harry how his day was treating him as another child in his home. It was foreign to Harry, who subconsciously lapped up the attention. Foreign, but comforting.

"I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow," Snape went on.

"That tree did more damage to us than we -" Ron blurted out.

"Silence!" snapped Snape again. "Most unfortunately, you are not in my house and the decision to expel you does not rest with me. I shall go and fetch the people who do have the happy power. You will wait here."

Harry and Ron stared at each other, white-faced.

Harry didn't feel hungry anymore. He now felt extremely sick. He tried not to look at a large, slimy something suspended in green liquid on a shelf behind Snape's desk. Barely an hour into the school year and now he faced the possibility of being expelled. No! I have to be here. It's my home. The blood drained from his face. Peia! I can't leave Peia, not when we can be together all the time!

If Snape had gone to fetch Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor house, they were hardly any better off. She might be fairer than Snape, but she was still extremely strict.

Ten minutes later, Snape returned, and sure enough it was Professor McGonagall who accompanied him. Harry had seen Professor McGonagall angry on several occasions, but either he had forgotten just how thin her mouth could go, or he had never seen her this angry before.

She raised her wand the moment she entered. Harry and Ron both flinched, Ron taking a half-step forward, partially blocking Harry from her immediate eyesight, but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace, where flames suddenly erupted.

"Sit," she said, and they both backed into chairs by the fire.

"Explain," she said, her glasses glinting ominously.

Ron launched into the story, starting with the barrier at the station refusing to let them through.

"... so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn't get on the train."

"Why didn't you send us a letter by owl? I believe you have an owl?" Professor McGonagall said coldly to Harry.

Harry gaped at her. Now that she said it, that seemed the obvious thing to have done. Fuck. Harry groaned, mentally face palming. I'm never going to live this down. No, if he wasn't expelled, Peia was sure to first – read him the riot act and second – never forget to remind him that he was an utter idiot.

"I - I didn't think -"

"That," said Professor McGonagall, "is obvious."

There was a knock on the office door and Snape, now looking happier than ever, opened it.

There stood the Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.

Harry's whole body went numb. Dumbledore was looking unusually grave, although for such a serious situation, his blue eyes twinkled in delight.

He stared down his very crooked nose at them and Harry suddenly found himself wishing he knew if wizards could actually read minds. Add mind readers to the list Harry noted. Dumbledore continued to stare at him, although Ron was seated not even a foot away, blue eyes gleamed almost calculatingly into green.

There was a long silence. Then Dumbledore said, "Please explain why you did this."

It would have been better if he had shouted. Harry knew how to deal with shouting. But this? The quiet tone Harry had never been able to predict. Loud anger was rash and could easily be escaped. But when the stillness of one's voice grew soft and the tone low? That was unpredictable and the uncertainty unnerved him.

Harry hated the disappointment in his voice.

Harry hated the disappointment in his voice because he could tell it wasn't real. No, it was faux disappointment, a tone for authority figures to manipulate the weaker-minded. Not that Harry meant to call Ron weak minded, but he knew the older boy had fallen for the trap.

Harry, once, had fallen for it. Aunt Petunia had done the same thing, making Harry ashamed for how disappointed his aunt had been for winning second in the garden competition. He had, a naïve fool at five years old, asked if he could help. The disappointment shed right off of her pointy skeletal face and a victorious smug look that made her appear as a constipated Chihuahua emerged. Harry had since done all the yard work for Number Four.

However, Harry knew he still had a role to play. He couldn't act on his distrust so soon; there was a reason he had worn the mask in the first place. He didn't have the resources and couldn't afford to be under further scrutiny should he distance from the Headmaster so soon.

So he played his role, a demure, naïve Golden boy. Face reflecting a torn expression, eyes downcast to portray his hurt at disappointing his mentor, Harry hid his cunning nature as he did in his first year.

He was unable to look Dumbledore in the eyes, and spoke instead to his knees. Voice soft but passive, almost submissive to the older wizard, he told Dumbledore everything except that Mr. Weasley owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though he and Ron had happened to find a flying car parked outside the station. He knew Dumbledore would see through this at once, but Dumbledore asked no questions about the car.

When Harry had finished, he merely continued to peer at them through his spectacles.

"We'll go and get our stuff," said Ron in a hopeless sort of voice.

"What are you talking about, Weasley?" barked Professor McGonagall.

"Well, you're expelling us, aren't you?" said Ron.

Harry looked quickly at Dumbledore. Despite the mask, pure, unaltered fear showed on his face. He couldn't be separated from Cassiopeia. Wouldn't. He couldn't be forced to leave his home, not again. Hogwarts was his safe haven, without it he's sure to die under his uncle's fists.

"Not today, Mr. Weasley," said Dumbledore. Harry relaxed minutely, still aware of the company in the room. "But I must impress upon both of you the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing to both of your families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you."

Snape looked as though Christmas had been canceled. He cleared his throat and said, "Professor Dumbledore, these boys have flouted the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, caused serious damage to an old and valuable tree ... surely acts of this nature ..."

"It will be for Professor McGonagall to decide on these boys' punishments, Severus," said Dumbledore calmly. "They are in her house and are therefore her responsibility."

He turned to Professor McGonagall. "I must go back to the feast, Minerva, I've got to give out a few notices. Come, Severus, there's a delicious-looking custard tart I want to sample."

Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Ron as he allowed himself to be swept out of his office, leaving them alone with Professor McGonagall, who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle.

"You'd better get along to the hospital wing, Weasley, you're bleeding."

Because it was so much better to interrogate the obviously injured students first rather than get them immediate medical attention to begin with, Harry hid the roll of his eyes, smiling sheepishly when Ron shot him a questioning look.

"Not much," said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with his sleeve and moving to stand beside Harry. "Professor, I wanted to watch my sister being Sorted -"

"The Sorting Ceremony is over," said Professor McGonagall. Harry's heart dropped. He missed Peia's sorting. By the look on Ron's face he too felt the agonizingly slow build of despair. What kind of brother are you to miss such an important event?! Harry choked on the building nausea. "Your sister is also in Gryffindor."

"Oh, good," said Ron, before he hesitantly glanced at Harry. "Professor . . . there was also another student –"

"Peia, Cassiopeia Doe," Harry interrupted, hiding his shaking hands in his robes. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Peia. I'msorry. I'msorry. I'msorry.

Professor McGonagall looked taken aback, a foreign look appearing in her eyes and disappearing as quickly as it came. "Yes, she too was sorted this evening."

"W-we grew up together, Professor," Harry licked his lips, a pleading expression on his face. "Could you, would you tell me? Where she got sorted?"

McGonagall paused.