"You've got to be kidding me," says Harry, hardly above a whisper.

Ron glances at him, sitting down. "Hm?"

Harry stays standing. He points to the staff table. "That's our new Defense teacher," he states.

Ron squints at her. "I guess she must be, but I don't--"

"The one in pink. Right? Am I crazy?"

"Uhhh." Ron blinks. "She is wearing a lot of pink.... Questionable fashion choice, for sure... Hey, mate, are you gunna sit down? The Sorting's going to start soon--"

"Fuck. The. Sorting."

"Dude."

Harry laughs, shoving his hands in his hair. "No, no, you're right, Ron. You're right. Don't fuck the Sorting; fuck me."

He keeps standing, in a near cackle, bending over while grabbing his gut, long after the rest of the hall has sat down.

"Wow," says Hermione. "Maybe we really should shtick Malfoy on him more often."

Ron's eyes stick on Harry's half-hysterical form. "I dunno about that one, Mione."

Hermione snorts. "When's the last time you saw him laugh?"

Ron grabs the fabric of Harry's robe and starts tugging. "It's -- erm -- time to sit down, man, people are starting to stare."

Harry suddenly grabs both of Ron's hands; any misled joy in his face dies instantly. "I'm going to kill her," he says seriously. "Stay away from her. Do you hear me?"

"Harry, what are you--"

Harry squeezes his hands harder and Ron winces. Harry repeats, louder, "Do you hear me?"

Ron tears his hands out of Harry's, glaring at him harshly. "Yes, mate, I hear you. Will you calm down now? Jesus fuck."

"Great," declares Harry, wiping his hands on his jeans. "Keep that in mind. And forgive me, I hope, for what I'm about to do." What I will continue to do -- what I have to do.

I had no nightmares on the train, but I do not forget all that easily. Isolation is your preservation.

He turns on his heels and walks confidently to the Slytherin table.

He pauses, rethinking his words. He ignores Ron's confused calls. "Or don't. That works, too."

Harry sits down right in between Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy.

Ron blinks rapidly, hand still outstretched. He squints his eyes at Harry's back. "What," he says, finally, "the fuck? What -- what," he wheezes, "the fuck was that?"

"I guess it is what he's been trying to do all summer." She tilts her head, as if the pattern fascinates her. "Only now, he's succeeding."

"Yeah, isolation, trauma, yeah, but--" Ron shakes his arm furiously at an out of place Harry (a Lion in a sea of Snakes), who is sitting beside a disbelieving, if amused, Draco Malfoy, "But he literally just tried to punch him!"

"Well. On second thought," says Hermione, blankly, "maybe Malfoy isn't good for him."

XoX

Draco's nerves are still tight -- his wand hand still twitching for a fight he's sure isn't coming -- when Harry Potter sits down beside him.

Draco stares at him. Harry Potter is staring intently at the front table, hands folded in front of him.

"Golden boy," Draco says, glancing around, sure this is some sort of joke. He clears his throat. "Pretty sure your colors are over there."

"No shit," deadpans Potter. He still doesn't look at him.

Draco bristles. "So," Draco snaps. "Get out of that seat."

"Make me."

"What are you going to do to stop me? Punch me again? Because that went so well last time." Harry, shrugs, largely unresponsive. Draco scoffs, looking to Pansy for help.

She sits up straighter. "That seat is already taken, Potter; if you're going to invade our table, at least be polite about it. Don't you ridiculous lions pride yourself on courtesy?"

"Some of us," says Potter, vaguely. He raises an eyebrow. "This seat is taken? By what? A ghost?"

"It's reserved," Draco says, strained, "for the honorary first year. If we plan for them to join our circle, of course."

"That's stupid."

Draco resists the urge to curse him right here and there. For a few reasons. One; the first years have filed into the Great Hall and are to be Sorted any minute now. Two; it's unbecoming of a Malfoy to cause a scene in such a public setting. That's more a Potter thing to do and with the return of Voldemort... he knows what 'Potter-like' will get you in his home: hurt.

Three; he's far too curious about whatever's brought Potter here to dissuade any chance of figuring it out so soon.

He holds up a hand to Pansy; a sign to back off, just for the moment. "Tell us, then. Did you get in a fight with the sidekicks? Is that what's brought you here?"

"Don't call them sidekicks." He rolls his eyes. "And no It's not."

So you did get in a fight with them? "Then why?"

"I'm not putting anyone in danger by being here," he says, softly... too genuine to be untrue and yet too illogical to make sense of. Draco thinks this is what martyrs are made of; nonsense and earnesty. "And, anyway, I figured you wouldn't mind too much."

"An ill-founded assumption," says Draco.

"I get the sense there's something we both want from each other. From me, my continued silence... and from you," Harry shrugs. "Being allowed to sit here."

"Silence on what, Potter?"

"I saw him there," says Potter, the words spilling out of his mouth almost carelessly. "Your father."

Draco freezes. You want to live? his father had asked. Then do whatever it takes. Whatever it is. "I don't know what you're talking about, Potter," he says, lowly. "I figure too long with the Lions has addled your brain."

"Yeah," says Potter, making eye contact with him. "I figure, too."

Draco moves to say more, but the Sorting begins and Draco pulls his eyes off of the Boy Who Lived. (He does so if only to convince himself that whatever he and Harry have, it's not an obsession.)

XoX

The Sorted concludes. Dumbledore gives the obligatory welcome; the obligatory warnings; the same rehearsed and recycled speech he's been giving for what must be fifty years.

He then welcomes the new Defense professor: "Dolores Umbridge."

Draco notes Potter tense beside him. When everyone else claps for her, his hands stay firmly, intentionally still.

A thought comes to him. Harry -- Potter, he reminds himself; he must now go by Potter, even if his head -- knows her. Knows her and doesn't like her.

What do you know that I don't? thinks Draco. He shakes the thought from his head and tunes into Umbridge's welcoming speech: "What lovely warm words of welcome, Headmaster. I thank you for your patience with me, despite our many differences."

Potter snorts. Draco has to remind himself not to hyper analyze it.

"The Ministry of Magic has considered my nomination for this position with great care; the proper education and otherwise growth of young witches and wizards has always been of utmost importance to us. It is my humble joy to have been graciously selected to continue to uphold these vital principals." She tilts her head to Dumbledore. "The programs and systems in place now are in no way lacking -- I mean no insult to anyone--"

Potter mutters, "Except me, right?"

"-- but there is no such thing as perfection. With my help, we will continue the ever upward march toward improvement. I am sure we, students and coworkers alike, will come to be great friends." She bows.

Draco can see, like most people can, that she is so full of shit it's practically leaking from her pores. But he also knows compliance is survival. He knows that the Ministry is not an enemy you want to have and the more allies, the better.

When the room claps -- weakly -- for her, Draco claps too.

Potter... Potter does not. Which is expected. But what is not expected is how he taps his wand against the underside of the table and mutters a spell under his breath.

From the other side of the room, a voice pipes up, loudly. (Later, Draco will hear three accounts of which direction the voice came from and who exactly it sounded like; whether it was a male or female one cannot even be agreed upon. But -- and Draco says this to no one -- Draco is certain he knows where it originated from. Because it is sitting right beside him.)

"Humble joy to be selected? Let's call it what it is, let's not be so humble, Umbridge; an abuse of power. We all know you couldn't 'gracious' yourself out of a wet paper bag."

Dumbleodre's eyes twinkle knowingly.

Potter doesn't laugh even when Dolores flushes a bright, indignant red, even when murmurs and giggles alike break out throughout the crowd. And Draco is impressed. Not with Potter's bravery -- he is a lion and this fact is a surprise to no one -- but with his restraint.

From an outside, unknowing perspective, he is the least likely culprit. His features shape into confusion and he joins the many students whose heads whirl around, looking for whoever it was who dared to voice such thoughts.

From an outside perspective, it would be impossible to guess it was him.

And maybe, thinks Draco, that is the point.

Draco Malfoy is not aware of his face, falling into an expression of awe. He is not aware he's directly that expression toward Harry Potter.

But Pansy is. Pansy is very aware. And she's not happy.