Harry Potter, Jr. and the Wizard Protective Society

Chapter 1: The Horcrux

Voldemort's death released Hermione from the Imperious curse he -- as Khurban -- had placed on her.  Being released from it was like awaking from a nightmare, one from which she'd struggled to awake, but hadn't been able to.  While under it, that part of her that was Hermione, her ego, had looked out of her eyes, observing what she did, as if she were watching a movie.  She had been an observer, controlled entirely by the Imperious curse.

The Imperious curse -- powerful as it was -- should have lasted beyond Voldemort's death.  If it had been done to someone other than Hermione, it would have; but her strength of will and her ability as a wizard, were too strong for the spell to continue beyond his death.  As young as she was, she was one of the most powerful wizards in the world.  Only Voldemort, Dumbledore, and Harry were stronger.  And what she lacked in power, she made up in intelligence.  None of them were as intelligent as she was.

She realized now that Khurban was a composite of both Harry Potter and Voldemort, and -- at the time he'd raped her -- more Voldemort than Harry.  Still, he had also been Harry Potter; and Harry, too, had raped her.  Although he'd been mostly under Voldemort's control, he had been under his control, because he had surrendered himself to his anger and rage -- to his feelings of betrayal. 

If Harry hadn't driven love from his heart, Voldemort could never have gained control over him.  And Hermione felt that -- on some level -- Harry had wanted to rape her.  Perhaps because of the pain he felt at losing Ginny and Colin, he had wanted to hurt her, maybe only because he wanted someone else to feel the pain he did.

But, they had been friends.  She had stuck by him no matter what.  That the part of Harry that had existed inside Khurban had allowed her to be raped, destroyed her love for Harry; for she had loved him, if not as a lover, as a dear friend -- as a brother.  She had none, but if she had, she couldn't have loved him as much as she had Harry.  More than once she had risked her life for him, and he for her.  She would have given her life for him, yet he had participated in her rape.

Perhaps -- if it had just been the rape -- she could have forgiven him.  What she couldn't forgive was the result of the rape, the child she'd borne; because she knew the child was a Horcrux for Voldemort.  Through the child, Voldemort would someday return.  For that reason, she couldn't let the child live.  That's why she couldn't forgive Harry.  She couldn't forgive him, because she couldn't forgive herself for what she had to do.  She knew she'd never be able to forgive herself for killing the child, but to save the world, she must.

She didn't hate the child.  If she had, perhaps it would have been easier.  But the child, not yet Voldemort, not yet tainted by his presence -- for Voldemort had just died, and his spirit hadn't yet joined with the child --  was just a child, innocent as any other one year old boy.

He was a cute boy, happy most of the time.  His smile reminded her of Harry; and she could see herself in the boy, too.  The eyes, though, reminded her of pictures she'd seen of Tom Riddle; for Voldemort was also the child's father.  Half of the boy's DNA had come from her, a quarter from Harry, and a quarter from Voldemort, whose DNA had been in the potion of power that Harry had drunk, the potion that had been one of Voldemort's Horcruxes -- his last Horcurx before this child had been born.

Voldemort was dead.  How, she didn't know, but she knew he was.  Connected to him through the Imperious curse, she had felt him die.  But when his spirit joined with his child, he would once again live, more powerful because the child was part him, part Harry, and part her, three of the world's most powerful wizards.  He would be more powerful than ever before.  He would steal the child's soul, and his would be whole once more.

And every child this child had would be another Horcrux.  Through his own children, Voldemort could live forever, passing his spirit from one to another whenever the body he was in died.  If this child lived to puberty, he could propagate an endless supply of Horcruxes for Voldemort, making him invincible.

Although the child was now innocent, having only a portion of Voldemort's blood, but not his soul, once Voldemort's spirit found him, the child he was would no longer exist.  His soul would be taken over by Voldemort.  His body might continue, but his soul would not.

Previously under the Imperious curse, Hermione hadn't loved the child.  She had cared for him, because the curse had bade her care for him, but the curse hadn't allowed to love it.  Now -- with the curse lifted -- she saw how she could love him.  Actually, it took all her will to keep from loving him.

She should have cut his throat or smothered him, making certain he was dead, but couldn't bring herself to do it.  Instead, she took him to a river.  She picked him up.  He laughed, reaching for her face with a pudgy, little, hand.  She turned him round, so she couldn't see his face, hesitated for a moment, then threw him into the water.

He sank, then bobbled to the surface, then sank again, rapidly carried away by the current.  She thought she saw him come to the surface again before the river swept around a bend, but she wasn't certain.  She knew that around the bend, the river coursed over rapids through a gorge.  Even an expert swimmer would have difficulty surviving the rapids; certainly a one year-old boy couldn't.

Hermione left Scotland, but went to America, not back to England.  If Harry lived -- and she thought he did -- she didn't want to see him.  Neither did she want to see anyone she had ever known, not with the murder of the child on her conscience.  She knew no one in America.  Maybe there, she could start over.  Maybe there -- she could forget what she'd done.

* * *

The boy, having inherited his mother's intelligence, was more self aware than a normal one year-old.  He'd laughed when his mother had picked him up, thinking she was playing a game with him.  Then, she'd thrown him into the cold water.  Why had she done that?  It was so cold it hurt, like pins and needles sticking into him.  He knew pins and needles.  He'd stuck himself with them before.

Then, he sank beneath the surface and -- when he tried to breathe -- he sucked in water instead.  He kicked, propelling himself to the surface, taking a quick breath -- of air this time -- but sank again almost immediately.  He wanted his mother -- wanted to feel her warmth, not the cold of the water he was in.  Had she dropped him?  She must have.  She couldn't have thrown him away, not his mother, who he loved, not the woman from whose teat he drank. 

She was his life, the only person in his life.  He'd awakened to her voice, her smell, the touch of her soft skin.  He'd slept in the same bed she had, scarcely ever out of her sight.  Now, she was gone.  It was as if the world had swallowed her up.  Maybe she'd fallen into the water, too.  He didn't know it was a river.  He'd never seen one before.  He and his mother had rarely left their home.

The boy was swept along by the water, his head under the surface more often than it wasn't.  He quickly learned not to try to breathe when his face was under the water and that a few kicks -- combined with his natural buoyancy -- would propel him to the surface, but he was rapidly becoming cold -- cold clear to the bone.

Then, seeing a log floating down the stream, he reached for it, but with his mind, not with his arms.  It swerved toward him, coming along side him.  He tried to climb up on it, but couldn't; his arms were too short, and he was weak with the cold; so, instead, he once again used his mind, lifting himself out of the water onto the log.

Out of the cold water, he was warmer, but still cold, so he thought of his mother, of how warm it had been when he had snuggled between her breasts, and -- as he thought about it -- he became warm.  That he had this ability didn't come as a complete surprise.  He had used his mind before to reach for toys he'd dropped.  He had held out his hand, wanting them, and they had flown to him.

Out of the water -- and thinking warm -- he felt better.  He was no longer in danger, but he was lost -- and afraid.  He'd never been alone before.  He wanted his mother.

After some time, the river slowed and spread out.  The log lazily drifted, so he sat up on it.  He was naked by this time.  The diaper he'd worn had come off in the water.  If he hadn't missed his mother, it would have almost been fun -- an adventure -- floating down the river on the log.  He was no longer cold and didn't even feel the rough bark beneath his bare bottom.  He had used his mind to shut that out, too.

Then, he saw two people.  The taller of the two had some kind of pole in his hand.  The other, shorter, standing beside the first, had long, brown hair like his mother.  With his mind he steered the log toward them.  Although she wasn't his mother, she was like her.  He could see the swell of her breasts beneath her shirt.  He reached out to her, seeing her emotions, if not her thoughts, in his head.  Somehow, he knew she would hold him.  Maybe, she would even love him.

* * *

Chapter 2: The Wizard Protective Society

Seven men, wizards all, sat around a table.  The lights were low.  They spoke in hushed tones.  Rufus Scrimgeour, the former Minister of Magic, sat at the head of the table.  "Eleven years have passed," he said, "since the boy that is the Dark Lord's Horcrux was born, and we still have no clue as to who he is.  We must find him before he reaches puberty.  Only then, can the Dark Lord father children, producing more Horcruxes.  Once he does, we are doomed.  The world is doomed."

"What do you propose?" asked the wizard on his left.  "As you said, we have no idea who he is, and at eleven, he might have already reached puberty."

"If he has," said Scrimgeour, "and Voldemort's spirit has found the boy, we've already lost, because if he's capable of impregnating a female, you can be certain that he has, probably -- to be safe -- more than one.  If the boy has reached puberty, I doubt that even Harry Potter and Dumbledore together could defeat him."

"But he's just a boy," said the man.

"He may have the body of a boy," said Scrimgeour, "but he will have all the knowledge and experience of the Dark Lord.  And the boy has Harry Potter's and Hermione Granger's genes as well as the Dark Lord's.  Voldemort chose wisely.  Even without Voldemort's spirit, the boy will be a powerful wizard, perhaps the most powerful wizard to ever live.  With Voldemort's soul and the ability to make copies of himself, he will be invincible."

"How do we find him?" asked a third, hooded, wizard.  They hid their identities from each other.  Only Scrimgeour knew who each of them were.  "We've looked for him for the last ten years without success.  How can we expect to find him now?"

"There has been a divination," said Scrimgeour.  "Through it, we've learned that he will enter Hogwarts as one of the new students this term."

"That narrows it down," said one, "but almost one hundred new boys will enter Hogwarts this term.  Do you propose to kill them all?"

"No," said Scrimgeour, "most are from wizard families.  We can trace their lineage, certain that they aren't this boy.  It's only those born to muggle parents that we have to worry about.  We can't be certain of their lineage.  Under an Imperious curse, his supposed parents might not even be aware that their boy wasn't their natural son."

"Do you propose, then, to kill all the muggle born boys entering Hogwarts this term," asked the soft voice of a witch from beneath her hood.  That would mean killing innocent boys.  Even to defeat the Dark Lord, I find that distasteful."

"We won't kill them," said Scrimgeour.  "We will only kill the boy that will become the Dark Lord.  Instead, we will castrate all the muggle born boys.  That will prevent the creation of more Horcruxes.  The Dark Lord can only create more Horcruxes after the boy has reached puberty.  If we cut off the boy's bollocks before he reaches puberty, He Who Must Be Named can't produce more Horcruxes.  First, we'll castrate all the muggle born boys; then we'll observe them, killing the Horcrux when we determine which one it is."

"Do we still have to kill him, if we've castrated him?" asked the woman.

"Yes," said Scrimgeour, "even without bollocks, he will still be the Dark Lord, and when the boy dies, so does the Dark Lord.  This is his last Horcrux.  Without it, his spirit will dissipate.  He will at last be truly dead."

"I notice you have Harry Potter, Jr. on the list," asked the wizard on his left, "Why is that?  We know who his parents are."

"Do we really?" asked Scrimgeour.  "We know is that his father is Harry Potter, but Harry Potter had already taken the potion before he sired the boy.  Harry, Jr., too, might be a Horcrux.  We can't take the chance that he isn't.  He'll be the first we castrate.  Two boys, fifth year students in Griffindor, members of our society -- for as you know it extends beyond the seven of us in this room -- will castrate Harry, Jr.  in the dorm, his first night at Hogwarts."

"But the son of Harry Potter?" said the woman.

"Harry Potter should be in Azkaban," said Scrimgeour.  "He used all the Unforgivable curses, including the killing curse.  Anyone, other than Harry Potter, would spend his life in Azkaban for what he's done."

"But he was under the Dark Lord's control," she said.

"He chose to drink the potion.  He has to share the blame."

"He vanquished the Dark Lord," she added.

"Not before allowing his Horcrux to vanish," said Scrimgeor,  "Why hasn't he revealed where the boys is?  Nevertheless, the question isn't what to do about Harry Potter, but what to do about his son.  Is there anyone here that thinks we shouldn't castrate his boy, given that the boy is likely a Horcrux?"

Scrimgeour looked around the table, waiting for someone to demur, but none did, not even the witch.  It was settled.  Harry Potter, Jr. would be castrated on his first night in the Griffindor dorm.  His mother and father had both been members of Griffindor.  There was no reason to believe that he wouldn't be, too.

The society counted among its members several students at Hogwarts and one professor.  There were ten muggle born first year boys.  They would all be castrated as soon as possible.  Harry Potter, Jr. would just be the first.

Chapter 3: Off to Hogwarts

Harry Potter, Jr. stood on platform 9-3/4 waiting to board the train to Hogwarts.  He had long awaited this day.  At Hogwarts, he would learn and practice magic.  Because of the prohibition against the use of magic by underage wizards, he'd done little up until now.  Of course, he had cheated, performing small feats of magic, being punished by his parents for doing so, as any muggle boy would be punished for breaking the rules, laid down by his parents and his society. 

How could one resist using magic, when he had the ability to perform it?  He'd heard more than one story about magic his father had done when he'd been underage, and suspected that his mother had performed underage magic, too, although she never admitted to it.  Magic was fun.  He couldn't wait to go to school, to Hogwarts, a school that taught magic.  It was difficult to be the son of the world's most famous wizard and not be allowed to practice it.  He wondered if he'd inherited his father's ability.

He didn't look a lot like his father, except that they both wore glasses.  He had his mother's red hair and green eyes, and was rather small for his age, since both his mother and father were small of stature.  His Uncle Ron had was several inches taller than his dad, as were his other uncles on the Weasley side of the family.

He had no relatives on his dad's side.  Apparently, there had been an uncle, aunt, and cousin, but they had died; and no one would talk about them, other than to say his father had lived with them when he was a boy.  He'd seen pictures of his Potter grandparents, Lily and James Potter.  Everyone knew about them.  Voldemort had killed them; and only his grandmother's love for his father had saved him.  Some still called his father the boy who lived, because he was the only person to ever survive the killing curse.

Although he tried to get his father to tell him the story, he never would.  Others did, though, telling him how his father had defeated Voldemort, not only then, but several times since, the last time when Harry, Jr. had been one year old.  Voldemort hadn't been heard of since.  Of course, when people told him the story, they never mentioned Voldemort's name, they called him, "The One Who Must Not Be Named," or "You Know Who," but neither his father or mother were afraid to mention his name, so neither was Harry.

He didn't know the whole story of Voldemort's last defeat.  He'd heard several versions, but none of the people telling the story had actually been there.  He had been, but was only one year-old at the time, so didn't remember any of it.  He wished he could.  It must have been a terrific battle. 

When he'd asked his father about it, he'd said, "I didn't defeat Voldemort.  Your mother did.  Her love for me defeated Voldemort.  She saved both of us.  If anyone is the hero, she is."  That's all he could get  him to say.  It was as if he was ashamed of his part in it, although Harry couldn't understand why.  They had defeated Voldemort, hadn't they, the greatest wizard of all times?

The prospect of living up to the reputation of his parents, the destroyers of Voldemort, was daunting.  He hoped that he could, hoping that he wouldn't disappoint them.  He so wanted to become a great wizard, and of course, a seeker like his father and grandfather, who had both been seekers on the Griffindor Quidditch team.  Of course, he would be in Griffindor house.  His mother, father, and all his uncles had been.

"Well Harry," his mother said, placing her hands on his shoulders, "you're off to Hogwarts.  I remember my first trip to Hogwarts.  Your father and Uncle Ron missed the train and took my father's flying car there instead, crashing it into the Whomping Willow.  For a while, we thought they'd both be expelled.  Do you remember your first trip?" she asked her husband.

"Of course," said that Harry, "that's when I met Ron.  We shared a compartment and stuffed ourselves on treats from the confectionary cart.  I almost wish I were going in your place," he said to Harry, Jr.

Steam was coming from the engine of the Hogwarts train.  Its whistle blew.  "Oh," said Ginny, "it's time for you to go."  His luggage had already been loaded onto the train.  She kissed him -- right on the mouth.  Harry glanced around to see if anyone saw.  He didn't want the other boys to think he was a baby, still young enough to be kissed by his mother. 

Thankfully, his father shook his hand, man to man.  He would have died, had his father kissed him, too.  He still kissed him goodnight, but that was at home, where there was no one else to see.  Harry didn't mind that.  He just didn't want to be kissed by his parents while other boys watched.  After all, it was bad enough having to live up to his father's reputation, without having everyone think he was a baby that had to kiss his parents goodbye.

He stepped onto the train, turning to wave to his parents.  He eyes clouded over.  Harry turned quickly, wiping them with his sleeve.  It certainly wouldn't do to cry.  That would be worse than being seen being kissed by his mother.  The other students would really think he was a baby, if they saw him cry, and there wasn't really anything to cry about, was there?  He was excited about going to Hogwarts.  It's just that it was his first time away from home; and he didn't know anyone at Hogwarts.  None of his parents' friends had children his age. 

He knew Professor Dumbledore, still headmaster at Hogwarts, a younger Dumbledore than he'd been when his father had been at the school, since, aided by Fawkes, the phoenix, he'd been reborn into a younger body, after having been killed when the Death Eaters had invaded Hogwarts.  Everyone still talked about that.  Harry had probably heard the story a hundred times.  Professor Snape had killed Professor Dumbledore, but Fawkes had snatched up his soul, then grown him a new body.

Professor McGonagall had retired, though.  She was no longer head of Griffindor House.  Professor Scoggins had taken her place.  Harry hoped he wouldn't be a tough as Professor McGonagall had been in some of the stories he'd heard about her.

Since he was one of the last to board, most of the other compartments were already full.  He walked down the aisle until he found one that only had one person in it, a boy about his size, apparently another first year student.  "Do you mind?" asked Harry.

The boy, seeming somewhat distracted or lost in his thoughts, looked up with a start, "Wha -- what?" he said.

"Do you mind if I share your compartment?" asked Harry, "All the others seem to be full."

"No," he hesitated, then said, "of course not.  I don't mind."

Harry sat down across from him, then proffered his hand to shake the other boy's as he'd seen adults do.  He was going away to school.  He supposed it was time to start acting like an adult.  "My name's Harry," he said, "Harry Potter."

"The Harry Potter?" the boy said, "I've heard of Harry Potter, of course, but I thought he was much older."

"That's my father," Harry said.  "You're probably thinking of my father -- you know, the boy who lived, or the chosen one."

"Yes," said the boy, "so you're the son of the great Harry Potter."

Harry winced.  For once, he wished someone would look at him and just see him, not the son of Harry Potter.  "I'm just Harry," he said.  "He's my father.  I know he's famous and all, but he's just my father.  He's just like any other father.  Sometimes, he pisses me off, just as your father probably does you.  I don't go around saying, "I'm the son of Harry Potter," so please don't lay that on me."

The boy smiled for the first time.  It lit up his face, changing his whole appearance.  Before smiling, he'd appeared dour and not particularly attractive, but when he smiled, his whole appearance changed, almost as if he were some kind of chameleon.  Perhaps it had been Harry's imagination. Perhaps he'd only imagined the boy he'd first seen when he'd opened the door to the compartment.  He had been reluctant to come into it, and wouldn't have, had there been space in any others, but now that the boy had smiled, Harry found himself liking him.

The boy, taking his hand, shook it, "My name's Horatio," he said, "Horatio Abernathy."

"Glad to meet you, Horatio," Harry said, and now the boy was smiling, he was.  Maybe he had made a friend.  It would be nice to arrive at Hogwarts with a friend in his pocket, so to speak.  "Did your parents go to Hogwarts, too?" he asked.

"No," said Horatio, "my parents are muggles.   I always knew I was different, but didn't know how until Professor Dumbledore came to our house and told me that I was a wizard and was invited to attend Hogwarts."

"Professor Dumbledore extended you a personal invitation?" said Harry.

"Yes," said Horatio, "he said I was special, that he could sense great power in me, that I might some day be a great wizard, so of course I wanted to come."

"Where are you from?" asked Harry.

"Cardiff in Wales," said Horatio, "and you?"

"I live on Grimmauld Place in London, but you can't find my house on any muggle map.  It has an enchantment on it.  As far as muggles are concerned, the lot my house is on doesn't even exist."

"I'm NOT a muggle," said Horatio.

"Hey, I wasn't calling you a muggle.  I just meant that muggles can't see my house.  Since you're a wizard, you could, but your parents couldn't, not unless they were holding your hand at the time.  It's like the Leaky Cauldron.  Muggles cant't see it either."  Then he asked, since he'd had little contact with muggles, "What was it like growing up with muggles?"

"Lonely," said the boy, his blue eyes glistening, "I was different from everyone else.  They treated me like I was a freak.  I think I frightened them.  Sometimes, I even frightened my parents.  I learned to hide the things I could do, but -- when angry -- I would sometimes strike out with my magic -- although I didn't know that's what it was at the time.  Sometimes, I hurt people without meaning to."

"You hurt people?" asked Harry.

"I didn't mean to," said Horatio, "and I never REALLY hurt anyone -- well, I broke a boy's arm once, but he was twisting mine up behind my back, and it hurt.  I just wanted him to stop, so I reached out with my mind and grabbed his arm, but I grabbed it too hard, and it broke.  Because of that and other things, I didn't have any friends.  I don't remember ever having friends."

"You broke a boy's arm, just using your mind?  You didn't use a wand?"

"No," said Horatio, "can't you move things with your mind?"

"I don't know for sure," said Harry, "I've never tried, but I wasn't allowed to do magic at home.  The Ministry of Magic has a prohibition against underage magic."

"You've never done magic?" asked Horatio.

"Well, some, but just little things when my parents weren't around and like you, when I got angry.  Then, it just sort of happened on its own, and I usually got in trouble for it."

"At least you knew you were a wizard," said Horatio, brushing a forelock of black hair out of his eyes, "not a freak of some kind."

"It wasn't easy growing up the son of The Harry Potter," said Harry. "especially since some say, while possessed by Lord Voldemort, he killed some people.  I've heard that if it hadn't been him that got rid of the Dark Lord, he'd be in Azkaban.  Some think he should be even now.  We usually don't go out, except to the homes of friends and family.  People either want my father's autograph, or hurl curses at him, when we do.  One time, a man even accused me of being a Horcrux for the Dark Lord."

"What's a Horcrux?" asked Horatio.

"It's a receptacle for one's soul or spirit.  I'm not really clear on  it.  I can't get my parents to talk about it, but from what I've gathered, Voldemort split his soul into seven parts, storing each part in an object, so all seven parts had to be destroyed before he could be killed.  All of them were, but Voldemort had a son; and that son is a kind of Horcrux for him, since he has his blood.  If Voldemort joins with his son -- since the boy has a soul -- Voldemort will be whole once again.  He'll take over the boy's soul."

"What about the boy?" asked Horatio. 

"He'll cease to exist.  He will be Voldemort."

"That's terrible," said Horatio, "it would be like killing his own son."

"Worse than killing," said Harry, "he would destroy his soul."

"Why do they think you're a Horcrux?"

"Because, when my mother and father made me, my father had taken a potion that turned out to be one of Voldemort's Horcruxes.

"Does that mean you're --" The boy hesitated.  Everyone had said to never mention the Dark Lord's name, but Harry freely used it. "-- his son?"

"I don't think so," said Harry, "Voldemort was still alive when my mum and dad made me, so he wasn't yet in the Horcrux.  It wasn't until later -- after my dad had killed him -- that he went to the Horcrux, which was then inside my dad.  Voldemort wasn't part of my dad when my mum and dad made me.  He had the Horcrux inside him, but not Voldemort.  Only later, after Voldemort had taken control of him, did he have a son, with another woman, a witch friend of my father's."

"Then, that boy is your brother?"

"Well -- I guess.  I never really thought about it that way, but I guess he is, kind of a half brother -- or less -- I guess."

"I wonder what it would be like to have a brother," said Horatio, "My parents never had any other children.  My mother couldn't have any I was told.  She called me her miracle -- said God had given me to her."

"I don't have any brothers or sisters either," said Harry.  "I think my parents wanted more children, but they never had any."

"Do you think we could be friends?" asked Horatio.  "I've never even had a friend."

"I haven't had many either," said Harry.  "I have lots of cousins, but they're all younger than me.  My mum has five brothers, and they all have children except for my Uncle Ron.  He never married.  Maybe -- if we're in the same house -- we can be friends.  We could still be friends, but it would be easier for us to be, if we're in the same house."

"What do you mean by house?" asked Horatio.

"When we arrive at Hogwarts, all the new students will be divided into four houses, Griffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.  I'm going to be in Griffindore, but any of them, but Slytherin are good.  You don't want to be in Slytherin.  Voldemort and all the Death Eaters were in Slytherin.  As long as you're not in Slytherin, we can be friends.  I don't think I could ever be friends with anyone in Slytherin."

"Do you get to chose which house you want to be in?"

"No," said Harry, "you're sorted into houses by the Sorting Hat.  They put it on your head, and it tells which house you're going into."

"Then, how do you know you're going to be in Griffindor?"

"My mum, dad, grandfathers and grandmothers, and all my uncles were in Griffindor.  I'm a cinch to go into Griffindor."

"I hope the hat doesn't put me into Slytherin," said Horatio.

The boys continued to talk.  When the confectionary trolley came by, Harry introduced Horatio to wizarding treats, such as chocolate frogs, Bertie Botts' Every Flavor Beans, Chocoballs, and Fudge Flies.

His uncles, George and Fred, had given his a going away present of a box of jokes from their shop in Diagon Alley, but they were in his trunk, in the baggage compartment.  He'd have to wait until they arrived at Hogwarts to show them to Horatio. 

Harry hoped they'd be in the same house.  He felt he'd made a friend of the boy, deciding that he'd been mistaken to take a dislike to him, as he had when he'd first seen him from the passageway -- before he'd spoken to him.

Chapter 4: The Sorting