He waited in tense, nervous anticipation of the Sorting Hat's decision. Of course, he was almost certain of where Harry would go, but the Hat, being able to see one's innermost characteristics had a slight edge over him, even with Legilimency. Still it was a must that the boy went to Slytherin: Gryffindor would be watching Dunce like a hawk, flaunting his mediocre skills. Hufflepuff – well there was never a chance of him going to Hufflepuff, Snape hoped. Ravenclaw put far too much emphasis on books and grades, none of which were of vital importance when you needed to learn how to kill a Dark Lord. But Slytherin emphasised cunning, caution and a certain disregard for rules when it suited them, all qualities Potter would need, not only to survive the school year, but also to survive random Dark Lord attacks.
And so he continued waiting patiently. Snape gave another glance at his watch. It had been five minutes and the Hat had yet to call out a house. How long could it possibly take for the Sorting Hat to realise something Snape had known since the boy was a year old?
After half an hour, he was seriously deliberating wrenching the Hat off Harry's head, bellowing 'Slytherin!' and dragging him to the table decked out in green and silver.
The other students, who fifteen minutes earlier had begun inquiring if maybe Potter was a squib (and had been superbly reprimanded and disabused of this notion by the Sorting Hat) had begun to occupy themselves however they could – the Ravenclaws began crosswords and hangman, the Hufflepuffs looked at their plates with woeful expressions. Snape amused himself by scowling ferociously at the still-unsorted students, thereby preventing them from sitting down on the stone floor of the Great Hall for fear of his ire. It was a petty, malicious pleasure, and no doubt he'd pay dearly for it in the classroom, but it was most amusing to watch them squirm, pull themselves upright on shaking legs as he glanced at them, sway idiotically and squeak with dismay when he caught one of them near fainting.
No wonder his students spent the next seven years of their schooling devoting themselves to making him miserable rather than learning.
The Gryffindors were suspiciously quiet. Snape's seventh sense – the more general Gryffindor trouble-making one – twitched into life, blaring, as it did only when Weasleys were near. At some unseen signal, the red and gold table burst raucously into song, giving their own mediocre sorting song bawling the 'virtues' of idiocy and thoughtlessness while simultaneously managing to slander their mortal enemies (and duels between Gryffindors and Slytherins were quite often mortal, let alone when they were being provoked in such manner as they were now). Snape closed his eyes with an expression of long-suffering martyrdom as he prepared for the fallout.
As the last out-of-tune note faded away, the Slytherins stood as one and began to sing with saccharine sweet and mocking voices their own version, beginning ominously with the line 'Slytherins are sexier' and somehow managing to insult every house in the hall by applying their less-desirable Sorting characteristics to their qualities regarding relationships.
The entire hall was silenced with equal parts amusement and horror.
Snape sighed. For all his dedicated years as head of house (perhaps not as many as Minerva, but still. He was giving the best years of his life to those brats), he'd never managed to impress upon his students the importance of never lowering themselves to the level of Gryffindors.
The Hat's 'brow' seemed to wrinkle in deep thought. Very deep thought, as the Hat broke Sorting etiquette as old as Hogwarts, by beginning to mutter out loud.
"Kids these days, think they know their own heads..."
Inaudible muttering from the poor unfortunate. Snape brightened. Now this was interesting.
"I don't care what your father thinks about it, it's-"
Mutter. Actually, more of a pleading.
"Rubbish," the Hat snapped, loud enough now for the entire Hall to hear. "Slytherin is a perfectly respectable house... sometimes."

Snape smirked, cheered immensely. Now, no matter if the Hat made a travesty of a judgement and sorted him into Gryffindor, he'd never be accepted there. Among the teachers, a brief, but unimaginably fierce debate that made Dumbledore vs. Grindelwald look a toddler's spat broke out. Snape took advantage of the situation to not only add another hundred galleons to his bet, despite a disapproving look from Minerva, who signalled Pomona to add another fifty to hers, but also perform a hastily muttered silencio when it looked like Minerva was going to remind the Hat that it was not supposed to argue out loud.
"Yes, plenty of courage... I did say that, didn't I? ...tempered by a Slytherin survival instinct. No Gryffindor has a survival instinct worth a damn."
Snape snickered, but hastily converted it into a hacking cough when Minerva gave a glare that promised vengeance. Painful, humiliating vengeance. Really, Snape noted, it was quite fascinating how thin Minerva's lips could go.
"Hufflepuff! Helga'd roll over in her grave if I put you there! Honestly, what's so bad about snakes? You've even got Salazar's talent with the little beasts."
There was a sudden silence throughout the Hall, which had been muttering the moment Harry's Sorting started (firstly, the Boy Who Lived's brother! Second, what's taking so long? I'm hungry! and third, Slytherin! No way!).
It was also amazing how an inanimate object could convey such frustration. "It's NOT an evil gift. It's a matter of genetics!"
This little titbit finally provoked the boy enough to yell back, startled, "I am not related to Voldemort!" (Screams ensued from the peanut gallery. Snape rolled his eyes, conveniently forgoing to recall his own terror of He Who Loves To Crucio).
"Did I say you were?" The Hat scowled (not that Harry could see it, it being perched on his head).
"You said-"
"Genetics. Who knows, perhaps Ms. Evans was not muggleborn after all, and is from a line of Slytherin squibs."
The boy snorted. "Squibs? In the noble line of Slytherin? They'd have been smothered the moment it was realised."
Snape was, by now, almost rubbing his hands with glee (almost, but such hopelessly trite actions were beneath him). Being well-versed in the art of sarcasm, he understood that the boy was dismissing the theory. The rest of the Hall, having only small portions of wit, thought he was supporting the Pureblood way, which only made him more enemies in the other houses.
The Hat continued to yell at Harry, and Snape was reasonably certain that if it wasn't a hat, it would be crying tears of frustration. Snape checked 'stubborn belief he knows best and can never be wrong' off his mental checklist for Slytherin qualities. Fine, it also shared the column with Gryffindor, but close enough.

"Merlin's sake boy, I've done millions of these things, and I've never seen a head more Slytherin than yours, excluding Salazar himself. Oh, and Mr. Riddle, of course." Naturally, this set the rest of the students and most of the teachers into a fury of whispering inquiring who the hell 'Mr. Riddle' was (Dumbledore was far from forthcoming with useful information – even something so little as Vold- the Dark Lord's former name)
"I'm nothing like that hypocritical murdering bas-"
"Language, Mr. Potter. And it's my solemn duty to tell you, having seen both your minds that you are. Besides, Slytherin is not really about 'pure blood', you know. It's actually all about cunning and ambition. And if you don't have those traits, I'm a tap-dancing flamingo."
There was a long, tense silence. Finally the tear in the brim opened wide and with ecstatic cheerfulness announced "SLYTHERIN!"
Harry Potter removed the Sorting Hat from his head and was faced with another first in Sorting history - total, utter, accusing silence.
Snape smirked cheerfully and began to applaud. Evidently, his regular little chats with Sorting Hat had paid off.
A/N: As previously mentioned, dedicated to DerektheRogue, who not only got the ball rolling, but provided a veritable mine of humorous situations, resulting in several different versions of Harry's Sorting, this being the fourth.
There are no planned sequels to follow this; hence it has been posted as a second oneshot, rather than as a second chapter. Although, seeing as this wasn't planned in the first place, that might change.
Lastly, the song the Slytherins traumatise the rest of the Great Hall with is 'Slytherins Are Sexier', by morrigan, to whom I meant no disrespect, only homage, in taking the first line.
Disclaimer: See previous chapter. Oneshot. Thing.
I could have decided to simply string all of these together, making this chapter three of Mistaken Identity, but I'm quite lazy, a fact you should already have gathered from the length of chapters and disparity in dates between publishing and update. That, and there are a great variety of clichés that could have occurred between MI and the beginning of Harry's magical education, and there is always the option that I may one day decide to do something stupid like follow up on those opportunities.
Snape had been preparing for the Dunce Who Lived's arrival at Hogwarts ever since that fateful Halloween night he'd realised there were only two other people who knew Harry Potter was the true defeater of Voldemort, and that one of them was a sentient hat, and the other a flaming chicken.
Quite aside from hating the Dunce Who Lived on principle as the spawn of James Potter, Snape had anticipated that the blatant favouritism demonstrated by the woefully misled parents would in the interim craft Dunce into a child truly worthy of his derision, even were he not genetically related to Potter. He'd been proven right.

"Who would you take your vitriol out on then, sir?" Potter – Harry, no, Potter… goddamn the quirk of biology that had resulted in Lily bearing fraternal twins, and especially for bearing them both to term! – inquired in as respectful a tone as could be managed when subtly insulting your teacher.
The entire class held its breath. It was an unspoken rule that you never mentioned Snape's hatred of Potters, Weasleys, Gryffindors… generally, anyone not of Slytherin. Snape stared, and smiled slowly (it would be petty to find pleasure in the whimper this elicited from Neville Longbottom. But then, Snape had often been accused of being petty). Yes, there was definitely potential here. "Hmm. Gryffindor Potter will henceforth be addressed to as the Dunce Who Lived–" cue sycophantic sniggering from the Slytherin half of the dungeon, and to hell with professional integrity, this was war, "and you will have the dubious pleasure of being simply 'Potter'. Unless of course, it is blatantly obvious which of you is on the receiving end of my ire. Is this acceptable?"
He waited a moment for one of the self-preservation-challenged to mutter the inevitable, 'as if we're going to argue with you.'
"Detention, Weasley." He said silkily, gliding back into the half of the dungeon he'd spelled to be five degrees cooler than the rest every time he had a class with the lions. "So, can fame make up for deficiencies of nature? Potter, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Dunce reddened – Snape felt the brief urge to see if crushing him would result in tomato sauce and quashed it ruthlessly as going against Dumbledore's unspoken limitations upon his reign of terror. It seemed his humiliation threshold was lower than anticipated if he was already turning red – a few more questions and he would be unable to protest at the unfairness, and then points could be legitimately taken for backchat. "I don't know, sir." He said sullenly. Snape smirked. While Dunce might resemble Lily most, none of her intelligence, particularly her talent with potions, seemed to have been passed on. Good. He need only endure five years then.
"Where would I look for a bezoar?"

The expression on Dunce's screwed up face was almost painful. Thinking, it seemed, was terribly hard work. "I don't know, sir." He repeated, each word slightly stressed, as if Snape should pay attention to what was being said.
"What is the difference between wolfsbane and monkshood?"
"I don't know! Okay? Satisfied?"
"Five points from Gryffindor for the terrible combination of idiocy and cheek, Potter." A pause as a thought occurred to him. "You have been taught to read, I hope?" He wouldn't put it past Potter to avoid teaching his son basic literacy skills by claiming his perfect, Dark Lord-vanquishing son didn't need to spend time on such mundane occupations.
"Of course!" Dunce snapped, looking for all the world as if he were insulted. Fancy that.
"Really? Then why have you not read your course books? The answers are there, I assure you." Snape knew just enough about siblings and the possible detrimental effect that favouring one over the other could have on the favoured child's lifespan and quality of life, and so tactfully didn't mention Harry had probably read his course books back to front by now – the potions ones, at least, given the warning older students had given him. He did want the child to live, and be fairly happy living at Hogwarts – or as happy as a Potter in Slytherin with still-living Gryffindor parents could be in any case – otherwise Snape could expect his own life expectancy to match something akin to a mayfly's. He sighed. "For your information, Potter, though hopefully not for the rest of your unfortunate classmates, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death." If only House Elves weren't completely immune to bribery, he would have loved to see what would happen if he managed to feed that to Dunce. "A bezoar is a stone from the stomach of a goat that will save you from most poisons–" …oh, dear god, he'd just given him the means to avoid a painful death of mostly untraceable means "– and there is no difference between wolfsbane and monkshood, seeing as they are the same plant, also known as aconite."

But as things stood… Merlin's fluffy white beard, Longbottom, a Weasley and the Dunce, all in one class? It was going to be a miracle if he survived the next five years with sanity intact. He was probably going to end up rejoining the Dark Lord in a fit of madness. Or worse, agreeing to spy on him again.
"Potter," he said calmly at the end of the class, "Stay a moment."
Probably entertaining vague ideas of detention, disembowelment or other forms of persecution that would certainly have been his were he his brother, the boy stopped.
It occurred to Snape as he stared into the carefully blank green eyes of Lily's son that all his years as a teacher and spy had hardly prepared him to connect with, train, mentor or otherwise enhance the survival options of the saviour of the wizarding world. These occupations had in fact made him so bitter it was a source of ongoing friendly contention between Pomona and the normally intelligent Filius as to whether he really could curdle milk just by looking at it. Don't think he hadn't noticed them trying to subtly shift pitchers of the white stuff into his line of vision at breakfast each morning.
"I trust, Potter, you have been comfortable in Slytherin? Or as close an approximation as is possible, given your circumstances?"
Harry Potter was a remarkably bitter little boy, if that twist of the mouth was indicative of anything. "Circumstances? Do you mean having Gryffindor parents, one of whom is muggleborn? Or being related to the Boy Who Lived?"

Snape decided, Slytherin instincts be damned, to be honest. "I was actually hoping to lead around to the issue of your brother not, in fact, being the Boy Who Lived, but we can continue with this amusing, if inconsequential line of thought if you desire."
Harry stared for a long moment. Then Snape was the recipient of a smile so cold it could have kept ice cream from melting in a blast furnace. Something in Snape recognised it and started kissing robe hem. He crushed the urge viciously and smirked back.
This was going to be more interesting then he'd anticipated. He might even end up liking the boy, instead of the mixture of resentment and constant exasperation he originally anticipated would be the result of his decision.
He surveyed his new pet project for a long moment. Was he prepared to be teacher, mentor, protector, friend (he was hoping this was avoidable, but if he wanted the boy to trust him it might become necessary) and – damn James Potter for not being capable of fulfilling this vital role in the first place – parent to this boy?
If it drove James Potter to drink/death/damnation/ruination of life and sanity?
Hell yes.

Chapater3
Snape had quickly learned, to his utter horror, that he did in fact like Harry Potter. He'd been able to ignore this gleaning of self-knowledge throughout the weekend and most of the second week, but halfway through their conversation following the disastrous first flying lesson Harry had just participated in he found himself wondering just what the hell was wrong with the boy's parents and distinctly unsatisfied with the thought that they had no idea just what an extraordinary son they had or how lucky they were to have him. He ended the conversation a short while later to teach his next class – third year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws – and effectively rediscover why he hated children.
This piece of terrifying self-realisation was nothing, however, to the outrage he felt when he entered the staff room later to learn at last the reason Minerva had looked so unaccountably smug during dinner.
"You can not be serious!"
Minerva's glare in response to this exclamation of horror was withering, but Snape was enraged enough to be completely oblivious, a feat as yet unmatched in the annals of Hogwarts history.
"You're telling me, Minerva, that the Dunce Who Lived –" he artfully ignored the disapproving looks from his colleagues. "Breaks rules set down for his own safety, and not only is he not reprimanded, but is given a place of the Gryffindor Quidditch team?!"
"The boy's a natural, Severus." McGonagall said firmly, as if that adequately explained her lapse of intellect.
"His talent with a broom is completely inconsequential! He should not be rewarded for such acts of stupidity!" he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can you say 'favouritism', Minerva?" He sneered at her (after all, he rarely got the chance to say that to someone else). The thought suddenly occurred that this had to be extremely galling to Harry (of course Snape realised he was probably the only person who'd ever paid attention to the fact that the boy even liked to fly, but this didn't mean Harry was any less gifted, whether it was realised or not), and that he worried about that at all only exacerbated his feelings of indignation. "Is this about him being the Boy Who Lived? Or are you just desperate not to let the Cup go to Slytherin again?"
Minerva stiffened, outraged. The staff room held its collective breath, waiting for the impending outburst. To the surprise of all, she calmed herself, and exchanged sympathetic glances with Madam Hooch. "I think," she confided in an undertone meant to be heard, "That perhaps Severus is being uncomfortably reminded of his own school days when James-"

"This is – NOT – about – James – Potter!" He bellowed, instantly negating his own words. He took a deep, almost calming breath. "This about the fact that a boy with no more brains than god gave flobberworms is being allowed on the school team when he should be receiving a detention!"
McGonagall – she was never 'Minerva' when displeased with him, he was likely to live longer – looked insulted by the insinuation that one of her students had a mental capacity equivalent to a flobberworm. He couldn't understand why; she had Weasleys in her House.
"Severus," Flitwick squeaked, making a dismal and half-hearted attempt to keep the peace. "Don't blame Minerva. You know we've all got a bit of a blind spot where he's concerned; Boy Who Lived and all-"
"Speak for yourself," he snarled, before turning back to Minerva. "So this is about him being the Boy Who Lived, not talent."
"He has talent, Severus."
"So does his brother, but I don't see him getting a spot on his house team as a first year. And talent or no, the brat has still broken the rules. Even if he hadn't disobeyed Madam Hooch's direct orders, it would still be unfair of you to put him on the school team. He is a first year, don't we have rules against this sort of thing?"
Two spots of red colour had appeared high on her cheeks. A bad sign. A very bad sign. "You're a fine one to talk about unfairness, Severus!"
The other teachers rapidly began exiting the room, having accepted that the entertainment value provided was finally being outweighed by the risks to life and limb.

Two hours later, and Snape could be found torturing Hufflepuff first years in the halls, having been unable to convince Minerva either of the stupidity of her actions or in the wisdom of treating the Potter twins equal and allowing both to join the relevant House teams (he'd made the terrible mistake of going to Dumbledore for justice, and was still rueing the decision bitterly). McGonagall could be found lecturing the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team with a maniacal glint in her eye that she expected the Quidditch Cup, and if she didn't receive results she'd personally see to it none of them ever graduated.
"Draco," Snape declared as he entered the Common Room (all his other students being smart enough to run for it the moment the lookout had given the warning signal), "As your godfather I am honour bound to care for and love you dearly, but I may never forgive you for this."
"You do know that Malfoy has challenged my brother to a midnight duel in the trophy room tonight?" Harry asked, with an amazing display of indifference as Snape watched him brew a perfect Swelling Solution.
Snape raised an eyebrow. "I'll inform Filch," he said dryly. "Why, would it concern you were your brother to die or be hideously injured?" He snorted under his breath, easily swiping the ingredient Harry had been about to add a little too soon. "If only that were an option in a duel between first years. If only."

Harry surveyed him for a moment with a gaze so piercing Snape was confused for a moment over which one of them knew Legilimency. Speaking of which, he would have to teach Potter Occlumency eventually. He had a terrible feeling about that magical curse scar. "No." he shrugged. "I thought you might be worried about your godson."
Snape felt a muscle in his cheek twitch. "Who told you that Draco was my godson?"
No answer was forthcoming. Snape did not expect one. "Draco needs to be taught a little discretion." He said irritably. "Lucius has been a terrible example to him. It's going to take all his school years to drive out his example, and as soon as he graduates Draco will forget about being Draco and become a clone again."
The black-haired boy looked up, amused. "So it is true the Malfoy line is the product of perfecting the cloning technique."
Snape scowled at him, a little too slow to prevent the boy's sharp eyes from noticing his own amusement at that pronouncement. "Get back to brewing your potion," he snapped. "And then we'll see if there's enough time to go over what Quirrel should be teaching you before I have to make your brother's life a misery."
"I would have thought that would be a pleasure rather than a chore," he grinned. Snape was starting to forget his own resolution to dislike him.
"I fully agree with Filch when it pertains to your brother," he said coolly. "Dunce Who Lived or no–"
"Especially 'no'." Harry muttered.
"–he should be strung upside down by his ankles in a flooded dungeon."
There was a comfortable silence for a while as both returned to their respective tasks. Snape resisted the urge to incinerate several truly abysmal essays, and Harry moved on to the last stages of his potion.

"Just out of curiosity, Professor, do you even know my brother's first name?"
Snape grimaced. "Why would I want to? Besides, do you?"
"Touché. But that's alright, nobody in my family knows my name either." There was a moment of absolute disassociation. Snape felt he could probably have been stabbed in the head with an ice pick right in front of him and Harry wouldn't have noticed, let alone cared. Potters, he thought.
Which effectively reminded him that Draco needed a lesson about issuing duels and Filch had to be told the trophy room was in terrible danger of magic sparks. Perhaps he should modify the after-hours patrolling roster just in case. Heaven forbid it should Pomona who found Gryffindors out of bed, they'd never get the detention they deserved. "I'll trust you just enough to finish that without any major mishaps while I'm gone," he said calmly, already seeing Dunce and Dumber disembowelling horned toads in his mind's eye.
Potter had the temerity to smirk at him as he swept out, intent on informing Filch of Dunce Who Lived's plans for late night entertainment.
A/N: Anna Potter-Snape. I blame you for this, and all possible future chapters! That aside, I'm wondering if I should perhaps have followed your model for the Mistaken series; it would appear to make less work.
In a future chapter (no, don't ask when):
Watching Longbottom, staring with obvious terror at the vile contents of the cauldron he was supposed to be cleaning, Snape could see it already. Sooner or later, this boy, capable of blowing up even a swelling solution, was going to kill everyone in the class.

Chapater4
"The idiot," Snape informed Harry cheerfully as he entered the Common Room the next morning.
Harry looked up, feigning boredom. "What happened?"
Snape eyed him a moment, calculating. All the teachers knew to some extent, whether conscious of it or not, that the protections around the Stone were more for testing Dunce than actual protection.
Please. As if there was anything there that would stop the Dark Lord… except the Mirror Snape hadn't dared look into. The Mirror, Snape suspected, was the only thing truly protecting the Stone, and the only thing necessary. But, they were asking proof of worthiness from the wrong Potter, and, while he was malignant, Snape didn't want to be indirectly responsible for a child's death. That could make life difficult. So. Hints.
"He and Weasley ran into one of Hagrid's more exotic pets," he purred. "You could hear the screaming from the dungeons."
A tiny smile flickered over the boy's face. "The Cerberus," Harry acknowledged.
Snape eyed him askance and decided it would probably be best if he didn't ask. "Yes. Called 'Fluffy', if you can believe it. Now, remember what we discussed yesterday in our conversation about Defence Against the Dark Arts. What is the typical function of a Cerberus?"
"Guard dog," he responded promptly. His eyes narrowed. "What is it guarding?"
Hagrid was going to let slip about Flamel, Dumbledore was counting on it. His student deserved no less, and would probably get the answer long before Dunce. "Something for Nicholas Flamel," he said edgily, concealing a smile.
He watched snatches of information being gathered, discarded, replaced, snapped into place. "The Philosopher's Stone."
Snape revised his original thought. He was not just pleased with Harry Potter's acumen. He might just indulge in the Gryffindor vice of pride.