The night after the Sorting, first-year classes began at once. This was nothing like the manor in Wiltshire where I'd been raised. Like me, the new students were busy from dawn to dusk, trying to adapt to our new lives.
I wrote to my parents the same day to report that I'd been Sorted into Slytherin. They must have been waiting on tenterhooks: by the next morning, an owl brought congratulations from both of them—along with a mountain of sweets. My parents have a grandparent-like habit of plying me with any food I so much as seem to enjoy. …I'm sorry, but I don't actually like sweets that much. At breakfast I divided everything into piles by class period and promised Crabbe and Goyle they could have them if they kept up with prep and review.
While we were at it, we switched how we addressed one another to blend in. The Slytherin boys tend to go by surnames. Matching everyone felt faintly embarrassing, but at this stage there's nothing to gain by swimming against the current. No need to be a nail that sticks up. …It's very public-school for them, really—an unexpected cultural overlap between the magical and non-magical worlds.
As for "getting used to Hogwarts," the bulk of our time—classes—wasn't much trouble. I'd drilled the basics, of course, and even Crabbe and Goyle had pounded them into their heads before coming. Being called on in class was no challenge; we handled it smoothly. The two of them quickly made friends as "reliable boys who know things," which was gratifying to see.
My own social life, however, wasn't exactly smooth sailing.
As I'd feared, my behavior at the Sorting left me a little out of step with the other Slytherin first-years.
Even so, as the Malfoy heir no one snubbed me outright or tried any petty harassment. Children from families beneath ours fawned in a way unbecoming to their age, and the rest followed their lead in dealing with me. Unhealthy dynamics, to be sure. And still, there was that awkward air—people at a loss for how to treat me. I tried to make up for my mistake by being as helpful as possible in the House, but I couldn't shake the feeling I wasn't quite blending in.
Given that I'm mentally older than everyone else, perhaps it's only natural. Still, there's no point in drawing attention for nothing. Backed into this situation, I couldn't help doubting my own social skills.
For all that, school life itself was tremendous fun. Each new lesson tugged my attention toward its own charms, and the "people problem" steadily receded to the edges of my mind.
I already knew the material, but actually performing magic in class is something else. Transfiguration quickly became my favorite. Even back home, after my acceptance letter arrived and I'd tried a few things, I thought: there's nothing quite so magical as transforming one object into another with different properties down to its elements.
It wasn't only the subject I liked. In short order I developed a strong respect for Professor Minerva McGonagall—the veteran Transfiguration teacher and Head of Gryffindor. Unlike many wizards I've seen, she values rigor, is fair, and doesn't let emotion sway her. She spent a brief time in the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I believe, and as Dumbledore's right hand she's clearly on the side of the good.
With the "story" likely already underway and no clear view of what lies ahead, the presence of someone who seems both decent and rational is a comfort.
Naturally, I threw myself into Transfiguration. First-year magic isn't too difficult, and when I turned a matchstick into a perfect needle just before the bell, Professor McGonagall praised me. I forgot she was the Gryffindor Head and couldn't help beaming.
There were, of course, classes that left the opposite impression.
History of Magic was among the worst disappointments. In terms of sheer awfulness, Defense Against the Dark Arts gave it a run for its money—but with a teacher changing every year, I never expected much. Measured by the gap between expectation and what was actually taught, History of Magic won by a mile.
In preparing for the future I'd studied wizarding history and historiography broadly, and I thought I had a decent picture of how Hogwarts would teach it—problems included. …But Professor Cuthbert Binns surpassed every one of those problems and then some. He embodies a particular wizarding defect: memorizing trivia stripped of context. He drones to a room of disengaged children about obscure names and how many buttons were in fashion—and why we should remember any of it is never explained. To them, his lecture might as well be a chant in an unknown tongue.
Worse, he's been a ghost for over a hundred years. The inconveniences that come with lacking a corporeal body must be legion—how does that not hinder his work? I would prefer not to have a fossil who hasn't been able to turn a page for a century standing in front of modern youth in what should be a living field of study.
Sadly, History of Magic became self-study time with Binns's lecture as background noise. Father is on the Hogwarts Board—does he truly have no objection to employing such a relic? It does nothing for the children. A ghost won't retire with age, either… It's well past time to act, but wizarding indifference to education has consequences.
Even after I'd endured History, one more subject loomed—for many reasons.
At last, Friday first period: Potions with Gryffindor. The class I feared most had arrived.
There are plenty of reasons. Yes, it's taught by Professor Severus Snape—my father's acquaintance—so I'm obliged to maintain appearances. More than that, I can't quite shake my Muggle-informed instincts about brewing.
In the non-magical world, pharmaceuticals are entrusted to people whose expertise is guaranteed by licensure. A layperson may take over-the-counter medicine, but no one "makes" it at home; responsible parties manufacture it. That's normal.
Not here. Here, brewing potions is standard for eleven-year-olds. Are wizards mad? Today's a topical cure for boils, so any errors are unlikely to be immediately fatal, but I'd rather not brew anything taken by mouth. I doubt they hand it out willy-nilly, but standards and testing are… not thorough in the wizarding world. I've learned that well in the few years since remembering my previous life.
I did check the school rule against unauthorized brewing. But if you can't prove someone brewed it, the rule doesn't apply. The penalties are light, and unless you catch them in the act, it's easy to wriggle free. I sometimes wonder if I'm the only one who thinks it wouldn't be strange for a couple of students to blow themselves up every year—though expecting Hogwarts to excel at risk management is my mistake.
Wizard recklessness and license are buttressed by a cockroach-like ability to survive. Try this in the non-magical world and you get serious injuries and a demand for change. Wizards are pointlessly hardy and therefore make light of harm. It's a gap in values I doubt I can bridge.
Being a coward, I worked hard for this day. I gnawed my way into Potions—a subject that gives the finger to system and analysis—and hammered its uncanny logic into my skull, so that neither I nor Vincent nor Gregory would end up poisoners or corpses. I'm confident I can manage up to fifth-year work—especially safely.
I haven't heard of Professor Snape getting a student killed, so perhaps class itself isn't too dangerous. Still, there's no such thing as being too careful. Magic can recover from a great deal—but not everything.
The Potions classroom was a dim chamber in the dungeons. Waiting for us, Professor Snape exuded the same clammy aura I'd sensed in the Great Hall. The chill of the room added to the effect. To a child he must be quite intimidating. Forgive me, but I already had a poor impression.
The moment you factor in his likely "former Death Eater" status, you can guess the rest: as a teacher of children, he's a failure. In the few days since arriving, I'd seen enough to conclude he's unfair, cruel, and takes pleasure in bullying students.
That, in turn, clarified something: he's a major reason the Gryffindor–Slytherin feud at present has grown so grotesquely severe.
Even allowing that our parents' generation—veterans of the last war—are at least nominally mature, you rarely see them airing lethal House grudges in public. So if the children are this at odds, it must be more than youthful impressionability. I'd suspected there was another cause. Snape's influence—there's the unexpected answer.
This Head of Slytherin openly—and improperly—favors Slytherin. Gryffindor rises to oppose him in the name of justice. Slytherins, attacked in the backlash, can't criticize their own Head, so they turn to self-defense and push back, and the cycle of hostility and mutual incomprehension deepens. Easy to imagine—and to loathe.
I wish someone would stop an educator this harmful. And honestly, if he dislikes children this much, what joy does he take in teaching at Hogwarts?
I expected him to play favorites again today. I didn't expect his target to be Harry specifically. In hindsight, of course I should have. He's the "nasty Head of the rival House who clashes with the protagonist." Classic children's-book setup.
The moment class began, without a word about the day's lesson, he fired a barrage of questions at Harry—far too advanced for a first-year fresh from the non-magical world. He wasn't expecting answers. He was using his position to put a newly arrived eleven-year-old on display.
Even as a Slytherin, it made my eyes sting with shame to see our Head exercise his worst instincts on a child who didn't yet know left from right. He ignored the Gryffindor girl beside Harry who kept thrusting her hand up, and the interrogation continued.
I worried for Harry—but I needn't have. He met the professor's hostile gaze and answered steadily. In Diagon Alley I'd wondered if he might lack confidence, but no: he was resilient, as befits a protagonist.
Watching him, I felt myself moved.
If we let Snape's tyranny slide, we allow Slytherin's honor to be dragged through the mud. For our House's future, I should do what I can here. And now that Harry's in Gryffindor, there are levers I can pull from within Slytherin. I framed my defiance as strategy and set to work.
When Snape coldly ordered the eager Gryffindor girl to sit down, I raised my hand. The reaction was immediate: startled looks from every side, House lines be damned. Snape himself didn't seem to know what I was about. His eyes narrowed, faintly suspicious.
I put on a deferential smile. "Professor, if you don't mind—may I answer?"
I got gooseflesh at my own obsequiousness, but I'd stepped over the line; I had to see it through.
I could feel Harry's surprised stare. I kept my eyes on Snape. Seeing Lucius Malfoy's son volunteering, he seemed to think it a chance to continue belittling Harry. A cruel smile touched his mouth; he nodded indulgently. "Very well. Let us hear it."
Not the tone he'd used to silence the Gryffindor girl.
"Thank you," I said brightly, careful to keep any distaste from my face, and combed my memory.
"Asphodel and wormwood are ingredients in the powerful sleeping draught known as the Draught of Living Death. The brewing method appears in Advanced Potion-Making.
"A bezoar is a stone found in a goat's stomach. It has broad antidotal properties. Once we begin brewing internal remedies, we'll all need to know how to use it.
"Monkshood and wolfsbane both refer to aconite—and because it's highly toxic, we should only use it in brewing after we're well practiced in handling poisons."
I answered, pretending not to notice Harry's gaze boring into me as I dredged up every scrap of knowledge.
Left there, I'd be nothing more than a boy showing off—an accomplice to the professor who'd made Harry a spectacle. I didn't intend to leave it there.
Before Snape could say anything, I went on, clear and courteous: "These are advanced topics, beyond what first-years can handle—but we may use them in later years. I look forward to your instruction."
And then I added a tiny barb—just enough that he couldn't be sure I meant it that way.
To most of the children in the room, it would be plain: these were far beyond our level, some not even in our text, and Snape had unfairly badgered Harry. That was the message.
Whether the professor caught my intent, I couldn't tell. He kept the same malicious smile—but I thought his eyes sharpened by a fraction. He has no qualms about hurting people, and yet he's keenly sensitive to the nuances of feeling. A troublesome man.
He surveyed the room and, without changing tone, said, "One point to Slytherin for doing his prep without arrogance—unlike our celebrity. Why aren't the rest of you writing down that entire answer?"
He cannot help himself. Spare me.
The rest of the lesson was more of the same: heaped scorn on Gryffindor, unearned largesse for Slytherin—and extra for me, given my father. My small satisfaction evaporated at once. At this rate, a lone student's interjections won't dent Snape's effect.
His favoritism might help me disappear into Slytherin, but it's contemptible. Don't distract children handling fire and hazardous substances. He's not inattentive, but his taste for torment violates the duties of a supervisor.
While he showed off the precise boil on my worthless slug, I watched the class. A Gryffindor boy, not listening, was rushing—and about to drop porcupine quills into a cauldron still over the fire.
—No. I shouted before I could stop myself. "Don't put those in!"
That didn't help.
Startled by my voice, the boy fumbled and dropped what he was holding into the brew. Green smoke roared up; the potion began to eat through the cauldron.
Students screamed. Snape's head snapped up. "Back, you idiot!"
He strode over and vanished the potion with a flick.
The boy's robes were holed where the potion had splashed, and he looked on the verge of tears. That only made it worse. Snape relishes gouging at a wounded target. After he'd had his fun with the culprit, he turned on Harry and his friends.
His expression was pure malice. I knew what was coming.
"Potter—why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? You thought he'd make a mistake and you'd look clever? One point from Gryffindor. And five to Slytherin for Mr. Malfoy's prudent warning."
Of course. In the space of a few minutes he'd managed to forget he'd been distracting the class with my slug. If it means he can bully Harry, he'll ignore the holes in his own logic.
Abandoning a teacher's duty of care; blaming others while he draws attention away; a casual display of ethics unbecoming "a professor"—I found myself despising Severus Snape.
After class, Harry left looking wrung out. I was worried. I couldn't very well speak to him after what happened on the train, but our path to the Great Hall for lunch was the same. I followed at a distance with that excuse in mind, watching over him.
I thought they wouldn't notice, but the Weasley boy spun around and caught my eye. Disgust spread across his face; he stepped in front of Harry as if to shield him. "What do you want, Malfoy?"
He loathes me—naturally. I picked a fight with him out of the blue; this is on me, one hundred percent.
I considered apologizing now that the Sorting was over, but being conspicuously kind to Gryffindors would only make me stand out in Slytherin. Best to pass with bland indifference.
"…You're imagining things," I said, squinting with a sigh. He flushed—but didn't back down. Bristling, he shot back, "Happy to be Snape's pet, are you?"
That jab unsettled me a little. From his side, fair enough—but after the rage I'd felt at Snape in class, I wanted to object. …A little sparring would do us both good.
I answered evenly, "I didn't ask for that. I can brew first-year potions just fine without favoritism. Can you, Weasley?"
"Feeling very confident, aren't you… Did he tell you the questions in advance?"
He didn't flinch. He shrugged as he spoke. It's the kind of thing Snape might do, but it wasn't the case. I met his eyes. "I don't do cheap fixes. Even without tricks, I'll earn grades worthy of Slytherin."
I left it at that and steered Crabbe and Goyle into the Great Hall. After that exchange, even Harry looked at me askance.
Perhaps being disliked a little is exactly right. With that cold comfort, the three of us sat down at the Slytherin table.
The day wasn't done with me.
After dinner, when we returned to the common room, the prefect who'd led us on Sorting night—Gemma Farley, I think—came straight toward us. Her face was serious; the air was not congenial.
She pulled me away from Vincent and Gregory and marched me into a deserted corridor without asking.
After a brief silence, brow furrowed and arms crossed, she spoke. "Malfoy… I hear you said Snape was fixing things, or that you 'don't need his favoritism.' Is that true?"
I hadn't said that—exactly. I opened my mouth to deny it, then realized my quarrel with Weasley would sound very much like that. And in a crowded entrance hall, no less. No surprise it reached a prefect's ears.
"I didn't say it to his face… but perhaps. Even so—surely you agree Professor Snape's behavior is a disgrace to Slytherin? If he awards points on the strength of being our Head, no one in the other Houses will respect us. They'll only despise us. Nothing good comes of accepting that."
It was a good chance to ask what I'd wondered: what do Slytherins think of a Head whose temperament makes him unfit to teach? I needed to know to plan for our House—and for my own moves.
For a heartbeat she looked as if she were seeing something impossible. Then the frown deepened. "That's something you can do because you're a Malfoy."
"What do you mean?"
I tilted my head. She sighed. "My family hasn't always been Slytherin. I made prefect anyway—but without the backing you have, I can't afford to cross him."
She paused, then lifted a shoulder in weary resignation. There was irritation in her eyes—and a hint of hopelessness. "It's your business if you want a run-in with Snape. But as long as you're a Malfoy, other students will get caught in the middle. If you care about your Housemates, keep your head down."
With that, she turned on her heel and left me standing there.
…Her point was about what I expected, but hearing it from another student made it heavier. Even if the House resents the way the Head behaves, they can't rebel openly. Cross an unreasonable adult and you only redirect the blade onto yourself. Expecting the children to "self-correct" isn't just useless—it's irresponsible.
A low cloud hung over everything.
And yet—can I leave it alone? Being at war with Gryffindor makes it hard to warm one's way into Dumbledore's protection, and he's the greatest patron in wizarding Britain. If Voldemort returns as a pale, noseless wraith, students who've been drawn into Snape's anti-Gryffindor crusade may find themselves shunted toward the dark. My two childhood friends are among them.
I won't watch that happen.
I'll move the story as little as possible, away from Harry. Within my limits. Slowly. But I'll do what I can.
"Professor McGonagall, do you have a moment?"
The next afternoon, I went alone to her office. If I was going to take any steps about Snape, I'd start with her.
Going first to someone from the "opposing" House might inflame things—bad optics. But asking a powerless bystander would be pointless. She's the Deputy Headmistress and a champion of fairness—someone I wanted on side early.
Despite my being from another House, she received me kindly. I suppose a serious attitude in class had helped.
Once I was seated opposite her desk, she spoke, all business. "Mr. Malfoy, what can I do for you?"
"I have a… request. You may find it odd so early in the term, but it concerns Professor Snape's conduct as Head of Slytherin."
Her expression shifted—puzzled. A student from another House wanting to discuss his own Head? No wonder she couldn't see where this was going.
I chose my words carefully. "What do you think of Professor Snape—mainly in terms of fairness?"
She seemed to grasp my point—but her puzzlement didn't vanish. "You're the first Slytherin to come to me about this, Mr. Malfoy."
That there was not a single exception besides me surprised me, but Gemma's reaction had already hinted at the reality.
"Other Houses have, then?"
"…Yes. But I must be clear: I cannot remove Professor Snape. That is the Headmaster's decision."
That escalated quickly. Perhaps it's natural for a non-Slytherin to wish him gone, but I had no such plan. I hurried to correct her. "Remove him? Not at all. I'm not thinking of anything so drastic."
She looked even more doubtful at that. Perfectly reasonable words—and yet my intentions were opaque to her.
She sat up straighter. "Then what is it you want from me?"
"I don't have every step in mind, but ultimately I want him to stop acting unfairly. We can't change his temperament—but at least the House points.
"If I ask for that now, it will only cause friction. So I'd like you to know this first: his behavior harms Slytherins too."
"To be aware—that's all? I'm not under the illusion his conduct does your House any good."
"In that case… would you say so? Anywhere, really. That Professor Snape's conduct disadvantages the younger Slytherins.
"If you would try to persuade him, I'd be grateful—but perhaps it should be said where many can hear. It would leave a mark, you see. It would help others understand that Slytherins are also victims here…"
Make the irregularity of his conduct visible, and separate that image from Slytherin House. It isn't a gentle method, but if he won't change, we must change the room around him. Having the Head of Gryffindor publicly criticize Snape for the sake of Slytherin students is a necessary step.
…Or so I thought. But Professor McGonagall's look shifted to something like startled wariness—as if she couldn't quite tell what I was. I didn't want her to think I was merely Snape-bashing.
I rushed to clarify. "It's obvious, even to a brand-new student, that you're fair to everyone. If you say it, people will accept it."
"That is optimistic. When he first took the post, I did not simply do nothing."
A faint embarrassment colored her voice at my compliment.
Guilt on her part—useful, sadly. I pressed gently. "Even if you act, it may come to nothing. He may refuse to change, and the other Houses may keep resenting him.
"But Slytherins would still learn something: that even if they drift with the environment and bend toward wrongdoing, there is someone trying to change the very circumstances that make it easy—someone acting for Slytherins' sake.
"And in time, the fact that the right direction was pointed out may spark… a possibility, in their hearts. Doesn't that seem worth something?"
She studied me for a long moment. The suspicion in her eyes faded; a small light kindled there. "I've never heard a Slytherin claim honor rooted in fairness as a value.
…Were you not offered Gryffindor at the Sorting?"
She was telling me she would have liked me in her House. I smiled and shook my head. "No. There was only Slytherin for me. And I'm sure there have been Slytherins like that before—who simply didn't know what to do."
She closed her eyes and nodded. "…Perhaps so."
Silence again. Sunlight slanted through the office windows. She drew a deep breath and glanced at the clock.
"Dinner is near. You should go, Mr. Malfoy. As Head of Gryffindor, I promise to be worthy of the trust you've shown."
At that, I felt a warm surge of achievement and hope. I bowed, smiling.
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