Chapter 10: Chapter 10: The First Day

Morning arrived without incident—dungeon rooms remained perpetually dim, their small windows looking out into the murky depths of the lake. Arthur rose early, performed his usual exercises in the limited space available, and prepared for his first day of classes with methodical efficiency.

The common room was nearly empty when he entered, with only a few older students reading or completing last-minute assignments. He could feel their eyes tracking him as he crossed toward the exit, but no one addressed him directly. The silent treatment—he could live with that.

Having reviewed the castle layout from various books, Arthur was confident he could find his way to the Great Hall without following the other Slytherins. Better to arrive early and avoid any potential confrontations on the first day.

His plan might have worked if he hadn’t been blocked in a corridor leading to the Great Hall by a group of Slytherin second and third years who were clearly lying in wait. Arthur didn’t know all their names yet, but he recognized one—a second-year called Marcus Flint, a stocky boy with large, crooked teeth and a permanently mean expression.

“Well, well,” Flint sneered, planting himself directly in Arthur’s path. “If it isn’t the Mudblood who’s contaminating our noble house.”

The others—five boys and two girls, all with expressions of open contempt—spread out to block the corridor completely. It was a classic ambush formation, Arthur noted clinically; they’d chosen a lesser-used corridor with no portraits and far enough from both the dungeons and the Great Hall that intervention was unlikely.

“You’re a disgrace to Slytherin,” continued another boy, tall and weedy with close-set eyes. “A stain on our reputation.”

“You should just quit school and crawl back to the Muggle world where you belong,” added one of the girls, her voice dripping with disdain.

Arthur assessed the situation with calm detachment. Eight opponents, all older students, and they were blocking the only direct route to the Great Hall from the dungeons. Fighting would be risky, but running would mark him as an easy target for future harassment.

Keeping his expression neutral, he said, “I’d like to get to breakfast,” attempting to step around them.

“Did you hear that?” Flint laughed mockingly. “The Mudblood wants breakfast. Too bad he has to go through us first.”

Arthur noticed the way Flint’s hand drifted toward his robe pocket; the others were similarly poised. They were clearly planning to hex him. So much for Snape’s instructions about presenting a united front outside the common room.

“I have no quarrel with any of you,” Arthur said, his voice steady as his hand slipped casually into his pocket, fingers closing around his wand. “Let’s not make this more complicated than it needs to be.”

“Oh, it’s already complicated,” sneered the tall boy. “Complicated by your dirty blood polluting our house!”

With that, Flint yanked out his wand and shouted, “Flipendo!”

Arthur had anticipated this. In one fluid motion, he drew his own wand and cast, “Protego!” A shimmering shield materialized before him, causing the knockback jinx to dissipate harmlessly against it. The sudden display of magic—a shield charm typically not taught until fourth year—caused his attackers to hesitate momentarily, surprise evident on their faces.

What they didn’t know was that Arthur had risen at dawn specifically to practice this spell. He had memorized the theory from his advanced reading and spent hours refining his wand movement and incantation, producing a functional, if somewhat weak, shield.

Taking advantage of their momentary surprise, Arthur attempted to move past them again, still hoping to avoid an outright fight. But Flint, recovering quickly, wasn’t about to let him escape so easily.

“Get him!” Flint snarled, and suddenly spells were flying from multiple directions.

Arthur’s shield caught the first two jinxes, but a third—a stinging hex—grazed his shoulder, sending a sharp pain down his arm. Realizing that pure defense wouldn’t suffice, he switched strategies. Years of martial arts training kicked in. As another spell flew toward him, Arthur ducked beneath it and closed the distance to the nearest attacker, sweeping the boy’s legs out from under him with a practiced kick. The Slytherin went down hard, his wand skittering across the stone floor.

“He’s fighting like a filthy Muggle!” one of the girls shrieked, her voice filled with outrage and disgust.

The corridor erupted into chaos. Spells flew wildly—some missing Arthur entirely and impacting the walls. Arthur weaved between them, using his smaller size and physical training to his advantage, landing precise strikes whenever possible while still defending himself with his wand.

A Jelly-Legs Jinx made his knees buckle momentarily before he countered it. A Furnunculus Curse struck his arm, causing painful boils to erupt across his skin. In retaliation, he sent a Knockback Jinx that sent one attacker sprawling into two others.

But eight against one were impossible odds, especially when his attackers had more magical education. A vomiting curse hit him square in the chest, and he doubled over, retching violently. Sensing victory, Flint moved in for what was clearly meant to be the final blow.

Just then, a voice thundered down the corridor: “IMMOBULUS!” In an instant, everyone froze, caught mid-action by the powerful charm. Professor McGonagall strode toward them, her face white with fury, followed closely by Professor Snape, whose cold eyes took in the scene with calculated precision.

“What,” McGonagall demanded, her Scottish accent sharp with anger, “is the meaning of this?”

With another flick of her wand, the freezing charm lifted, though none dared to move. Arthur straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he tried to regain his composure despite the burning pain and nausea.

“He attacked us!” Flint claimed immediately, pointing accusingly at Arthur. “The Mud—I mean, Hayes—just went mental when we were on our way to breakfast!”

“Is that so?” McGonagall’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And I suppose Mr. Hayes gave himself those boils and the vomiting curse?”

“They ambushed me,” Arthur stated simply, his voice hoarse. “Eight against one, as I was heading to the Great Hall.”

Snape’s cold gaze swept over the scattered wands and the signs of the scuffle before settling on the Slytherin students, many of whom now avoided his eyes. Though his expression remained unchanged, his posture hinted at suppressed anger.

“Hospital wing,” McGonagall declared firmly. “All of you. Now. We will sort this out after Madam Pomfrey has seen to your injuries.”

Thus, Arthur spent his first day at Hogwarts in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey moved briskly between beds, mending broken bones, vanishing boils, and administering potions with both skill and stern disapproval.

“Fighting on the first day,” she muttered as she handed Arthur an anti-nausea potion. “Every year it gets worse. Dueling in the corridors before classes have even begun!”

Later, both McGonagall and Snape arrived to mete out punishment. After interviewing all parties separately, they determined that both sides shared blame—though the exact details of their conclusion remained unclear to Arthur. The Slytherins were faulted for the ambush, and Arthur for escalating the situation into physical violence.

“Twenty points from Slytherin,” Snape announced, his voice cold enough to make even the point loss sting. “For disgracing your house with such a public display of poor judgment.”

“And detention,” McGonagall added. “For all of you. Mr. Filch will supervise you tomorrow evening in the trophy room.”

The Slytherins glared daggers at Arthur, clearly blaming him not only for their injuries but for the harsh punishment as well. Arthur met their stares impassively; he had expected nothing less.

That evening, when he was finally released from the hospital wing, Arthur returned to his private room in the Slytherin dungeons. He was sore, exhausted, and had missed his first day of classes, but he felt an odd sense of satisfaction. He had stood his ground and shown that he would not be an easy target. Next time, they would think twice before attacking him so brazenly.

He spent the rest of the evening reviewing the material he had missed and practicing more defensive spells. It was now clearer than ever: he would need to accelerate his learning of magical combat if he was to survive in Slytherin.

The next day, Arthur and the others involved in the fight were up and about again. Broken bones, boils, and nausea had all been mended overnight—the marvel of magical medicine at work. As Arthur attended his first official class, he noticed that other students kept their distance, even those from houses other than Slytherin. Rumors of his fight had spread throughout the school with all the usual embellishments and distortions.

Some whispered that he had used dark magic against his fellow Slytherins. Others claimed he had attacked unprovoked like a savage Muggle. The first-years from the train now avoided his gaze, clearly unwilling to associate with someone already marked as trouble.

Arthur did not care. He chose a seat in the corner of the classroom, arranged his materials with methodical precision, and focused entirely on the lesson. If they wanted to isolate him, so be it. He hadn’t come to Hogwarts to make friends. He had come to learn magic—to gain the power and knowledge that would serve him in the greater world beyond these stone walls.

As Professor Flitwick began introducing the principles of charms, Arthur took detailed notes, his quill racing across the parchment. He would master every spell, excel in every subject, and emerge from Hogwarts not as the ostracized Muggle-born Slytherin, but as a wizard of such skill and knowledge that his background would eventually become irrelevant.

Let them whisper. Let them stare. In the end, power was the only currency that truly mattered—and Arthur Hayes intended to become very rich indeed.

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