Chapter 9: Chapter 9: The Muggle-Born Slytherin

As Arthur took his seat at the Slytherin table, the silence surrounding him was almost deafening. The other first-years subtly shifted away, forming a small island of emptiness around him. Older students glowered at him, their disdain barely veiled behind the civility demanded by the public setting.

The start-of-term feast materialized on golden plates before them—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, potatoes in five different preparations, butter-steamed vegetables, and a myriad of dishes that would normally excite a first-year. Arthur served himself methodically, the clink of his utensils unnaturally loud in the cocoon of isolation that had formed around him.

A first-year boy, with sleek brown hair and features hinting at old money and older blood, finally broke the silence.

“Hayes, is it?” he asked, his voice carrying just enough to be heard by those nearby. “Is it really true that your parents are Muggles? Or are you perhaps an orphan who doesn’t know your real parents?”

The question hung in the air. Conversations nearby stilled as students leaned in to catch his reply—a lifeline, perhaps, an opportunity to add ambiguity to his parentage that might render his presence in Slytherin less offensive.

Arthur met the boy’s gaze calmly. “No, I’m certain my parents were Muggles,” he replied, his voice measured and clear. “Both of them.”

The temperature around him seemed to drop several degrees. A few older students muttered darkly under their breath, and Arthur distinctly heard the word “Mudblood” whispered from further down the table. The boy who’d asked recoiled slightly, as though Arthur’s simple truth were somehow contagious.

“I see,” the boy said with a curled lip. “Well, that’s… unprecedented.”

Arthur merely nodded and returned to his meal. He had expected this reaction—had even prepared for it, mentally. The reality was unpleasant, but hardly surprising.

“The hat’s finally gone senile,” someone muttered just loud enough for Arthur to hear. “Dumbledore should replace it before it starts putting trolls in Ravenclaw.”

Laughter rippled across the table—sharp and cruel. Arthur continued eating with deliberate precision, his face betraying nothing of his inner thoughts. Let them glare. Let them whisper. Their opinions meant nothing to him; he had faced far worse than mere schoolyard prejudice.

The remainder of the feast passed in isolation. While other tables buzzed with excited chatter—new friendships being forged, older students catching up after summer break—the space around Arthur remained a zone of cold silence. He used the time to observe the High Table more carefully, identifying professors from descriptions he’d read or heard from Aurora: Dumbledore at the center, McGonagall beside him, the diminutive Flitwick, Snape with his perpetual scowl, and others whose names he didn’t yet know but whose subjects he could guess by their demeanor.

Dumbledore’s end-of-feast announcements washed over him—warnings about the Forbidden Forest, reminders of banned items (a list apparently curated by Filch), and news of upcoming Quidditch tryouts. Arthur filed away the information methodically while focusing primarily on assessing his housemates and their reactions to him.

When the feast finally ended, the prefects rose to lead the first-years to their dormitories.

“First-year Slytherins, follow me,” called a tall, thin boy with a gleaming prefect badge. “Stay together and pay attention. The path to our common room isn’t straightforward.”

The group descended into the dungeons, moving deeper beneath the castle through winding stone corridors. The air grew cooler, and torchlight cast long, flickering shadows on ancient walls. They made several turns, descended multiple staircases, and finally stopped before a stretch of bare, damp stone wall.

“This is the entrance to the Slytherin common room,” the prefect announced. “The password changes every fortnight. The current password is ’Serpentis.’” As he spoke, a concealed stone door slid open, revealing a dark passage beyond.

Arthur committed both the location and the password to memory, noting how the other first-years bunched together nervously as they followed the prefect. He maintained a calculated distance—not so far as to appear deliberately isolated, but not close enough to invite active rejection.

The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground chamber with rough stone walls and a low ceiling. Greenish lamps hung on chains, casting an eerie glow over the space. A fire crackled in an elaborately carved mantelpiece, surrounded by high-backed chairs occupied by older students who regarded the newcomers with a mix of curiosity and disdain. Floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall revealed murky green water—they were partially beneath the lake, Arthur recalled from descriptions he’d read.

Standing before the fireplace, waiting for them, was a tall, thin man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, and shoulder-length black hair that fell in greasy curtains. Professor Severus Snape, Head of Slytherin House, surveyed the new students with cold, black eyes that seemed to size them up—and dismiss them—in a single glance.

“Welcome to Slytherin,” he began, his voice soft yet carrying clearly through the hushed room. “You have been sorted into the house of ambition, cunning, and greatness. Slytherin has produced more Ministers of Magic than any other house. Our alumni occupy positions of influence throughout magical society.”

He paced slowly before them, his black robes billowing slightly with each deliberate step. Arthur noticed how the first-years straightened instinctively under that penetrating gaze, desperate to impress their imposing Head of House.

“While you are here, your achievements will earn you house points. Any rule-breaking will cost you dearly. At the end of the year, the house with the most points wins the House Cup. Slytherin has claimed this honor for the past six years, and I expect you all to contribute to that tradition.”

Snape’s gaze swept over the first-years and lingered momentarily on Arthur. Was it Arthur’s imagination, or did something flicker in those cold eyes—a brief calculation, perhaps an assessment of potential trouble?

“Slytherin house values heritage and tradition,” Snape continued, his lip curling slightly. “Though it seems the Sorting Hat occasionally has… unusual ideas about where certain students belong.”

The pointed comment hung in the air, unmistakably aimed at Arthur. Several older students smirked, while others glared more openly at the Muggle-born newcomer.

“Regardless,” Snape said, his tone suggesting that the subject was closed for now, “all of you are now Slytherins, and outside these walls, you will present a united front. Any disagreements among you are to be resolved privately, within the common room. No Slytherin publicly undermines another Slytherin.”

Fixing them with a final penetrating stare, he added, “The prefects will show you to your dormitories. My office is down the corridor should any of you need to speak with me—though I sincerely hope that won’t be necessary on your first night.”

With that, Snape swept from the room, his black robes trailing behind him like enormous bat wings. His departure seemed to release a palpable tension; several students visibly relaxed once he was gone.

Almost immediately, the female prefect began organizing the first-years. “Girls, follow me to your dormitories. Boys, Adrian will show you to yours.”

The male prefect, Adrian, led the boys through a door and down a stone corridor. “First-year dormitories are here,” he announced, stopping before a heavy wooden door. Then, glancing at Arthur, he added, “Though there’s been a… special arrangement for Hayes.”

Meaningful looks were exchanged among the other first-year boys as Adrian led them into a spacious chamber with five four-poster beds, each draped in green silk hangings, with trunks delivered at the foot of each bed.

“Hayes,” Adrian called, “your… accommodation is this way.”

He led Arthur further down the corridor to a smaller door. Inside was a modest room containing a single four-poster bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a small fireplace. Arthur’s trunk was placed at the foot of the bed, and Mercury’s cage—home to his now slightly disgruntled owl—sat on the desk.

“No one wanted to share a dormitory with a Muggle-born,” Adrian explained with thinly veiled disgust. “Consider yourself lucky to have privacy. Personally, I wouldn’t feel comfortable sleeping alone down here. These dungeons have… history.”

The implied threat was unmistakable, but Arthur merely nodded. “Thank you for showing me to my room,” he said neutrally.

Adrian seemed surprised by his calm response. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he added curtly before leaving, the door closing heavily behind him.

Finally alone, Arthur surveyed his new quarters with a critical eye. A private room—an unexpected benefit of his pariah status. While the other boys would have to contend with roommates and the lack of privacy, he now had a space entirely his own. He allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. If this was their idea of punishment, they clearly didn’t understand him at all.

Methodically, he unpacked his belongings—arranging books and supplies with military precision, hanging his clothing in the wardrobe, and placing textbooks neatly on the desk. A small silver frame containing a cherished photograph of his parents found its place on the bedside table. Then, he spent an hour reviewing defensive spells in his textbooks, a preemptive measure that felt increasingly necessary.

Before sleeping, Arthur cast a simple detection charm around his door—a basic spell he’d practiced during the summer that would alert him if anyone approached during the night. It wasn’t much protection, but it was better than nothing. With his wand still gripped firmly in his hand beneath his pillow, Arthur Hayes finally settled into his first night at Hogwarts, his mind already plotting the challenges and opportunities that awaited him.

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