Slytherins & Escape

Harry woke up to an offensive, acrid smell invading his nostrils, pulling him sharply out of his dreams. For a moment, he lay there, disoriented, the sour stench thick in the air. Blinking groggily, he sat up and looked around. The other beds in the dormitory remained closed off by their heavy curtains. The source of the smell, however, was unmistakably close by.

He turned his gaze downward. His chest tightened as he stared at his open trunk. Hesitant, Harry leaned over and picked up the first thing his hand found, his cloak. Damp and reeking, it hit him like a punch in the gut. A revolting combination of vomit and rotten eggs. Gagging, he quickly dropped it, bile rising in his throat. What had happened to his things?

A voice broke through his horror. "What's the matter, Potter?" drawled Draco Malfoy, stepping out from behind his bed curtain with his trademark smirk firmly in place. "Something wrong with your Muggle-loving wardrobe?"

Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott emerged behind him, sniggering. Malfoy pinched his nose theatrically, his voice dripping with mockery. "Oh, that smell! Did you bring your mudblood stench to Hogwarts? Or is it just Gryffindor filth sticking to you, now that you're among proper wizards?"

Their laughter rang out as Harry's mind raced. He clenched his fists, his fury barely contained. But before he could muster a response, Blaise Zabini stirred from his bed. Hope flared in Harry's chest that maybe Blaise, who had been at least cordial so far, might step in.

But Blaise avoided his gaze. He looked away and began gathering his things in silence. Harry's stomach dropped.

Malfoy strode forward, his grin cruel and triumphant. "Get used to it, Potter," he sneered. "You're words and actions mean nothing here. In Slytherin, I make the rules."

Harry straightened. "Funny coming from someone who only messes with others while they're asleep," he retorted, though his voice betrayed his exhaustion.

Malfoy's face darkened, but he quickly covered it with a bark of laughter. "Enjoy your first day, Potter," he spat, leading his cronies toward the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Harry standing alone in the pungent aftermath.

Blaise hesitated by the door before speaking in a barely audible tone. "I'm sorry, Harry," he muttered. "But Malfoy's..." He trailed off, his face full of shame. "You don't understand."

And then Blaise was gone, leaving Harry to process the betrayal. Alone again.

An hour later, Harry's attempts to clean his clothes had yielded little success. Scrubbing with soap and water had only spread the vile stain, and the stench still clung stubbornly to the fabric. Frustrated and defeated, he had no choice but to put on the least offensive set of damp, sour-smelling robes.

As he hurried out of the dormitory, Harry collided with Daphne Greengrass. His frustration was briefly eclipsed by shock. Daphne looked nearly as disheveled as he felt. Her usually pristine appearance was replaced by damp, blotchy robes and wild, tangled hair. Her red-rimmed eyes avoided his.

"Daphne, are you—"

"Don't," she snapped, brushing past him. "We're late."

Harry followed her silently, guilt gnawing at him. Had she been targeted because of her tentative connection to him? Malfoy had hinted at as much. He opened his mouth to apologize but stopped at her curt tone.

"Do you know where the Transfiguration classroom is?" she asked brusquely.

"Not exactly."

The two of them wandered the shifting corridors, seeking help from portraits and dodging misleading directions. Eventually, Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, a ghost with an elaborately ruffled collar, guided them to the classroom just as Professor McGonagall was closing the door.

Her sharp eyes swept over them, softening slightly at their appearance before her expression hardened again. With a flick of her wand, the grime and stench vanished from their robes. Harry felt the clean fabric gratefully and looked over at Daphne, who looked similarly relieved, though her hair still refused to cooperate.

"Sit," McGonagall instructed curtly, ushering them into the classroom. They slipped into seats at the back, ignoring the muffled giggles and whispers from the Slytherin students. The Ravenclaws, by contrast, watched Harry with a tinge of curiosity.

The lesson began, McGonagall demonstrating an impressive transformation of her desk into a chicken and back again. Harry, who had been momentarily captivated, was disappointed to find their task far more mundane, turning matchsticks into needles. Hours later, Harry's matchstick remained stubbornly unchanged, and his hunger gnawed at him.

Daphne, equally frustrated, gripped her wand fiercely with determination. By the end of class, only a few students, including Draco Malfoy, had managed any progress.

"Potter. Greengrass. Stay behind," McGonagall said as the class ended.

When the room emptied, she folded her hands on her desk, her sharp gaze softening. "Are you both all right? Any... issues with your classmates?"

Harry glanced at Daphne, who spoke first. "Everything's fine, Professor," she said evenly, her tone suggesting the matter was closed.

Harry nodded in agreement, though he doubted McGonagall believed them. After a pause, she sighed. "If you ever need assistance, my door is open."

Harry's stomach interrupted the conversation with a loud growl. McGonagall's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Go to the kitchens," she said. "Mipsy will guide you."

A small, bat-eared house-elf appeared with a pop. She bowed low and beckoned them to follow.

The Hogwarts kitchens were a revelation. Bustling house-elves worked tirelessly, and the tables mirrored those of the Great Hall above. Within moments, they were seated and surrounded by plates piled high with food.

As Harry tucked into sausages and pudding, he couldn't help but marvel at the elves' enthusiasm. Between bites, he whispered to Daphne, "What are they?"

She raised an eyebrow. "House-elves. Have you never heard of them?"

Harry shook his head, his knowledge limited to the Tolkien variety.

When the meal was over, Daphne sat stiffly, her hands clenched. "I've never been so humiliated," she muttered, her voice trembling with anger.

Harry hesitated. "I'm sorry," he said. "For this morning. If it's because of—"

"It's not about you," Daphne snapped, then softened slightly. "What happened to me has nothing to do with you."

Her words brought some relief, but her tone left little room for further discussion. When she announced her intention to visit the library, Harry decided to join her. "I'll start my Transfiguration homework," he said, though the excuse felt flimsy.

Daphne's icy demeanor thawed just enough for her to nod in approval. Together, they left the kitchens, bidding the house-elves farewell. Harry couldn't shake the unease he felt. The hostility in Slytherin was palpable, and he suspected their trials had only just begun.

The walk to the library was quieter than Harry had anticipated. Occasionally, they passed other students who cast lingering looks their way, but neither he nor Daphne acknowledged the stares. The winding corridors felt endless, but it gave Harry time to think. The events of the morning, the humiliation, and Malfoy's cruelty weighed heavily on him. It wasn't just about him anymore. Daphne had been dragged into it, and she clearly wasn't the type to take things lying down.

"Why the library?" he finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Because," Daphne replied, her tone measured but steely, "I need to find spells to protect my belongings. If they think they can get away with it again, they're mistaken."

Her conviction startled Harry. He couldn't help but admire her determination, even if her words carried a sharp edge. They reached the library and stepped inside, greeted by the warm scent of parchment and the sight of towering shelves filled with books.

Daphne immediately headed for a section marked "Protective Spells and Wards," while Harry found himself a quiet corner to begin his Transfiguration essay. Despite his best efforts, his thoughts kept wandering back to the morning's events. He glanced over at Daphne, who was furiously flipping through a thick tome, her expression one of unrelenting focus.

After a while, she approached him, a book tucked under her arm. "Found what I need," she said curtly. "If you're done wasting time, we should head back."

Harry's cheeks flushed, but he nodded, gathering his things. As they left the library, Daphne's pace was brisk, her jaw set in determination. Harry struggled to keep up, his mind swirling with questions he didn't dare voice. What had Daphne endured before Hogwarts that gave her this unyielding resolve? And how was he supposed to survive in a house where everyone seemed to despise him?

By the time they returned to the Slytherin common room, the atmosphere had shifted. Whispers followed them like shadows, and even the younger students seemed to be watching their every move. Daphne ignored them entirely, heading straight for the dormitories without a word. Harry hesitated, then followed suit, retreating to his own corner of the house.

Lying on his bed that night, Harry stared at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing down on him. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, he felt truly uncertain. Slytherin had promised ambition and greatness, but so far, it had only delivered isolation and adversity. Still, as he closed his eyes, one thought kept him anchored: he wasn't alone in this. Daphne, for all her frostiness, was fighting her own battles. And somehow, that gave him a sliver of hope.

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