It's always cold in the Slytherin Dungeons. One who didn't belong would feel desolate, a prisoner there. I'd rather be in the dungeons, than in the castle. I walk to the Great Hall, they rudely comment, jeering at me as I walk by. My steps quicken as I hear the confident, self-assured steps of those Gryffindors. Oh, how I spite them. They always start it, but I am always blamed. It's too late; alas, they have noticed me. They call me many things, a slimy snake, a poor death eater. Then they touch the nerve, that surely will get them a black eye. They comment on my blood status. "Half-Blood", they shout, their squeaky, immature voices echo, bouncing off the walls. Before, I can open my mouth, the biggest bigot of them all, Dumbledore, appears. He blames me, even before he has heard the story, alas, it is always the same anyways. The stupid ginger haired boy starts making up tall takes, afterwards, I recall him being elbowed by the bushy haired girl. That boy, Harry Potter, he never insulted me. He never told them to stop either, I didn't blame him, no one from my own house had come either.