"SLYTHERIN!" yelled the Sorting Hat. Harry Potter jumped off the stool to join his classmates at the Slytherin House table. Draco Malfoy smirked at him. Harry sneered. Harry, at eleven years old, didn't understand what being a Slytherin truly meant. When the Sorting Hat finished, the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, stood, obliging the students to be quiet, like a Silencio charm. He walked around the long staff table and up to a podium with an owl on the front.
"Welcome, first years, and welcome back, everyone else! Before we begin our feast, I would like to introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, please welcome Professor Quirinus Quirrell." said the headmaster. He turned to Quirrell, clapping, followed by the staff, then the students. Harry heard several Slytherins snicker upon hearing the new professor's name, and others talking about how his position was cursed, and that he wouldn't last into the following year. Dumbledore raised his hands, for silence, and the hall went still. "I hope you all have a good year here at Hogwarts. Now, let the feast begin!" With that, food appeared down each table, in gold and silver basins and platters, glimmering crystal bowls, and so on. It seemed as though the food would never end, and for once, Harry enjoyed a good, hot meal. But the food did end, and the Slytherin prefects led their fellow students to the dungeons. The air became cool, and at once, the great crowd of students stopped before... a wall. A cold, stone wall.
"Maybe we're lost..." thought Harry. But they weren't. The prefect, who's name Harry didn't know, spoke.
"Pure-blood." he said loudly and clearly, so that his voice echoed off the ceiling and floor and walls to be sure everyone heard the password. Then, another bit of amazing magic happened right before Harry's eyes: The wall opened up, revealing a low ceiling-ed room, with greenish lamps and chairs, and the House Crest hanging on one wall.
"Not very welcoming..." thought Harry. And indeed, the cold of the dungeon and the dim green light did sort of give an off-putting feeling to the place. "And... the password. Pure-blood. What's a pure-blood?"
"Hello, Potter. Admiring the room, are you?" said Draco. Harry, surprised by the voice, turned quickly.
"What do you want, Malfoy?" he said resentfully. Draco smiled.
"I knew you'd do well in Slytherin. Away from the Weasley and the mud-blood Granger girl." Harry cocked his head to the side.
"What's a mud-blood?" he asked. Malfoy began to laugh, as did his friends.
"What's a mud-blood? You MUST be joking! Famous Potter, The Boy who Lived, and you don't even know what a mud-blood is." said Draco scathingly. He was disappointed, though, when no reaction came. He sighed. "Sit." he pointed at a chair and sat himself directly opposite it. Reluctantly, Harry sat.
"Well? What's a mud-blood, then? And while you're at it, go into pure-bloods, too." said Harry. Draco's gaze narrowed, but in curiosity rather than sarcastic anger.
"You we're raised by muggles, weren't you? You're parents being dead? Too bad. A mud-blood is a person who, along their family history of wizards, has muggles mixed in. A pure-blood is a person who has no muggles in their line, therefore their blood is purely magical." explained Draco.
"Like dogs? My Aunt Marge, she breeds dogs." said Harry. Draco's friends scoffed.
"Quiet. Yes, Potter, sort of like dogs. And, in case you were wondering, a half-blood is a person who has a witch or wizard for a parent, and a muggle for the other."
"What are you then? Mud, half, or pure?" inquired Harry. This time, Draco laughed along.
"Pure-blood, of course. Ever heard of Bellatrix Lestrange? She's my aunt. She's also the sister of Sirius Black. He murdered 13 people, you know. Got locked up in Azkaban for it."
"Azkaban? I'm sorry, I'm not exactly caught up with this world. is that, like, a prison?" Draco smiled.
"Now you're getting it, Potter. Azkaban is the wizard prison, guarded by dementors. Before you ask, they're magical creatures that suck all the happy memories from you until you're completely miserable. You can tell they're close if everything gets cold. Anyway, my point was that to be pure-blood means that somehow you are related to all other pure-blooded witches and wizards. I know you're a mud-blood, though. You're mother was muggle-born, right?"
"Um, I guess..." said Harry.
"It means both your parents are muggles. That makes you a mud-blood. My father would have my head if he knew I was talking to you. He's very against impure blood."
"Quick question."
"What?"
"How do you know so much about me and my family and everything. I mean, I know I'm famous and all, but if your dad is so against mud-bloods, how do you know anything about me at all?" They stayed up very late, just talking. Draco explained things so often, he began to wonder whether Harry was deprived, or just stupid. None the less, they were, more or less, friends. "And really," he thought, "this could be good, turning the Boy who Lived to my side. I half expected that ruddy old hat to call out Gryffindor." Draco had warned Harry about people you might not be so glad he was in their house, and not to talk to him to much. It could ruin his reputation. Harry was a little hurt, but understood. At the very least, he had a friend.
The next week when he joined the rest of the Slytherin students at their table in the great hall, he was nervous for the second time since coming. Today they were to take flying lessons, which made Harry slightly uneasy. He didn't know how to ride a broom, much less mount one. "Oh, well." he thought. "I bet loads of kids here can't either, what with Draco talking about all the muggle-born and mud-bloods." He looked up and down the benches for Malfoy at that thought. He was sitting with a girl and several muscly - or perhaps just fat - boys in their year. They had been following Draco and himself around the previous night. He sighed, sat, and ate some toast with butter and marmalade, then some fruit and eggs and sausage and bacon. It was a large breakfast; larger than what he had grown so accustomed to while locked in the cupboard under the stairs. Flying was first thing that day, and at the moment, that was all he could think about. Suddenly, packages began dropping from the ceiling. He looked up to see owl, dozens of them, flying around and dropping letters and packages and newspapers onto the students. One of the newspapers was caught by a fifth year next to him, who set it down and untied the string that kept it bound. He heard someone shout from the Gryffindor table, and turned to see.
"Look! Neville's got himself a Rememberal!" said one of the first years.
"I've read about those. The smoke inside turns red when you've forgotten something." said Hermione Granger, a bushy haired no-it-all whom Harry had encountered on the train. Indeed, Harry caught a glimpse of red smoke in the glass ball.
"The only trouble is, I can't remember what it is I've forgotten." said the boy called Neville. The Gryffindors around him laughed.
"Ignore them. Gryffindors are nothing but trouble. Arrogant, with a sort of better-than-thou attitude." said the fifth year.
"I'm sorry, who are you?" asked Harry.
"The name's Marcus Flint. I play Chaser in Quidditch. And you, you're Harry Potter. Taking flying lessons today, I assume?"
"Y- yes, sir. Um, not to sound stupid, but what's Quidditch? I was raised by muggles, so I've never heard of it..." said Harry, sheepishly.
"I'll explain it later. Right now, you need to go learn to fly." He slapped Harry on the back as he walked away.
When he arrived where class was being held, he saw that a few other Slytherins, some Ravenclaws, and a Hufflepuff were already there, lining up behind brooms. The next to arrive, though, we're what kept him interested. Hermione, Ron, and Neville arrived, flanked by a few other students who completed the class. then a woman with graying hair and bright green eyes with a whistle around her neck joined the group.
"Good morning, students." she said brightly, but firmly.
"Good morning, Madam Hooch." the class murmured.
"Lets try that again. Good morning, students." she said. This time, the response was loud and clear.
"Good. Let us begin, shall we? I want everyone to step to the left side of your brooms. Put your right hand over the handle and say 'Up'. With feeling!" The action was done, but few students were holding thier brooms on the first try. Harry was one of the lucky few. Hermione couldn't get hers off the ground, Ron's came up and hit him in the face, but eventually, everyone had their broom in hand. "Now," said Madam Hooch, "mount your brooms, pull up on the handle, hover for a moment, then lean forward and touch back down." But Neville was already up in the air, and he couldn't come down. They called for him, told him how to come back, but nothing worked. he ended up dangling from one of the decorations on the school. His robes ripped and he came crashing back to the ground, where everyone crowded around him. "I am going to take Mr. Longbottom to the Hospital wing. I want everyone to keep their feet firmly on the ground until I come back." instructed Hooch. Draco walked forward and picked something up off the ground. It was Neville's Rememberal.
"Well, I guess Longbottom won't be needing this anymore." he said, tossing it back and forth in his hands.
"Hand it over, Malfoy." said Ron.
"Make me. How about I just put it somewhere for him to find. Let's say, the roof?" Draco mounted his broom and took off into the air. Harry sighed.
"Don't worry, I'll get it." he said. Ron and Hermione grabbed his robes.
"Are you mental?" asked Ron.
"You don't even know how to fly!" said Hermione, but he took off anyway.
"Give it here, Draco. Come on, I'm your friend." said Harry when he reached Draco. He smirked.
"Catch!" he yelled, and threw the Rememberal far. Harry sped along after it. He caught it in front of a window, but he didn't care who saw, then returned to the ground.
"Give it back to Neville when you see him." said Harry, dropping it into Hermione's hands.
"Potter." said a voice, and Professor Snape, his Head of House, walked up and grabbed his arm.
"Come with me, Potter." They wandered into the castle to the Charms room. "Flitwick, I require the use of Marcus Flint." said Snape. Flitwick nodded and waved the fifth year Harry had met earlier out. "Potter, this is Flint, Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Flint, I think I found you a Seeker." Flint smiled.
"Oh, really? Well, he must be good, since he's only a first year. You're sure, Professor?"
"Absolutely." Flint nodded.
"Good to have you, Potter." he said.
"So, would you explain Quidditch now?" asked Harry.