"The password will change every second Friday at eight o'clock in the evening - the new ones will appear on the board," said Cassian Rookwood, sixth year Prefect.
The Slytherin common room reminded Edgar Nott of home. He wondered if his father, Cantankerous Nott, a Slytherin graduate of a decade before, had decorated their family's new Branscombe manor in its style.
A fireplace blazed with a rich, green flame a few hues darker than floo. It was adorned by a large mantelpiece of three large, marble serpents, their tongues protruding out of their open mouths, with fangs displayed, ready to strike. An embellished wooden board hovered above the mantelpiece, suspended by a some sort of advanced hovering charm. Parchment in varying shades of withering yellow were stuck to the board. Some were what looked like lists of rules, while others were sketches of assorted quality.
"See to it that you memorise your timetables, lest you misplace them. Breakfast is served from 6:30 to 8:30. Be there by 7:45, as the elves will not prepare new servings after that. A Slytherin does not eat leftovers." Rookwood gravely intoned. A few chortles were elicited among the first years.
Two other fireplaces, with smaller but likewise imposing serpentine mantlepieces, were at opposing sides of the main hall, perpendicular to the main fireplace. Large, black leather couches formed arches around each of the fireplaces. The handful of older students who hadn't yet retired to their dorms were comfortably postured on the couches; it was clear to Edgar that, to them, the Slytherin common room was as good as a second home.
The innermost walls were large, curved panes, enabling a view of the seaweed-green expanse of the black lake. Mahogany desks, imposing armchairs and bookshelves littered the rest of the space.
"As for Quidditch tryouts, they will be held next Thursday afternoon, at 5 pm, sharp. I suppose it ought to go without saying, but as first-years, there is almost no chance that you will make the team. No first-years have played for any Hogwarts team in over two decades. Actually, let me get to the point - Captain Bassenthwaite has asked me to tell you to not bother trying out at all, as you'd be wasting his time."
A few indignant whispers broke out at this statement. Edgar caught onto the friendliness behind the playful distaste with which Rookwood intoned Bassenthwaite's name. He imagined himself one day, similarly, as prefect, referring to one of his Quidditch-brainsick friends in such a manner.
"Quiet! There is one more point I need to make clear, and this will be of utmost importance." Rookwood paused, his hazel eyes moving through the crowd, daring anyone to break the silence he had just engendered.
"Greatness does not come without a cost. Our house's devotion to the noblest ideals of Wizardkind causes great upset on the part of the other houses. While a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw might bicker over a library book, an adulterous girlfriend, or whatever, anyone from any of the other three houses will assume that the stranger from Slytherin is an enemy, without reason. We are alone, and to stand strong, we must stand together."
Rookwood paused again, his eyes, once again, darted piercingly from face to face in the crowd of first years. A recoiling girl's shoulder collided with Edgar's. He thought Rookwood was being a bit too dramatic, but he supposed that it was fair, since the spectacle clearly produced its desired effect.
"Thus, whatever disputes you may have with one another, you will keep them to the common room. Outside of the dungeons, for all that some numbskull in Gryffindor or book-charming spod in Ravenclaw knows, we are a single, tightly bound unit. That is all."
Finishing his speech, Rookwood glanced at the boys in the group, his eyes darting, again, from one to another. They were fixed on Tom Riddle for more than a few seconds, before quickly making a round between the first year boys, Edgar included. The implicit message was clear - yes, Riddle is a mudblood, but you will not sweep the mud when outside of the common room.
Edgar felt ambivalent towards Tom Riddle; while he had all the outward markings of a mudblood, Edgar could swear that he saw Riddle bidding a dignified-looking older Slytherin goodbye on the carriage, as they disembarked for the boats at Hogsmeade station. Edgar remembered the gesture not only being reciprocated, but also a glint of respect in the elder Slytherin's eyes.
As soon as all six boys were in their dorm, which was comprised of two rows of green-draped four poster beds beside elegantly carved extendable hawthorne wardrobes, Iban Jugson, Jürgen Drachenzahm and Antoine Rosier exchanged quick glances; they were communicating, and it was clear that they were all acquainted with one another from before Hogwarts.
In a flash, Jugson, Drachenzahm and Rosier drew their wands, and shouted three different spells in such synchrony that Edgar failed to make out a single one of them. Alphard Black was startled and drew his wand, although it was pointed at no one in particular. Edgar too, drew his wand, but he knew that his small arsenal of pre-Hogwarts spells was insufficient for the present situation.
"Uurgh!" Tom Riddle's body was bound by conjured ropes on the floor; he was writhing, like an enlarged worm, and his expression was one of absolute fury.
Drachenzahm, ringleader apparent of the group, was the first to step forward, a smug smirk on his face. Jugson's large frame trailed his left foot, while Rosier, after flippantly brushing back his long, curly brown hair with a stroke of his wand, followed on the right.
"Look here, lads... A mudblood rat, caught up in a den of snakes." Drachenzahm intoned, in a mocking, dulcet voice. Jugson chortled, while Rosier's aloof expression grimaced into a sneer.
Edgar glanced at Riddle. The ferocious scowl which he wore just a moment ago was gone, replaced by an expression of absolute impassivity. He then glanced at Black, hoping that he would somehow be able to silently communicate as the Jugson-Drachenzahm-Rosier trio had; what do we do?
However, Black was no longer where he had been a moment ago. Now, he was besides Rosier, his wand uncomfortably pointing at Riddle. Although Black's face didn't look particularly enthusiastic, his allegiance was clear.
"Should've gone to the hive of badgers." Jugson added.
"Badgers livel in holes, not hives, idiot. Although, yes. Badgers and rats are filth alike." Drachenzahm retaliated.
"Same thing, really." Jugson replied, flatly.
Drachenzahm raised his wand again, the smirk on his face blooming into a full-fledged sneer. However, right before he could unleash whatever spell he had in mind, Riddle's fingers contracted, and Drachenzahm was thrown against the post of a bed.
While the rest of his body was bound, and as he was placed under a silencing charm, Riddle's hand wandlessly slammed Drachenzahm against a bedpost. Edgar stifled a gasp.
Rosier and Jugson weren't sure what to do. Their wands, which were levelled against Riddle's bound body, quivered, as they were held in trembling hands.
"Stupid mudbloods! Curse your filthy accidental magic - you'll pay -"
"Locomotor Wobbly!" Edgar shouted. Although Edgar had no idea how to undo the full-body bind, he knew that Riddle's magic was not accidental; he knew where to stand in this little debacle.
As Drachenzahm fell to the floor, Edgar's convictions faltered. Rosier and Jugson weren't nearly afraid of his Jelly-Legs curse as they were of Riddle's suspected wandless magic.
"Furnunculus!" Rosier barked. Edgar ducked.
"Mimble Wimble!" Jugson shot, and missed.
"Calvorio!" Alphard Black's allegiances, once again, shifted - Jugson's hair was rapidly falling off his head. Black grinned in pride, and Edgar nodded at him.
"Aguamenti!" Drachenzahm, who was now slumped on the floor, sprayed a small jet of water at Black. Rosier gave a confused look at Drachenzahm, his expression inquiring as to why the latter chose to conjure water in a fight out of everything.
A few jinxes, hexes and erratic conjurations of water later, the first year Slytherin dormitory resulted in six small boys slumped over one another, with fallen hair everywhere, boils, conjured slugs, and an incessant stream of gibberish; several tongue-tie jinxes had succeeded in reaching their targets. There was one distinctive voice, and it was Alphard Black's.
Black pushed Drachenzahm off his back and stood up. He angrily brushed a slug off his flushed cheek.
"Well, since I'm the only one who can talk, I will go fetch someone to clean this mess up."
A minute or two had passed. Edgar sat on his bed, wondering if he should write about this incident to his father. Drachenzahm and Jugson managed to stand up, but Black's petrificus totalus had thrown Rosier stiffly to the floor.
Although they couldn't talk, they were not enacting physical violence against Riddle. Whether this was due to their finding of physical, effectively Muggle, violence, repelling or whether they simply tired, or even remorseful, Edgar could not tell.
The door opened to a nervous looking Black, and a tall, pretty, but irritated looking brunette witch who Edgar recognised as fifth year prefect, Desdemona Greengrass. Black re-entered the dorm, and Greengrass tried to follow him; but as soon as her foot touched the floor of the first years boys' dormitory, she recoiled in pain.
"Damned wards!" She cried out.
Taking out her wand and muttering some quick incantations, a lattice of thin, translucent blue lines materialised at the entry where the door would have occupied if closed. Some of the lines seemed to align with Greengrass's facial features. A moment later, the lines emitted a series of pleasant bell-like sounds, and disappeared. Greengrass crossed the entry, with a weary expression and a furrowed brow. She aggressively gestured with her wand. Edgar heard one of the boys gulp.
"Finite Incantatem. Finite Incantatem. Finite Incantatem! Finite Incantatem!" Each incantation was inflected a little quicker and shriller than the last.
As their voices returned and various hexes were neutralised, the boys all uncomfortably reshifted. Tom, although impassive, had his dark eyes fixed on Drachenzahm's neck. Rosier offhandedly charmed his hair to flutter back. One of Jugson's boils unceremoniously popped, its pus spraying over a bedpost.
"Madam Green -" came Rosier's dulcet voice.
"Silencio!" Greengrass cast with an exaggeratedly aggressive motion, causing Rosier's falsely remorseful expression to quickly contort into a scowl and back.
"Never - not once in my five years at Hogwarts have I seen such a Medea-cursed mess on the first day of term!"
Greengrass sighed deeply, and dramatically fluttered her hands, as if doing so would calm her down. Edgar thought that she was awfully excitable for a Slytherin, let alone a Slytherin prefect.
"Indeed, I know you have a mu-muggleborn among you, but you heard what Cassy said! We look out for our own, muggleborn or not. If you can't even live among each other peacefully, how do you expect to stand up for each other? Hmm?"
Jugson looked fearful; Rosier's expression of indignation was poorly suppressed his attempt at a poker face. Drachenzahm was avoiding making eye contact with anyone, as Riddle's piercing black eyes remained unmoving on his neck. Black was tugging at Greengrass' arm sleeve, as though she were his mother, and he was looking for protection from retaliation for his dobbing on his dormmates.
"Now. While you needn't be friends with… Ripple-"
"Riddle." Riddle corrected, giving Greengrass an odd smile.
"Riddle. Hem. He is still one of us, and, as such, you will all look out for one another against meddlers from other houses. Understood?"
"Yes." Everyone, apart from Rosier, who just curtly nodded, quietly and synchronously said.
"Good. Now, if I hear one more time about issues from you firsties, believe me - I will deduct points, and all the older Slytherins will know the tale and the crooks involved in it. Tut-tut. Understood?" Greengrass's eyes wandered from boy to boy. Edgar thought the implication was that, even if there was an issue, it should, next time, be internally addressed among the six of them, without the attention of a prefect.
"Yes."
"Good. Now go to sleep - you don't want to be all weary for your classes tomorrow. Finite Incantatem."
With a dramatic spin of the heel, Greengrass spun around, departed, and slammed the door.
"You haven't seen the end of this, mudblood." Drachenzahm spat, not even looking at Riddle.
"Jürgen, maybe -" Jugson began.
"Aaargh!" Drachenzahm was slammed against a bedpost again.
"No, this is just the beginning." Riddle menacingly intoned, his right hand with his wand pointed against Rosier, who likewise had his wand aimed at Riddle, but was trembling a great deal. His left hand was outstretched, pointed at Drachenzahm; it had clearly propelled him against the bedpost. Jugson raised his hands as if to surrender.