Harry Potter: The Soldier of Hogwarts

Back at Slytherin, the tension hadn't lifted.

Dinner appeared suddenly with a shimmer of golden light. Platters of roasted meats, steaming vegetables, thick gravies, golden Yorkshire puddings, and buttery mashed potatoes materialized along the table.

But the atmosphere remained strained.

Ryan stared at the food, unsure whether he had the appetite for it. He picked up his fork slowly, every movement watched. He could feel Draco's seething glare burning into the side of his head.

A tall, older boy with a prefect badge on his robes leaned in subtly.

"You better behave," he muttered, barely moving his lips. "You're not the first Muggle-born to sneak in here. Just don't expect hugs and warm welcomes."

Ryan didn't glance at him. "Wasn't expecting flowers either."

The prefect gave a humorless smirk and turned back to his plate.

Ryan picked at his mashed potatoes for a moment, methodically slicing the food as if dissecting a memory. It wasn't fear he felt—it was disappointment. Not in the House. In how predictable the reaction had been. For a world full of magic, these people were still bound by the same narrow-minded prejudices.

His eyes flicked up across the sea of floating candles and enchanted ceiling—to meet Rose's.

She was watching him.

Her face was an open book of confusion, anger, and concern. She looked like she wanted to storm over and pull him away from the table entirely. But then, something shifted in her expression.

She gave him a small, uncertain smile. The kind you gave when you weren't sure if everything would be okay but you hoped it might be.

Ryan blinked once, then gave her the smallest of nods. A promise, not a surrender.

He looked away again, his fork finally digging into the food.

No matter where he'd been sorted, he hadn't come here to fit in.

He came here to learn.

Even if it meant walking alone.

Further down the table, whispers continued to ripple.

"Did you see the way he talked back to Malfoy?"

"He doesn't act like a Muggle-born…"

"...Or maybe he just doesn't act scared."

From a shadowed corner of the hall, Professor Snape observed the interaction carefully. His expression, as always, was unreadable—but his eyes lingered a fraction longer on Ryan than the other first-years.

________________________________

The torches along the dungeon corridor flickered as Ryan followed the stream of Slytherin first-years through the twisting, stone-carved halls beneath Hogwarts. Everything smelled faintly of damp stone and ancient dust. The chatter was hushed, wary; more than a few glances were cast in Ryan's direction—none of them friendly.

Draco Malfoy had said nothing since the Sorting, but his posture was stiff, and the air around him practically radiated disdain. Pansy Parkinson, meanwhile, kept whispering furiously into Daphne Greengrass's ear and snorting every few seconds like someone had told her a particularly scandalous joke.

Ryan stayed quiet, his shoulders straight, eyes forward. He didn't belong here—not to them, anyway—but he wouldn't shrink either.

A stern, older prefect with short-cropped brown hair led the group. "Keep up. Don't wander. These dungeons are older than some ghosts and far less forgiving."

Eventually, they stopped before a stretch of bare stone wall. The prefect turned to face them.

"The Slytherin common room lies behind this wall. The password is 'Pureblood.' Don't forget it, or you'll be waiting out here all night." He smirked slightly at a terrified-looking boy in the back. "And no, we don't have portraits that open doors. We have standards."

He turned back to the wall and said clearly, "Pureblood."

The stones shifted and receded soundlessly, revealing a cool, low-ceilinged room bathed in greenish light. The Slytherin common room looked like something from an old cathedral—high-backed leather chairs, dark wooden furniture, and arched windows peering out into the depths of the Black Lake. Pale green light shimmered on the walls from unseen aquatic movement outside.

It was both beautiful and unwelcoming.

Ryan took a careful step inside, letting the cool air wash over him. It smelled faintly of moss and old parchment.

"This way," the prefect said, already walking toward a side hallway. "Boys' dorms down here. First door on the right."

Ryan kept pace silently, the soft murmur of whispers swelling behind him the moment he turned his back. No doubt more talk about the "Muggle-born Slytherin." He didn't look back.

He went first. The boys Dorm.

The hallway narrowed as he reached the first door. A polished brass plaque glinted under torchlight: Ryan Ashford – Year One

He blinked. The castle had already prepared his name? As if it had been expecting him.

With a steadying breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The dormitory was cool and dim, but not unpleasant. Dark stone walls were softened by green drapes that billowed faintly from the hidden drafts of ancient magic. Two beds stood on opposite ends of the room, each with thick emerald duvets and black wooden trunks placed neatly at the foot. The one on the left bore his nameplate as well, carved in smooth silver just above the headboard.

To his quiet surprise, his belongings were already there. His extra new school robes—folded perfectly—rested atop the trunk. His wand lay on the pillow, parallel to a simple parchment welcome note with the Hogwarts crest at the top. Spare quills and fresh ink bottles had been arranged on the nightstand with almost obsessive precision. A subtle scent of cedar and parchment lingered in the air.

Ryan sat slowly on the edge of the bed, the springs barely creaking under him. He ran a hand over the finely stitched robe, fingers brushing the embroidered Slytherin crest: a silver serpent coiled in a perfect circle.

For a moment, he just stared.

Slytherin.

He hadn't expected it—none of them had. Not Rose, not Lyra. Certainly not Draco Malfoy.

And truth be told, neither had he.

The Sorting Hat had been unnervingly confident. Not even a debate. No questioning, no tug-of-war between houses. Just… Slytherin, as if it had seen something buried deep within him that even he hadn't yet understood.

He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

He sighed, leaned back on the bed, and looked up at the canopy. Emerald velvet. Gold thread. Regal. Cold.

A muffled thump echoed from the hallway—likely the other boys arriving—but he didn't move. He wasn't in the mood for more sneering, not tonight.

His eyelids began to droop. The weight of the day was settling in: the train ride, the boat across the Black Lake, the grandeur of the feast, and the tension of being sorted where no one expected him to be.

He heard the faintest shuffle probably the castle adjusting something, maybe magic drifting through the stones. Hogwarts was alive in ways he couldn't yet describe. It was unsettling and fascinating all at once.

As he pulled the duvet over himself, he couldn't help but glance at the door again. He half-expected someone to burst in, shouting that it had all been a mistake.

But the door stayed closed.

He let his body sink into the mattress. Surprisingly soft. The pillows cradled his head like he hadn't felt since well, ever. The abandoned house he lived certainly hadn't offered anything like this.

Outside, in the main dorm hall, he could hear muted voices and footsteps. He recognized Draco's nasal tone, sharp and irritated. There were snorts, maybe Pansy's, and some low muttering. Ryan caught fragments:

"…shouldn't be here…"

"…doesn't belong…"

"…Muggle-born filth…"

He stared up at the canopy again.

It didn't matter.

Let them talk.

He wasn't here to be liked. He wasn't here to follow anyone's expectations. He came to learn, to understand, to grow stronger. To control the strange new world he'd been thrown into.

If Slytherin was the house that would help him do that, then so be it.

Let them sneer.

Let them doubt.

Let them be surprised when he rose above them all.

With that final thought, Ryan let his eyes fall shut, the whispers beyond the stone walls fading like smoke.

Sleep came quickly, and the castle seemed to sigh with him—as if, just for tonight, it accepted him as one of its own.