Damn Slytherin

"Quirinus Quirrell? Ha! He wasn't the right answer for Hogwarts."

Draco Malfoy sat on a table, surrounded by the little snakes. "I met him before term started, outside Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. He was terribly rude."

"What did he do, Draco? Tell us," Pansy Parkinson asked.

"Ha! He tried to lecture me in front of my father."

Malfoy lifted his head proudly and glanced around at everyone. "He didn't stand a chance. My father just glared at him, and he didn't dare say another word."

"Wow, was he really that cowardly?" a little girl asked in surprise.

"Of course. He can't even use a Repairing Charm properly. What else could he do?" Malfoy sneered. "Besides, my father's a School Governor. You know what that means, right?"

The students shook their heads as one, but Pansy lifted her chin proudly. She knew the answer and was about to shout it out, when...

"I happen to know a little about that, Draco. Would you like me to explain it to you?"

A voice full of amusement came from behind them, making Malfoy jump.

He turned around and saw Voldemort smiling, with Percy Weasley behind him, glaring fiercely at him. He hated red-haired boys.

"No need, Professor. I'm sure I can explain it to them."

The little boy tried to preserve the authority he had just established among his classmates, puffing out his chest as he spoke.

"Very good. It seems you've settled into your new life," Voldemort said with a smile. "Carry on. You still have twenty minutes before class."

With that, he led Percy to the back of the classroom.

"He was lying, wasn't he, Professor?" Percy asked eagerly.

"Of course. I'm not afraid of the Malfoys—not either of them," Voldemort said with a smile.

Percy looked much more relieved at the answer, but still asked, "Then why didn't you call him out, Professor? He's damaging your reputation."

"You have to reclaim your own dignity. You need to learn to let your enemy grow cocky and smug, then knock him down when he's at his most arrogant."

Percy thought over Voldemort's words. He didn't quite understand, but he had a vague sense that there was something to them.

"Learn from Malfoy, even though he's younger than you."

Voldemort continued, "Look. It's only been three days since term began, and he's already used his family connections and a few friends to establish his authority among the first-year Slytherins."

Percy glanced toward Malfoy and saw the boy still boasting away, though at least he had stopped sitting on the table.

"I can't do that, Professor." Percy shook his head. "At least, I don't think I could lie as shamelessly as he does."

"Then learn. Grow."

Voldemort's expression turned serious. "Most of the time, the world doesn't adapt to us. We adapt to the world. That's an inevitable part of growing up."

Percy nodded, committing the words to memory.

"When you teach in a moment, Malfoy will probably cause trouble. Think about how you'll handle it." Having said that, Voldemort turned his attention from Percy and picked up his lesson notes to look them over.

Percy tried several times to say something, but held back each time.

Twenty minutes passed. It was time for the morning lessons. Percy went to the other side of the classroom, while the second-years began gathering on Voldemort's side.

As before, the classroom was divided in two, and Voldemort began teaching the second-years.

After a year of study, the second-years were much easier to teach than the first-years. At least he didn't have to explain everything.

Meanwhile, Percy did indeed get a hard time from Malfoy on the other side of the classroom.

Whatever Percy said, Malfoy would jump in with an interruption. Sometimes he even cut Percy off without the slightest restraint.

It infuriated Percy. At one point, his face turned bright red. He reprimanded Malfoy, but the sharp-tongued boy didn't give him an inch.

Voldemort glanced their way from time to time while teaching, but didn't step in to help Percy.

Wasn't it interesting to let a Weasley and a Malfoy fight it out?

They were both Pure-bloods, and represented the two extremes of Pure-blood society perfectly.

Sometimes Voldemort wondered: did those who opposed Pure-blood interests do so because they liked Muggles, or because they resented not benefiting from their own Pure-blood status?

Books naturally took the moral high ground, but most of the time, people were driven by self-interest.

Just as Voldemort finished teaching the second-years and was about to let them begin practical exercises before stepping in to deal with Malfoy himself, a furious roar came from the other end of the classroom:

"Damn Slytherins! Will you never learn some manners?"

In an instant, the entire classroom fell silent. Even Voldemort looked at Percy in surprise. If he'd said "Malfoy" instead of "Slytherins," there wouldn't have been much of a problem, but now...

Voldemort had never imagined Percy would provoke everyone at once.

"What gives him the right to say that about Slytherin?"

"Damn Gryffindor! How dare he?"

"No one gets to talk about Slytherin like that. Not even the Headmaster."

The students spoke up angrily, especially the second-year Slytherins. They were clearly bolder than the first-years.

The moment Percy Weasley said it, he realized he'd made a mistake. He'd been so annoyed by the first-year Slytherins' chorus of agreement that the words had slipped out.

He was frightened, even panicked, but he'd already said it. His face was bright red, and he simply couldn't bring himself to apologize. Deep down, though, he knew how serious a mistake he'd made.

Just then...

"Silence."

Voldemort pointed his wand at his throat and used Sonorus, then spoke, quelling every objection.

The students all looked toward him, waiting for his judgment. As far as they were concerned, Percy deserved to be punished.

But he wasn't...

"Mr. Malfoy."

Voldemort strode over to the first-years and looked down at Malfoy. "Who gave you permission to interrupt in my class?"

Malfoy, who had been looking smug just moments before, now stared at him in bewilderment.

That boy said something like that, and you don't do anything about it? You're actually scolding me?

Rage swept away his reason. He sprang to his feet and roared, "Quirrell, he's the one insulting Slytherin, not—"

Before he could finish, Malfoy's eyes widened in terror.

"Vadiwasi."

Voldemort's face was cold as he pointed his wand at the desk and flicked it upward.

The heavy desk, made of solid wood, flew straight into Malfoy's chest. The eleven-year-old was knocked into the air.

"Crash! Clatter!"

Malfoy flew backward and landed among the desks and chairs, sending them into disarray.

"Hiss..."

The little snakes all sucked in a sharp breath.

"Good heavens, are you going to kill him?" Pansy Parkinson asked in horror, covering her mouth.

"Professor..." Percy took a step forward, but didn't know what to say. He could only stand there, frozen.

Voldemort ignored Percy and turned a cold gaze on Pansy, frightening the girl into silence.

"I'll kill you, you bastard! No one's ever—"

Malfoy struggled to his feet. Blood ran from the cut at the corner of his eye, but he didn't care at all.

He roared at Voldemort and raised his wand...

"Bang."

An inaudible Expelliarmus spell took effect. Malfoy's wand flew from his hand, and Voldemort pointed his own wand at it, sending it soaring to the other side of the classroom.

"You..."

A Purple Sandalwood wand was already pressed against Malfoy's nose. He managed one word, then didn't dare continue—not because of the wand, but because of the murderous look in Voldemort's eyes.

"P-Professor, please don't go any further," Percy's voice came from behind him. He was truly afraid now.

"You disrupt my teaching and torment my teaching assistant in my classroom, Mr. Malfoy. Who gave you the nerve?" Voldemort asked in a low voice.

He'd done it deliberately. He wanted to strike at Malfoy, to hurt him, to replace the boy's pride and impetuousness with fear.

As for whether this would leave a lasting shadow—compared to a vain, arrogant hypocrite, he'd rather this boy, who was destined to become a Death Eater, grow a little more timid. At least that way, he'd be less loathsome.

Damn little snake. You've sullied the greatness of the Pure-bloods... Such a thought rose uncontrollably in Voldemort's mind as he erupted.