Restoring Slytherin's glory was our sacred duty

At that moment, "poor" Jerry was leaning over the Slytherin table, studying the staff table. The greasy-haired man in black robes at the far left had to be their Head of House, Snape. Jerry stared at him for ages without Snape noticing; his gaze never left the Gryffindor table.

The professor beside him, dressed like an Indian fellow, had to be Quirrell, this year's disposable Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

Jerry recognized several professors with distinctive features: the diminutive Filius Flitwick, who taught charms, the stern Professor McGonagall, and a few others. He would have to wait until classes began to get to know the rest.

"Boy, don't you know Slytherin is a house for us pure-bloods? How did a lowly Muggle like you, who isn't even a half-blood, get in?"

The sorting had not even finished before trouble came looking for him. The speaker was a burly older student whose expression was identical to Malfoy's when Jerry first met him.

Ha. Jerry swore he wanted to pick up a fork from the table, yank this fellow's tongue out, and pin it to the tabletop. That would shut up your barking.

Jerry pointed toward the staff table. Snape was watching them with an icy stare. The older student's expression changed, and he returned to his seat.

Following his usual practice, Jerry committed the fellow's appearance to memory. Just like the ones who had insulted him on the train, he would wait until this one was alone, then throw a sack over his head.

Hopefully, none of them belonged to the house Quidditch team. Otherwise, Jerry would