Harry bit his lip, his jaw aching from the effort of not letting it tremble as he glared at his bed. It was a slimy, sodden mess, emitting a stench so foul it made his eyes water. Slowly, he turned to face the room.
The silence was deafening. His roommates—boys he had shared a space with for weeks—unanimously looked away. Even Zabini, who usually offered a bored sort of neutrality, found something fascinating to study on the floor.
Harry's mind raced, tracing the lines of his own security. He had taken precautions. He had set wards. He had been careful. Yet, like clockwork, the bullies always found a gap in his armor. It wasn't luck. It was a leak. Someone in this very room was feeding them his schedule, his habits, and his movements.
First, it had been his contacts. Then his clothes. Now, his sanctuary.
He glanced at his trunk at the foot of the bed. It was the only thing they couldn't touch—password-protected and magically grounded for a group of higher years to lug down to the Black Lake. He had spent the last several nights sleeping inside its expanded compartments, tucked away in a room they couldn't see. But he couldn't live out of a box forever.
The escalation had been sharp. What started as overt, clumsy intimidation had sharpened into a focused campaign of psychological warfare. He could feel the weight of their smirks every time he walked through the common room; he could hear his name in every whispered giggle behind a hand.
Enough.
Harry didn't say a word. He didn't yell. He simply turned on his heel and walked toward the dorm door, leaving the stench behind. If his roommates were happy to let a rat live among them, they could enjoy the smell of the rat's work.
He moved through the dungeon corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs as he reached the common room entrance. He just needed to get out. He just needed the library, or the gardens—anywhere the air didn't taste like betrayal.
But as he reached the threshold, a shadow blocked the light.
"Well, well, well."
Dammit.
The exit to the common room is blocked by three bodies, their shadows stretching long across the damp stone floor. At the center was a boy with a jagged jaw and eyes full of a dull, mean heat. Behind him, his two friends lounged against the wall, their wands tapping rhythmically against their thighs.
"Going somewhere, Potter?" the lead boy asked. His voice was a low drawl, dripping with the kind of entitlement that only comes from centuries of pureblood lineage.
"The library," Harry said, keeping his voice flat. He didn't look at the bed-stench still clinging to his robes. "Step aside."
The boys didn't move. Instead, they shared a sharp, jagged laugh.
"The library. How studious," the one on the left mocked. "Checking out books on how to be a hero? Or perhaps you're looking for the section on Broomless Flight? Since, apparently, your brother is too good for the ground."
Harry's jaw tightened. The news of Godric being named Seeker, the youngest in a century, had spread through the school like a contagion. After the whole flying class incident, instead of facing punishment for breaking the rules Godric was given the position of Seeker in the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. The school was in an uproar, especially the Slytherins. Because this was a clear sign of unfairness. First years are not allowed to join the Quidditch Team nor can they own a broom and Godric Potter was able to bypass that just because the was "the boy who lived" and everyone is livid.
"It's disgusting, really," the leader continued, stepping into Harry's personal space. "The rest of us had to wait our turn. We followed the rules. We played the game. But Godric Potter gets a special package at breakfast and a spot on the team because Dumbledore thinks the sun rises and sets on his messy hair."
"I have nothing to do with Godric's position," Harry said coldly.
"Oh, we know," the boy sneered, leaning down until Harry could smell the peppermint on his breath—a sharp contrast to the rot in the dorm. "That's the pathetic part, isn't it? He's the Golden Boy, and you're just the... leftover. The spare. The one your father claimed was a disappointment from that pathetic Howler."
He reached out, shoving a finger into Harry's chest. "If the rules don't apply to a Potter in Gryffindor, why should they apply to a Potter in Slytherin? If your brother can steal a Seeker spot, I think it's only fair we take something back from you."
"Balance," the third boy added, a cruel glint in his eye. "It's about balance, Potter. Since Godric is flying so high, it's only right that you stay down here in the dirt where you belong."
Harry looked the leader dead in the eye, his expression shifting from annoyance to a look of profound, mocking pity.
"I see," Harry said softly. "You're upset because an eleven-year-old was faster, better, and more important to the school than you'll ever be. So instead of taking it up with McGonagall, or Godric, or even Dumbledore, you've decided to corner a first-year, who has nothing to do with any of this on the entrance of their common room."
He let out a short, dry laugh. "Is this what Slytherin ambition looks like now? Bullying the 'spare' because you're too terrified to look the 'Golden Boy' in the eye? It's a bit pathetic, isn't it? No wonder the House is losing its standing if the third years are this desperate for a win."
"Why you little—"
The leader's face contorted, a mottled, angry purple blooming across his cheeks. He snarled, his hand diving into his robes for his wand, his two friends tensing like dogs about to be let off a leash.
"Why are you brats blocking the way? Move!"
The voice didn't just command; it vibrated through the stone floor. The three third-years jumped, their aggressive stances collapsing instantly as they scrambled to get out of the way of the towering figure of Marcus Flint.
Flint didn't just walk; he loomed. He was a mountain of muscle and jagged edges, his Slytherin tie loosened and his eyes narrowed in a look of permanent irritation. To the rest of the school, Marcus Flint was a nightmare in a green tie—a boy known for a brand of ruthlessness that even some seventh years didn't care to challenge.
He didn't even look at the third years as he shoved past them, nearly knocking the leader into the wall. His gaze was fixed entirely on the exit until he spotted Harry standing in the center of the mess.
"Potter," Flint grunted, his voice like grinding gravel.
The three bullies hovered in the background, looking between Harry and Flint with a mixture of confusion and growing dread. They had expected Harry to be a social pariah, but Flint's presence changed the math.
"Flint," Harry replied, keeping his voice steady despite the adrenaline still humming in his veins.
Flint's eyes flicked to the third-years, then back to Harry. He didn't ask what was happening. He didn't need to. He could smell the desperation on the older boys and see the cold steel in the younger one.
"Vaisey," Flint said, finally acknowledging the leader with a look of profound boredom. "Aren't you supposed to be in the library failing your Charms essay? Or are you too busy playing 'Big Man' in the corridors to worry about passing this year?"
Vaisey stammered, his bravado completely evaporated. "We were just... we were just talking to Potter here about—"
"I don't care," Flint barked, stepping closer until Vaisey had to crane his neck back. "I have a Quidditch pitch to get to, and you're clogging the artery. If I see you lot hovering around the entrance like lost first-years again, I'll make sure your next month of weekends is spent scrubbing cauldrons for Snape without magic. Clear. Out."
They didn't need to be told twice. The three boys practically tripped over each other to vanish into the common room, leaving Harry alone with the most feared fifth-year in the house.
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the fading echoes of the third-years' retreating footsteps. Harry stood his ground, though his muscles were tight with the lingering surge of adrenaline. He kept his gaze lowered, fixed somewhere near Flint's heavy boots. In the world of Slytherin, direct eye contact was a challenge, and Harry wasn't foolish enough to think he could win a confrontation with Marcus Flint—not yet, anyway.
"That was a stupid move, Potter." The voice was flat, devoid of the irritation Flint had shown the "brats." It was the cold, clinical assessment of a veteran looking at a recruit who had just stepped into a minefield.
Harry didn't flinch. "I didn't exactly invite them to corner me."
"You didn't have to invite them. You gave them a reason to stay," Flint grunted, crossing his massive arms over his chest. He leaned back against the stone archway, watching Harry with a critical, unblinking stare. "You stood there and engaged. You traded insults with third-years when you have no backup and a wand you barely know how to use for more than lighting a dark room."
Harry finally looked up, his jaw set but didn't say anything.
"A Slytherin doesn't stand in the mud and shout at people for being dirty. A Slytherin moves where they can't be reached." Flint stepped closer, his shadow swallowing Harry whole. "The common room is a cage, Potter. Inside those walls, the snakes eat their own, and Snape turns a blind eye to 'internal house matters.' It's all fair game in there. But out here?" Flint gestured to the vast, open corridor leading toward the Great Hall. "Out here, there are witnesses. There are rules. There are Prefects from other houses and portraits that love to gossip."
Flint straightened up, his shadow finally receding as he turned toward the exit. He didn't offer a reassuring pat on the shoulder or a friendly smile; he simply walked away, his heavy boots echoing against the stone like the steady beat of a drum.
Harry stood frozen for a long moment, the silence of the corridor suddenly feeling very heavy. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He was in shock.
Did Marcus Flint, the most feared student in Slytherin, just give him a survival guide?
Because what he says make sense. No matter what issue they have inside their house, Slytherins would not show disunity once they get out of the common room. They didn't want the other houses to know there is a fight. This means the bullies won't touch Harry as long as he is outside.
But little did Harry knows, the bullies have other ways to get to him.