Chapter Three - The slytherin Squib
Chapter Three - The slytherin Squib
The silence was deafening. The clapping and excited whispers from earlier seemed like distant echoes, swallowed by the Great Hall’s sudden, unnerving stillness. It was as if no one knew how to react. Albus’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat a painful reminder that his worst fears had come true. At least they clapped for Scorpius—well, at least the Slytherin table and some at the Ravenclaw table did—He felt as if the ground had opened up beneath him, swallowing him into a realm where nothing made sense. His world where he was firmly rooted, once familiar and secure, had shifted irreversibly. He felt like a wizard without a wand, vulnerable. The eerie, deathly quiet hung over the hall like a suffocating spell, as if someone had cast an Unforgivable Curse that no one dared to acknowledge
And then—
"Slytherin?" Polly’s voice cut through the silence, louder than necessary,
The shock in her tone echoed the thoughts of many students, and her loud exclamation was met with a warning glare from Headmistress McGonagall. The damage was done. Albus’s face burned with a mixture of humiliation and dread. He felt as if he were on the brink of collapse, struggling desperately to hold back tears. There was no way he could cry, not with so many eyes on him. His pride could not take it—he was already humiliated beyond belief; he couldn’t let himself sink even lower.
Dazed and weak, his legs threatened to give out beneath him, but he forced himself to walk toward the Slytherin table with all the bravery he could muster. Each step felt like a lifetime. The thought of throwing himself into the Black Lake flashed in his mind—a cold, dark escape that seemed almost inviting compared to the continuous living nightmare he was currently trapped in. It felt like a cruel twist of fate. His entire world was collapsing around him, and he was powerless to stop it. All he could do was push forward, clinging to what little dignity he had left, determined not to humiliate himself further.
And then, as if the universe itself were mocking him, a voice rang out through the hall:
“Woah!” exclaimed a boy near the end of the Slytherin table, likely a first year. Albus recognized him—Craig Bowker Jr. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or disgusted that he could recall the names of his fellow Slytherins. Bowker, eager to cement himself as the class clown early, smacked a hand to his forehead. With a sneering, almost crude voice, he said, “A Potter? In Slytherin? Morgana!”
The cruel laughter that followed felt like daggers to Albus. Each one cutting deeper into Albus's already fragile composure. His anger flared, mingling with an all-consuming sense of dread, the emotions twisting and coiling inside him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to make everyone stop—but he could barely manage to keep walking, his legs threatening to give out beneath the unbearable weight of it all. It felt as though the very air around him was pressing down, a physical gravitational force crushing him.
“I suppose his hair isn’t that similar,” He heard Yann Fredericks call out from the Gryffindor Table. More laughter followed, a chorus of whispers spreading through the hall like Fiendfyre. Albus wanted to bite off the lion's head with his bare teeth.
Through the haze of humiliation, Scorpius’s voice broke through his fog of despair, somehow clear and steady. “Over here, Albus!” he said gently but a bit too loud, his voice was far too gentle.
The kindness in his tone was almost unbearable. Albus felt the sting of tears welling up and for a terrifying moment, he thought he might throw himself into Scorpius’s arms, seeking a comfort he didn’t think he deserved. He clenched his teeth with such force that he could taste blood in his mouth. It was grounding, in a way—the sharp pain a distraction from the turmoil. Albus took the empty seat beside Scorpius at the Slytherin table. Scorpius held a calm that Albus could barely comprehend, a grace that only made him feel more unmoored. Headmistress McGonagall finally put an end to the murmurs, continuing the Sorting Ceremony as if nothing had happened.
Food appeared on the table before he realized it, but Albus didn’t touch it. He didn’t speak, either. The noise, the clinking of cutlery, the endless chatter—it was too much. He shut it all out, retreating into his own misery. Even Scorpius’s gentle attempts to coax him into eating were ignored. Sensing Albus’s inner conflict, Scorpius gave up, silently placing food on Albus plate before turning to engage with the other first-years in conversation.
Everything was ruined. He would be disowned, his family would never speak to him again, and—what would happen next? Live with the centaurs in the forbidden forest? Join some wandering circus of magical outcasts? The thoughts tumbled over each other in his head, ridiculous but real in his panicked state. the different scenarios where making his head spin, he felt as like he was on a muggle roller coaster, and that he might need to puke. That damned hat had dared to laugh at him—and then to place him in Slytherin! Albus was seething, though he didn’t know at whom. The hat? His family? Himself? Anger felt better than the hollow ache of fear lurking beneath it.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to scream, or better yet, fling himself into the Black Lake and be done with it. Wasn’t that what Slytherins did? Slip into darkness and never come back out? The thought almost made him laugh, but the bitterness caught in his throat instead. Albus couldn’t move past the storm brewing inside him. This was his life now—Slytherin, outcast, failure, disappointment. And there was no escape for now.
Albus found himself jolted back to reality when Scorpius gave him a gentle nudge to get up. It was time to head to the Common Rooms. Albus clenched his jaw, stiffened. Making the other boy release his soft grip, bit wearily. He followed Scorpius and the other Slytherins out of the Great Hall, feeling the eyes of the entire school on him. He wished they would move faster—he just needed to get out of sight before he broke down.
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He should have expected Rose’s ambush. Rose, always quick to assert herself, grabbed his arm with a force that nearly made him stumble. The sudden movement drew the attention of everyone nearby, ready to see the confrontation. All of the Slytherin First years, His prefects and the other students seemed to hang onto every movement and seemed ready for a show. finding pleasure in his further humiliation. When was it going to end?
Albus’s heart dropped when he saw the look on Rose’s face. Rose, with her characteristic lack of subtlety, seemed determined to make a spectacle, her eagerness to confront him in front of so many people felt like an additional blow to his already shattered self-esteem.
Albus’s anger flared, and the anger that simmered just beneath the surface, finally boiled over. This was the last thing he needed right now—another public humiliation. Rose knew he hated being the center of attention, yet here she was, worsening his misery. His rage was almost palpable, a seething, uncontainable force. How could she do this to him, right after everything that had just happened? It felt like she was twisting the knife in his already bleeding wounds.
He didn’t care anymore; he was already at rock bottom. He yanked his arm free with such force that Rose almost toppled forward, clearly caught off guard. She was used to dragging him around, always treating him like an extension of herself. He only voiced his grievances after the fact, never during—or before. The sense of betrayal and humiliation was so intense that he felt it might consume him entirely. The onlookers gasped at the sheer force of Albus's reaction. Rose looked at him, with a mixture of shock and hurt, and Albus felt a dark satisfaction in her growing distress. He took a deep breath, struggling to control the torrent of emotions within him. Her hurt ? How dare she? His left eye twitches uncontrollably with the intensity of his overwhelmed mental stage
“Albus–”
“No!” Albus cut her off sharply. The single word, laced with raw hatred, felt like a severing charm slicing through the fragile facade of his composure. The room seemed to grow colder, the air thick with tension. The looks of shock and fear from those around him didn't bother him. He could see the hurt in Rose’s eyes, but it only fueled his anger. How could she expect him to be anything but furious when his world had just been turned upside down?
“I don’t want to hear it, Rose!” he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and despair. The word came out colder than he intended, but it felt like the only way to shield himself from the overwhelming emotions threatening to engulf him. Rose looked taken aback, her mouth opening and closing in shock. Rose, true to her Gryffindor nature, quickly recovered and tried to push back, her voice rising with frustration. Their family arguments were usually loud and emotionally charged, but Albus couldn’t deal with that today. He didn't let her speak.
“Save it,” he snapped once more with the same cold venom dripping from his voice, the force of his words leaving her stunned and a look close to fear, Albus wanted to laugh bitterly. They both knew he was no match for her physically or magically; he was smaller, weaker, and she had always won every fight. The hall was now silent, every student watching with wide eyes as Albus’s outburst echoed through the Great Hall.
He sharply turned, trying to look at the Slytherin Prefect more respectfully, signaling silently that he was done and for them to lead the way. They complied, their face held an expression Albus didn’t bother to decipher. The other Slytherin first-years, watched with a mix of awe and apprehension, but he was too consumed by his own turmoil to care. The world felt like it was collapsing around him, and he was trapped in the ruins, struggling to make sense of the devastation.
No one talked to him during the march down to the dungeons, neither did they include him during the rules and announcements, nor did they speak with him as they reached the shared boy dormitory. Albus didn't even bother to change and threw himself head first into his bed and closed the bed curtains.
Albus couldn’t sleep, his mind replaying every moment of the day over and over. His anger had subsided, but he was still haunted by the humiliation and disbelief. The silence after the Sorting Hat’s decision was deafening—no claps, no cheers, not even from the teachers. It gnawed at him, the whole experience of the Sorting. Not only had he drawn unwanted attention, but Rose had also acted true to her Gryffindor nature—impulsive and reckless. He knew her better than that; she wasn’t usually so thoughtless. But he still resented her for making him the center of a public scene.
He let out a groan of frustration and pounded his head against his pillow. Not only had he let his emotions take control, but he had also lashed out at Rose—his cousin, of all people. This wasn’t like him. He needed to clear his mind, but it was clouded with excuses for staying in his bed, hiding from the world. He wasn’t brave enough to face anyone; he wasn’t a Gryffindor, as the whole world now knew. He laughed bitterly, the irony not lost on him. This was just perfect.
++++
“It wasn’t that bad,” Scorpius continued to ramble as they walked to the Great Hall for breakfast. “I mean, yes, it was bad, but—”
Albus appreciated Scorpius’s attempt to reassure him. He really did. But he couldn’t share Scorpius’s optimism. He dreaded stepping into the Great Hall and had nearly stayed in bed. Reluctantly, he had taken Scorpius’s warning seriously—Scorpius had threatened to drag him to the Great Hall if he didn’t go willingly. Albus was impressed by Scorpius’s cunning and awareness. The boy already knew how to blackmail him, threatening to make a scene. Since Albus didn’t know Scorpius well enough to judge whether he would actually follow through with his threat, he had reluctantly changed his robes and tried to look presentable.
Scorpius was right about one thing: Albus did look good in green. As Bowker Jr. had joked earlier, it really did bring out his eyes—eyes that, to Albus’s dismay, were nearly a copy of his father’s deathly green, though a tad darker thanks to his mother.
A laugh echoed behind them, followed by a cheerful “Oi! Potter!” Another Slytherin boy casually strolled up beside Albus. “Your little fight yesterday was fantastic. It really showed why the Hat placed you in Slytherin. Honestly, most of us were pleasantly shocked—we didn’t think you had it in you,” he said with a grin. His face showed no malice, but there was a glint in his eyes that hinted at something more than just praise.
“Thank you?” Albus replied, a bit perplexed. His cheeks flushed from the boy’s close proximity and his unexpected compliment—or what Albus assumed was meant to be one.
“Honestly, I’m a bit envious. That will definitely put you in the good graces of the upper years,” the boy continued.
Albus frowned. Why would the upper years care about what a first-year did? And why would his fight with Rose earn him their favor?
“Good graces? Why should I care?” he asked, already feeling exhausted by the day.
The other boy gave him a curious look, then grinned and laughed. “Ha! Potter! Of course you didn’t listen when Fawley talked about Slytherin Rules and Conduct yesterday!” He chuckled before reassuring Albus, “Don’t worry. Fawley said the Prefects will hold an introductory meeting tonight after dinner for all the first-years. There will be two more meetings where some influential people in the house will be introduced, and roles explained.”
The boy was right; Albus hadn’t caught any of that last night. Honestly, he was interested. He had never heard his father mention anything like that happening in Gryffindor House, and it might give him something else to focus on, which he desperately needed.
Behind Albus, who was engaged in conversation with their other roommate, Scorpius watched with concern, his eyes darting between the two boys.
The boy exuded confidence and an intimate knowledge of the house's inner workings, he already seemed well-versed in supposed house politics. Just before they entered the Great Hall, the boy stopped and extended his hand to Albus. “I’m Zachary Zabini, first son of Blaise Zabini, though I hold no Heirship,” he said with a smirk, trying to mask his own disdain. “Well met.”
Albus noticed the slight drop in Zachary’s tone when he mentioned his lack of Heirship. It didn’t shake him to learn that Zachary came from a pureblood family; if anything, it made his interest in politics more understandable. With the morning still early and few people around, Albus took Zachary’s hand and shook it.
“I’m Albus Potter, no Heirship either. Well met,” he said, ending the introduction with a grin, which Zachary returned.
Afterward, Zachary excused himself and entered the Great Hall alone. Albus wondered if it had been intentional—probably, he conceded. It was very Slytherin.
Albus took a deep breath. It couldn’t possibly be worse than yesterday. Scorpius, walking by his side, seemed to sense his unease. Carefully, he reached out and took Albus’s hand, as if he were comforting a frightened creature. Albus flinched at the contrast of Scorpius’s cool touch against his own warm skin, but he didn’t pull away. A quiet comfort washed over him, despite the chill of Scorpius’s hand, a sense of quiet reassurance settled over him.
He glanced to his side and offered Scorpius a small smile, childlike and hesitant, grateful that the other boy stayed by his side, even though Albus had been a bit of a git. Scorpius returned the gesture with a soft smile of his own—one that spoke of warmth and support without needing words. Albus felt his heart skip a beat. Morgana.
The silent reassurance eased his worries, transporting him back to the boat ride when everything had felt more certain and less overwhelming. Bracing himself, Albus turned his gaze forward, determination sparkling in his eyes, and began to move. He walked with a newfound confidence in his stride, a strength even he hadn’t realized he possessed.
Contrary to what his mind had made him believe, walking into the Great Hall wasn't as big of a deal as he feared. Sure, there were whispers and people pausing their conversations to sneak glances, but he was used to it by now—being Harry Potter’s son came with that sort of attention. Albus and Scorpius found a spot at the Slytherin table, and Albus swung his leg over the bench, sitting down with an air of casualness he didn’t quite feel.
The smell of food hit him, and his stomach growled in protest. He hadn’t eaten anything at the welcome feast, and now, he was ravenous. Without hesitation, he pulled food onto his plate, though with more grace than he would at home. He was a Slytherin now, and table manners were likely to be more important here.
Scorpius sat down beside him, his eyes lighting up when he noticed Albus actually eating this time. He seemed pleased—perhaps a bit too pleased—and yet there was a flicker of concern as he observed Albus’s table manners. It wasn’t obvious to anyone else, but Albus could feel the scrutiny, subtle as it was.
It was still early, which worked in Albus’s favor. Most Gryffindors were late risers, so their table was sparsely populated. Albus knew he would face the brunt of the backlash from Gryffindor house, not just because of the house rivalry, but also due to the “spectacle” he had caused last night by apparently “hurting” Gryffindor’s most favored first-year lion. It would be like facing a Chimaera. Albus had heard enough from James to know that Gryffindors had little patience for snakes, especially those who crossed their lions. On top of that, being a Potter and a Weasley in Slytherin only intensified the animosity. His entire family—both immediate and extended—had been Gryffindors. They were the house of heroes, the winning side, and he had shattered that legacy all by himself by being sorted into their age-old rival house— Slytherin.
With all that weighing on him and the full impact of last night’s outburst sinking in, it felt like being struck with a bat-bogey hex. He swallowed hard, his appetite vanishing. He would face the full force of the Gryffindor lions, and he might actually need to fear for his safety. He felt like he might faint. Thankfully, Albus was rescued from his own dementors when he heard a voice behind him. It was their Prefect, Greengrass. The Prefect, who was in his sixth year, had golden blonde hair and blue eyes—typical Greengrass traits. He waited until both boys turned around to acknowledge his presence. Scorpius spoke first, his voice full of the poise befitting his pure-blood status. “Heir Greengrass,” he greeted politely with a small bow of his head.
The Prefect answer was just as elegant, but with a hint of disapproval and distance in his voice “Heir Malfoy. It’s nice to finally meet you cousin” He said with a smile that didn't meet his eyes. Albus could see Scorpious tense up. Interesting. Albus wanted to place a reassuring hand in Scorpius’ hand, but stopped himself, it would not be a good look. Albus was out of his waters, he knew some of the old pureblood customs, but the book was old. Scorpius gave his own stained smile and replied, with no familiar familiarity, “Yes, well met cousin. I have heard quite a lot about you.“ he said, but gave an honest smile back. Scorpius’s cousin gave a quiet answer “I’m Sure.” and then turned over to Albus, who had been quietly watching the whole scene. Greengrass now extended his hand toward him, and Ablus shook it “It's nice to meet you, Heir Greengrass.” Albus said politely. The Prefect seemed to take Albus in with his eyes, studying how almost like you would a potion. “It’s nice to have you in our House Potter.” he said curtly, before beginning to give them each their timetables, while also reminding them of the introduction meeting tonight. It was not officially mandatory, but seen as a Slytherin obligation. He gave them a polite goodbye, before heading toward other Slytherin first years.
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Fate wasn’t giving Albus any respite. Their first class of the day was an introductory flying lesson, turning into a relentless nightmare of humiliation. Albus almost felt like invoking some ancient magic or making a desperate, ritualistic sacrifice to appease the very essence of Magic herself, hoping for a bit of grace.
Albus knew he wasn’t exactly a natural on a broomstick. His mother often attributed this to a severe accident he’d had as a child, which had apparently left a lasting impact on his magic. According to her, his magic just wouldn’t let him fly properly as some type of protection, he just needed to overcome this fear through persistence. Both she and his father were proponents of a confrontational approach to healing—facing fears head-on to prove they weren’t so terrifying after all. But Albus, being stubborn and resistant, would always hide, run, or lash out when faced with such attempts. Eventually, they gave up trying. Albus had been smug then—Now he regrets it.
He had been dreading this since he received his timetable. Why did the first class have to be flying? The thought of it only intensified his anxiety—everyone would see just how much of a disappointment he was. He had never even had a fraction of his mother and father’s flying skills. For some reason, Scorpius seemed equally apprehensive beside him, his usual poise replaced by an anxious fidgeting that mirrored Albus’s own nerves.
As they waited outside for the teacher, Scorpius leaned in and whispered, so only Albus could hear, “I’m really not very good at flying.” There was a strain in his voice as he continued, “I’ve flown before—my father’s a big fan of Quidditch and flying—but I’m…” He trailed off, his face scrunching in discomfort. Albus could see him struggling with vulnerability. “I’m quite clumsy, especially on a broom.”
Albus was taken aback. He had always thought Scorpius wore his emotions on his sleeve, but here he was, struggling with a rare moment of vulnerability. It was a side of Scorpius he hadn't expected to see, and it made Albus want to offer comfort and support even more. Albus offered a reassuring smile and, carefully out of view, took Scorpius’s hand in his.
“It’ll be fine. You’ll be alright.” He wanted to be a comforting presence for Scorpius, Albus wanted to be the lumos in the boy's darkness, much like Scorpius had been his
Madam Hooch emerged into the cool September day, looking more windswept than any human had a right to be. Her appearance immediately conveyed that she was not someone to be trifled with. Carrying herself with the poise of an Auror training leader, she addressed the students as though she had just come from a high-stakes mission, her authority clear in every word.
“Well, what are you all waiting for?” Madam Hooch said, casting a disapproving glare at the first-years. She sighed when nobody moved. “Everyone, stand by a broomstick. Hurry up!” she ordered with urgency. The first-years scrambled to position themselves next to a broom. Albus was relieved to see that Scorpius had managed to get a broom to his left.
Immediately, Rose’s broomstick flew obediently into her hand, and beside her, Yann’s broom followed suit. Both looked smug, as though this was second nature to them, and they exchanged a nod of mutual respect. Madam Hooch made a vague noise of approval, and Rose, basking in her superiority, surveyed the field with her chin held high.
When her gaze met Albus’s, he struggled to keep his face neutral. The sight of her effortless control over the broom stirred a pang of jealousy within him. Rose’s expression shifted from surprise to a flash of hurt, then to anger, and finally settled into a sneer of triumph. She mounted her broom with a final, dismissive glance at Albus.
His blood ran cold, and a shiver ran through him as he tried to suppress his shock. The sense of betrayal was overwhelming. Rose knew his insecurities about flying, and her display seemed to mock them. Albus wished more than ever for the day to be over.
“Come on now! I’ve got no time for shirkers. Say ‘UP,’ and mean it!” Madam Hooch commanded the first years.
Albus tried with all his might, but his broom refused to move. It remained stubbornly glued to the ground, showing no sign of lifting. It didn’t wobble or shake—it was as if the broom had decided to stay firmly put. Albus was horrified at his complete lack of talent.
Beside him, Scorpius was doing remarkably well, already holding his broom confidently. He glanced over at Albus with a mix of satisfaction and concern, clearly worried about his friend.
Albus felt conflicted. He was a bit annoyed with Scorpius for his earlier concern and envious of how effortlessly he seemed to handle the broom. Yet, at the same time, he was genuinely happy for him. Despite his usual tendency to relish in others' misfortunes, he didn’t feel that way about Scorpius. He wanted him to succeed, and shine like a patronus
Brooms around them began to rise, and the air was filled with students’ gasps of excitement as they finally managed to complete the task. The sound only deepened Albus’s sense of despair. He knew, with a sinking feeling, that his broom would remain stubbornly on the ground. Frustration welled up inside him; he wanted to curse magic herself— Maybe he was a squib afterall
Then he heard a sneer from the front of the yard, a voice he recognized, uttering without any tact, “Oh Merlin’s beard, how humiliating!”
The voice belonged to none other than Polly Chapman, who had also been the first to break the silence yesterday. Albus felt a surge of anger. Chapman’s laughter was soon joined by others, who seemed to take perverse pleasure in his humiliation.
To add insult to injury, Chapman’s voice rang out again, gratingly high and full of glee, “He really doesn’t take after his father or mother at all, does he?” The laughter soared, and so did Albus’s anger. He was on the verge of grabbing the damned broom and smashing it over Chapman’s head, imagining the scene with a gleeful satisfaction. The more laughter he heard the more he began to think that it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Then an unfamiliar voice cut through the air, nastily declaring, “Albus Potter, the Slytherin Squib!” The lanky Hufflepuff boy’s taunt was like a knife twisting in Albus’s side.
The anger he had felt turned into sheer humiliation. All his earlier thoughts of violent retaliation faded as he wished fervently for the ground to open up and swallow him. His Hogwarts experience seemed to be exceeding even his most pessimistic expectations. Morgana, it couldn’t get any worse.
Just then, as if summoned by fate, Madam Hooch cleared her throat and commanded, “Okay, children. Time to fly.”
The first years scrambled into action, and every broom, except Albus’s, rose into the air. Albus bitterly thought she should have intervened sooner. Maybe she, too, took some twisted pleasure in his public disgrace.
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In less than a day, he had managed to earn himself the dreaded reputation of being "The Slytherin Squib." The flying lesson had been a disaster, but it was just the beginning. Charms class was no better. He couldn’t even make the feather lift, no matter how perfectly he pronounced the spell and its wand movements. Even Professor Flitwick’s had looked concerned. His first day at Hogwarts had stretched into what felt like an eternity, and it wasn’t even over yet. He had managed to avoid running into his family, though there had been a few close calls. He’d seen James’s concerned glances in the hallways, but he had kept his distance. He couldn’t handle any more family scrutiny. Whispers followed him in the hallways and snide remarks were passed around during classes. It felt as though his magic had turned against him. He knew he wasn’t a Squib; he could feel the magic pulsing beneath his skin and sensed its presence in the very walls of the castle. But it was as if his own magic refused to cooperate.
Dinner at the Slytherin table was no comfort either. He received disapproving looks, though they hadn’t yet openly mocked him with the "Slytherin Squib" label. But Albus knew it was only a matter of time. The upcoming introduction meeting, where a Prefect—probably Fawley—would go over Slytherin Rules and Conduct , loomed on the horizon.
Albus had learned that the rules were detailed in a pamphlet, charmed to incinerate itself if removed from the common room. The flames supposedly burned anyone who attempted to steal it, leaving bruises that would continue to ache for at least a day, even after healing. Albus found it a bit extreme and intriguing. the bruises from the flames would supposedly continue to hurt for at least a day, even healed. He found the prospect of that magic fascinating, and quite to his taste. He hadn’t had a chance to see the pamphlet yet, but his curiosity about the charm and its mechanism grew by the hour.