Chapter Text
If Slytherins were known for anything, it was ambition, but beneath that veneer of ambition was something deeper: loyalty. It wasn't the loud, fiery kind of loyalty the Gryffindors liked to boast about, but a quiet, unyielding bond that said, you're one of us, and we take care of our own.
Maybe Potter was an orphaned half-blood who had been destined for Gryffindor—courage and all that nonsense. Maybe Cullen was the son of a vampire coven who should have ended up in Hufflepuff because of his kind nature and understanding of the world. Maybe Granger was a Muggle-born who should have ended up in Ravenclaw, buried in books and cleverness. None of that mattered anymore. Now, they were Slytherins.
And Slytherins looked out for their own.
The Sorting Hat might have had its reasons for placing them where it did, but Charles had long since stopped questioning the ancient artifact's decisions. The real question wasn't why they had ended up in Slytherin; it was what they would make of their time there. Because in Slytherin, you learned fast: your survival and success depended on your alliances.
Draco might have been born into privilege and pure-blood pride, but even he knew better than to let a fellow snake fall behind. Charles had seen it firsthand—beneath Draco's snark and arrogance, there was a cunning strategist who knew the value of unity, even if he didn't always say it aloud. Daphne, for all her nose-raising and comments about their Muggle garments, was loyal. Hermione, even if sometimes she was an insufferable know-it-all, was a kind generous friend. Pansy, for all her dramatics, was fiercely protective of her friends, and Theodore... well, Theodore didn't say much, but his silence was often more telling than words.
Now, Potter, Granger and Cullen were part of that network, whether they realized it or not. The Slytherin dynamic wasn't built on open declarations of friendship or affinity; it was built on actions. Defending each other from rival houses. Covering for each other in class. Sharing resources, tips, and tricks to navigate the labyrinthine maze that was Hogwarts.
Cullen, for his part, had already shown he could hold his own. He wasn't afraid to push back against prejudice, even if it came from his own friends. Potter was still finding his footing, but Charles had no doubt he'd thrive. If there was one thing Slytherins respected, it was competence, and Potter had that in spades.
So, yes, the world might think Slytherins were all ambition and cunning, schemers and manipulators who cared only for themselves. But they didn't see what happened behind closed doors, where the snakes coiled together, ready to strike as one if one of their own was threatened.
Slytherins didn't just have ambition. They had loyalty. The kind that didn't falter, even when the odds were stacked against them.
A few weeks into the school year, the group of seven had become more than just an awkward mix of personalities—it was beginning to feel like a family. Hermione Granger, once the bookish Muggle-born who might have belonged in Ravenclaw, was an unexpected addition to their tight-knit group, but her presence had added a new layer of depth to the Slytherin dynamic.
It wasn’t hard to understand why Hermione had been sorted into Slytherin. Her fierce intelligence and ambition fit well with the house’s ideals. Despite her initial hesitation about being placed with a group of students who had grown up steeped in pure-blood wizarding traditions, Hermione had quickly adapted. She had a mind as sharp as a blade, and she wasn’t afraid to use it—not just for her own benefit, but for the group as a whole.
Charles had watched the way Hermione had slowly blended into the group, her contributions invaluable not only in terms of knowledge but also in loyalty. She was no longer the lone wolf of her former years. She fought just as hard for her friends as the others did. It was a quiet kind of loyalty, often masked by her constant quest for knowledge, but it was there. When a spell went wrong in class, Hermione was always the first to help her fellow Slytherins recover. When they needed strategy in a game of wizard’s chess or a plan to get past a particularly annoying Gryffindor, Hermione’s practical thinking had saved them more than once.
It wasn’t all smooth sailing, though. Draco still found her insufferable at times, but even he couldn’t deny her brilliance. He often pretended to ignore her, but he always listened when Hermione explained something—usually with a dramatic sigh and an eye roll to mask the respect she had earned from him.
“Granger,” Draco would say in his usual snarky tone, “You’re a walking encyclopedia. Sometimes I think you should just open your mouth and let it spill out, instead of all this pointless chatter.”
But even through his sarcasm, Hermione had noticed Draco’s subtle acknowledgment of her intellect. It was a sign of the kind of respect that Slytherins gave—not through praise, but through quiet recognition.
Even Pansy had warmed to Hermione, though in her own way. Pansy’s fondness for being the center of attention had been tempered by Hermione’s tendency to steal the spotlight in class discussions, but Pansy wasn’t as petty as some might have thought. She appreciated the fact that Hermione could hold her own in a world full of pressure and expectations. Still, Pansy couldn’t resist the occasional teasing.
“You really have a knack for making things complicated, don’t you, Granger?” she would say, flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder. “You know, sometimes it’s okay to not know everything.”
Hermione would just smile in that knowing way of hers. “I don’t try to know everything, Pansy. I just know a lot because I study. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
Pansy would roll her eyes, but it was a good-natured eye-roll, the kind that didn’t hold any real malice. There was a mutual respect that had developed between them, one born out of understanding that their differences didn’t need to divide them.
As for Theodore, he had become more open with Hermione than he had been with anyone else in the group. He rarely spoke, but when he did, it was often to share a quiet word of encouragement to Hermione when she was doubting herself. Theodore had a way of observing the world with a kind of detached calm, but it was clear that he had a soft spot for Hermione’s relentless pursuit of knowledge.
“Don’t let them get to you,” he once told her in a rare moment of conversation. “You’re not the only one who sees things differently here.”
Hermione had been surprised but grateful for his words. In many ways, Theodore’s silence spoke volumes, and she had come to understand him as one of the most observant members of their group. He knew exactly when to step in, and when to remain in the background.
With Hermione officially part of the Slytherin ranks, there was a new level of cohesion among the group. Each member brought something unique to the table. Draco’s cunning, Daphne’s grace, Pansy’s sharp tongue, Theodore’s quiet strength, Charles’s steady loyalty, and now Hermione’s razor-sharp intellect—together, they were a force to be reckoned with.
No longer did the house of Slytherin feel like a place of solitary ambition. Instead, it had become a family—a tight-knit, fiercely loyal group that, despite their varied backgrounds, had learned to rely on each other in ways no one outside the house could truly understand.
That day, during their free period, Charles, Harry, Theodore, and Draco were flying the borrowed brooms while Pansy, Hermione and Daphne watched from the stands. Normally, first years weren't allowed to fly outside of class, but thanks to Charles' persuasion—or more accurately, his well-honed skill in manipulation—they had managed to wrangle special permission to take the brooms onto the Quidditch pitch.
The wind was crisp and cool, the sky stretched in a perfect, uninterrupted blue, and the Quidditch pitch lay before them like an open challenge. Harry felt his heart race as he kicked off from the ground, the broomstick humming beneath him as he soared into the air. He could feel the thrill of flight taking over, the rush of freedom as the earth receded below.
Theodore shot past him, weaving expertly through the air with a look of concentration on his face. He wasn't the most outgoing, but on a broom, he was all precision and control. Draco was already showing off, performing tight loops and taunting Harry to try and keep up.
Charles, however, flew with a calm, almost effortless grace. He was good on a broom, and it was easy to see why. There was a natural rhythm to his movements, and he was fully in control, yet still managing to look almost too relaxed for someone who was supposed to be showing off.
"I think they've given up on you, Potter," Draco called out with a sly smirk as he flew past, his voice carrying easily on the wind.
Harry grinned and pushed himself harder, determined to prove Draco wrong. He wasn't going to let Draco show him up, not after everything that had been said about his so-called place in Slytherin.
On the ground, Pansy, Hermione, and Daphne exchanged glances. Hermione had made a face when Charles had worked his charm on the teachers to allow the first years to use the brooms. But as she watched them now, Hermione couldn't help but notice how much easier they made flying look. Charles, with his usual confidence, Harry, with his raw determination, and even Draco, who seemed to take every opportunity to make a show of himself.
"I hate to admit it," Hermione muttered under her breath, "but they do look like they belong up there."
Pansy, who had been leaning forward, elbows on her knees, tilted her head and smirked. "Not all of them," she said with a teasing look at Draco, "but some of them certainly do."
“That’s Slytherins for you,” commented Daphne.
But as she watched the boys fly, Hermione also couldn't deny that there was something captivating about the way they moved, the way they were so unbothered by the judgment of others.
Above them, Charles dove, his broomstick slicing through the air with a sharp, exhilarating speed. He pulled up just before hitting the ground, and Harry had to admit, he was impressed. There was a certain elegance to the way Charles flew. Even if his methods were unconventional, he had a gift for turning everything into something seemingly effortless.
"Show-off," Draco muttered, though it was clear he was secretly impressed as well.
Charles turned to them, catching his breath as he hovered. "I'll take that as a compliment."
When they descended into the field, the sound of the broomsticks cutting through the air faded as they touched down on the grass. Professor Snape was waiting for them at the edge of the Quidditch pitch, his black robes billowing like a shadow as he crossed his arms, his pale face expressionless.
Charles swallowed hard, immediately feeling the weight of the situation. Snape's gaze was sharp, assessing, as if he'd been waiting for them to make a mistake. Charles was used to dealing with powerful men, and although he was ashamed to say it, his father was quite easy to manipulate—but this, even he couldn't shake the feeling that Snape saw right through him.
"Is there a reason I find you all on the Quidditch pitch when first years are strictly forbidden to fly outside of lessons?" Snape's voice was as cold as ever, a faint sneer curling at the edge of his mouth. His eyes locked onto Charles, who stood slightly ahead of the others, trying to appear nonchalant despite the pounding of his heart.
Charles took a deep breath, the words already ready on his tongue. "Professor, I was under the impression that permission had been granted for us to practice. I made sure to get the necessary approval."
Snape raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. "So it was you who managed to bend the rules, then, Cullen?" His voice held an almost mocking quality as he glanced at the rest of them. "I should have known."
"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean to—"
"To what, Mr. Cullen? Didn't mean to manipulate one of the teachers?" Snape raised an eyebrow as he waited for Charles's response.
"Professor, we..."
"Silence, Mr Malfoy," Snape looked at him briefly before turning back to Charles. "Much as it pains me to say this... That was an admirable piece of flying, Mr. Cullen."
Charles gaped at him for a second. "Uh, thank you, sir."
"Oh, don't thank me yet. Thank me after you've had your first training session as Slytherin's new Chaser."
"Chaser, sir?"
"Chaser, Mr. Cullen. I shall inform the captain that he has a new Chaser, and you shall begin training next week. And Mr. Potter I'm sure you will be very happy to join him as Seeker."
Charles was still reeling, struggling to maintain his composure. He had never considered being on the team, and certainly not as a Chaser. But there was something about the idea—the challenge, the competition—that stirred excitement within him, even if it did come with the weight of Snape's approval.
"Thank you, sir," Charles finally said, his voice steady despite the surprise. "We won't let you down."
"Yes, sir. We'll do our best," said Harry.
Snape's lips twitched in what might have been the faintest semblance of a smile. "See that you don't. Now, get back to your fellow students before you lose your chance to actually enjoy the rest of the day."
With a final glance at them, Snape turned and stalked off toward the castle, leaving the group to process what had just happened.
The group stood in stunned silence as Snape's billowing robes disappeared into the distance.
"Well, that was unexpected," Theodore said, his brown eyes wide as he looked at Harry.
Harry ran a hand through his hair, still processing. "You're telling me. I didn't even think he liked me."
Pansy scoffed, crossing her arms. "He doesn't like anyone, Potter. But even Snape can recognize talent when he sees it."
"Talent, sure," Draco interjected, clearly annoyed. "But Chaser? That's my position."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Your position? Pretty sure you're a Seeker, Malfoy. So compete with Potter here, not me."
Draco flushed slightly but recovered with his usual flair. "Fine, but if you mess this up, don't think I won't remind you of it every single day."
Theodore gave a small, approving nod. "You'll do well. You have the instincts for it."
Charles felt a flicker of gratitude. Theodore didn't hand out compliments lightly.
Pansy grinned mischievously. "Well, if Cullen's the new Chaser, I suppose that makes him a star player, doesn't it? Charles Cullen, the Slytherin Star, and Harry Potter, the boy who Starred . Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
Charles groaned. "Please don't start with that."
"Too late," Pansy said, already planning her next teasing remark.
As they began walking back toward the castle, Hermione fell into step beside Charles. She glanced at him thoughtfully before speaking. "You didn't seem surprised when Snape called you out for manipulating the teachers," she said, her tone curious rather than accusatory.
Charles smirked slightly; his expression guarded. "Let's just say I've learned that sometimes you have to bend the rules a little to get things done. Not that you'd approve."
Hermione frowned, but there was no real heat behind it. "I don't approve. But I can't deny it's... effective."
Charles chuckled. "Coming from you, Granger, that's practically a compliment."
"I wouldn't go that far," Hermione muttered, though her lips twitched in what might have been the beginning of a smile.
[...]
Later that evening, Charles found himself sitting alone in the Slytherin common room. The greenish light from the lake filtered through the windows, casting rippling shadows across the stone walls. The room was quieter than usual, most of the students having gone to bed.
Charles leaned back in his chair, staring at the empty fireplace. He couldn't shake the feeling that his promotion to Chaser was more than just a coincidence. Snape wasn't the type to hand out compliments—or opportunities—lightly.
"What are you thinking about?"
Draco's voice broke the silence. Charles turned to see him standing nearby, his hands in his pockets.
"Just trying to figure out why Snape would want me on the team," Charles admitted. "I mean, I'm good on a broom, but I'm not exactly Quidditch-obsessed like you."
Draco smirked and crossed the room to sit in the chair opposite Charles. His expression was thoughtful, for once free of its usual arrogance. "Snape values results. He probably thinks you can help the team win. And let's be honest, you're good at making people listen to you. That's useful on the pitch."
Charles considered this, then nodded slowly. "Maybe. Or maybe he just wants to keep an eye on me."
Draco tilted his head. "Why would he need to keep an eye on you?"
Charles hesitated. He wasn't sure how to explain the strange feeling that had been growing since his arrival at Hogwarts—the sense that he was being watched, assessed, like a chess piece in someone else's game.
"Forget it," he said finally. "I'm probably overthinking it."
Draco didn't look entirely convinced, but after a moment, he shrugged. "You probably are," he said. Then, with a mischievous grin, he added, "C'mon, let's get some sweets from the kitchen. To celebrate."
Charles couldn't help but chuckle. "Celebrate what? You being annoyed that I'm the new Chaser?"
"No, you idiot," Draco shot back, standing up and offering a hand to pull Charles to his feet. "Celebrate the fact that Slytherin's got a half-decent chance at beating Gryffindor for once."
"You're optimistic," Charles said dryly, but he accepted Draco's hand and stood.
"Just don't embarrass us out there," Draco said as they left the common room. "If you mess this up, I'll make sure everyone knows it was my idea to push Snape into picking you."
"Wait, your idea?" Charles asked, raising an eyebrow.
Draco's smirk widened. "Let's just say I might have mentioned your flying during a particularly dramatic conversation about Gryffindor's weaknesses."
Charles rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable."
"True," Draco said smugly, leading the way down the dimly lit corridor. "Now hurry up. The house-elves won't wait forever."
As they made their way toward the kitchens, Charles felt a flicker of gratitude. For all his bravado and posturing, Draco had a knack for distracting him when it mattered most. And maybe, just maybe, he was glad to have someone like Malfoy in his corner.
Draco led him to a corridor one floor below that was lined with paintings of food.
"Look out for a painting of a bowl of fruit," Draco said quietly. "We need to tickle the pear."
"Tickle the pear?" Charles asked.
"Shut up, Cullen, it's how we get into the kitchens, my mother told me." Draco glared at him.
Finally, they reached a painting that appeared to be the one Draco's mother was talking about. Charles reached out and tickled the pear. Sure enough, the pear giggled before turning into a door handle.
The kitchen was enormous, and it was dominated by four long tables that Charles could tell mirrored the house tables in the Great Hall. There were stoves and ovens around the edges of the rooms, and scurrying all over the place where the strangest creatures Charles had ever seen.
"These are house elves," Draco replied, bored. "Hogwarts has a lot of them. They cook and clean and generally look after wizards. We've a few back at the Manor, you can see them if you come visit."
Charles raised an eyebrow as he took in the scene. The house-elves were small, with oversized ears and big, expressive eyes, all bustling about with trays of food and cleaning supplies. They moved with a purpose that made the room feel alive with energy.
"House-elves, huh?" Charles murmured, watching them work. "They seem... efficient."
Draco smirked, folding his arms. "Of course they are. They're trained for this. The ones here have been running Hogwarts for centuries."
One of the house-elves noticed them and scurried over, bowing low. "Sirs, how can Tipsy help you?"
Draco's expression softened slightly, though his tone remained imperious. "We'd like some sweets. Cakes, biscuits, that sort of thing. Something worth celebrating."
Tipsy nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yes, sir! Tipsy will fetch the finest treats Hogwarts has to offer!"
The elf darted away, leaving Charles to glance at Draco. "You're surprisingly polite to them."
Draco shrugged, leaning against a nearby counter. "They're loyal and hardworking. My father says you should always show respect to those who serve you well. Besides," he added with a smirk, "if you're too harsh, they might not make the treacle tart properly."
Charles chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a piece of work, Malfoy."
Before Draco could reply, Tipsy returned with a platter piled high with an assortment of desserts: frosted cakes, buttery biscuits, and tarts that glistened in the warm kitchen light. "Here you go, Sirs. Tipsy hopes it is to your liking."
Charles grabbed a treacle tart and took a bite. It was warm, sweet, and utterly perfect. "This is amazing," he said, nodding his approval.
"Of course it is," Draco said, grabbing a biscuit. "I told you, Slytherin knows how to live well. In the meantime, we should hurry, curfew started a few minutes ago."
"What? Crap, the dungeons are on the other side of the castle, we better run."
Grabbing their bags, the two sprinted out of the kitchens and into the dimly lit hallways. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls as they navigated the labyrinthine passages leading back to the Slytherin common room.
They had just reached the Entrance Hall when a low, ominous meow made them freeze in their tracks.
"Oh no," Charles whispered, his stomach sinking as Mrs. Norris, Filch's infamous cat, emerged from the shadows. Her glowing eyes locked onto them, and her tail swished menacingly.
Draco muttered a curse under his breath. "Of all the—run!"
Without another word, they bolted down the passageway toward the dungeons, their hearts pounding. Mrs. Norris gave chase, her claws clicking against the stone floor as she darted after them.
"She's gaining on us!" Charles hissed, his bag bouncing wildly against his shoulder.
"Left!" Draco shouted, skidding around a corner.
They dashed through the dark corridors, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. Just when it seemed like they might be caught, Draco grabbed Charles by the arm and yanked him into a hidden alcove behind a suit of armour.
"Quiet!" Draco hissed, pressing a finger to his lips.
They held their breath as Mrs. Norris padded past, her glowing eyes scanning the corridor. After a tense moment, she disappeared around the corner, leaving the hallway eerily silent.
"That was too close," Charles whispered, slumping against the wall.
Draco smirked, though his face was still flushed from the chase. "See? Told you Slytherin knows how to live well. Always a little excitement to keep things interesting."
Charles rolled his eyes but couldn't help the grin tugging at his lips. "Next time, maybe let's stick to the rules."
"Where's the fun in that?" Draco quipped, leading the way back toward the common room.
"I think we lost him," Charles panted.
When they heard the sound of Filch's footsteps again, they went into the first room they saw on their left.
"We'll wait a few minutes and then go back out," Draco said.
A low growling sound came from behind them. They spun around and saw a giant, three-headed dog snarling at them.
"Or go back out now!" Charles yelped.
"Now's good!" Draco pushed the door open, and they ran back out, slamming it as the dog tried to lunge for them. They ran back down to the Entrance Hall via a different route. Luck was on their side, as Filch seemed to have gone down a different corridor. Finally, they reached the dungeons and slowed down.
"What the hell was that?" Charles asked.
"A great big three-headed bloody dog!" Draco clutched at a stitch in his side. "On a trapdoor."
Charles jerked his head up. "A trapdoor?"
"It was standing on it. Like it was guarding it."
"Guarding... Oh!" Charles stared into space for a second as he put the pieces together. He came to as Draco waved his hand in front of his face.
"Cullen! Snap out of it!" Draco hissed, waving his hand more vigorously.
Charles blinked, refocusing on Draco's face. "Sorry, I just... I think I know what it's guarding."
Draco raised an eyebrow, still catching his breath. "What are you talking about? Guarding what?"
"It's a trapdoor, right? Guarding something," Charles said, glancing around to make sure no one else was within earshot. "Think about it. First, the Gringotts robbery—nothing was stolen because whatever it was had already been taken. Now there's a massive, three-headed dog guarding a trapdoor in the school."
Draco's eyes narrowed as he caught on. "You're saying whatever was in that vault is here?"
Charles nodded. "It adds up. Hagrid emptied the vault, and now something's being kept hidden in Hogwarts."
Draco frowned, considering this. "Why not just keep it in Gringotts? Even with the robbery, it's still supposed to be the safest place in the wizarding world."
"Maybe they think it's safer here," Charles reasoned, his voice dropping lower. "Or maybe it's something so important that they're taking extra precautions. Either way, that dog is guarding it."
Draco leaned against the cold stone wall, his expression torn between intrigue and unease. "Alright, but what do we do about it?"
Charles shrugged, his adrenaline beginning to ebb. "Nothing. For now, anyway. Whatever it is, it's not our business."
"Not yet," Draco muttered, his smirk returning. "But you can bet Potter will stick his nose where it doesn't belong. He's got that Gryffindor curiosity."
Charles laughed quietly. "And here I thought we weren't going to encourage house stereotypes."
"Exceptions can be made," Draco quipped, pushing himself off the wall. "Let's get back to the common room before someone finds us and we end up in detention.”
"Agreed," Charles said, but his mind lingered on the dog, the trapdoor, and what might be hidden beneath it. As they walked back to the safety of the dungeons, he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was being guarded, it would lead to trouble—one way or another.