What It Means to Be a Slytherin

What It Means To Be a Slytherin

The cracks of the glass echoed around the room as he walked towards the hole were a window had once been. He looked out of the gapping hole and watched as the sun set as the shadows of what was left of Hogwarts began to deepen. They were all dead, his best friends, his comrades and the woman he loved. All of them sacrificed to “The Dark Lords New Order.”
As he looked around the room he realized how bad the damage really was. Huge holes in the walls, burn marks everywhere and all of the armchairs destroyed. Even with the damage he could still imagine what it must have been like here in the Gryffindor Common Room: how they would have joked with each other, studied together and brought warmth to this room. That would never happen again because all the Gryffindors were dead. In fact any student who hadn’t sided with Voldemort was dead. They had all given their lives for what they believed in, for what they wanted. Draco knew he should think them weak for that, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t despise them; he even felt a little pride in what they had done.
Then he thought about his own house. Only a handful of the Slytherins had survived, a couple of second years and one sixth year. He was the only seventh year to survive the fighting, if you didn’t include Blaise. Draco didn’t count him because even if he survived the night he would be crippled for life. To be crippled for life was to be as good as dead.
The carnage of the battle was a blur, that even years later he would never remember clearly. The only details he could recall were from before the battle when his father had talked to him. “Remember Draco we’re Slytherin. We use any means we must.”
Upon thinking back on this moment, he realized why the only pride he felt was in what his friends had done, and not why they had done it. He understood why he respected his enemies sacrifice. It was because he was Slytherin. The values of that house were etched on his soul. He was Slytherin, more than his father was, and more than Voldemort ever could be. He was possibly more of what Slytherin stood for than Salazar himself. He respected the Gryffindors because they had acted like Slytherins and used whatever means necessary to achieve their goals.
That day he had been, loyal, smart and brave; but he was Slytherin, what use did he have for these things? All he had done today was work for another. He felt nothing for the New World he had helped create. “Victory or death,” had been the cry as they had attacked, but he was alive and had lost. Lost his friends, his lover and his world. He had been a fool and had lead others to be just as foolish. He had wanted to be Minister of Magic one day; he had wanted to earn the respect of others, but now he would forever be his fathers son, Voldemort’s lackey.
The darkness covered his flight from Hogwarts. The world that he had helped create had nothing for him. He had chosen wrong and he would see Voldemort dead no matter what it took.
Now decades later he was getting ready to lead the Resistance on its final assault against Voldemort. For the second time in his life he would be fighting on the grounds of Hogwarts; but now he was older and wiser. Victory or death, for him there was no other options; except this time when the rubble settled he would have pride in what he built. This time he would be a true Slytherin. He would be what he was; he would use whatever means necessary to achieve his goals. This time he would really win.