No exaggeration, well, maybe just a little, since this kind of phrase usually means you're about to exaggerate or start bragging, but Slytherin really was the strongest House in Hogwarts.
Before Harry arrived, Slytherin had already won the House Cup six years in a row. And if Dumbledore hadn't handed out those game-changing last-minute points to Harry, they were fully prepared to celebrate a record-breaking seventh consecutive win.
Seven straight wins! Do you even understand what that means?
That's basically enough to summon a dragon in a card game or pull off an ultra-rare summon in a gacha.
There are only seven years at Hogwarts. If they'd succeeded, it would've meant the seventh-year students spent every single year of their school life reigning at the top.
Now you get why Slytherins hated Gryffindor so much? The strongest generation of Slytherin students had crushed Gryffindor from Year One to Year Six, only to be defeated right before going godlike.
At the moment, the current four-time champions of Slytherin were practically itching to point at the House Cup sitting in Professor Snape's office and then jab a finger in the faces of the first-years while yelling, "See that? That's the glorious legacy we built for you!"
Too bad no matter how glorious the past was, it wasn't going to help now.
They could already see their immediate future, and it wasn't pretty.
Slytherin: "We are of noble blood!"
Gryffindor: "Your first-years got soloed!"
Slytherin: "We've won the House Cup four years in a row!"
Gryffindor: "Your first-years got soloed!"
Slytherin: "Our Quidditch team is the best in school!"
Gryffindor: "Your first-years got soloed!"
…Slytherins were mentally exhausted. They didn't even want to play this game with Gryffindors anymore.
Ravenclaw just quietly gave a thumbs-up and returned to silently observing from the sidelines.
Hufflepuff, meanwhile, munched on sunflower seeds while watching the two "high-potential" Houses bicker, all while sneaking fresh ingredients out of the kitchen to cook up another feast, strictly enforcing a "no Leon allowed" rule as they continued burning through Hogwarts' budget.
The Slytherins didn't really start recovering from the trauma of watching their entire year get flattened until most of the upperclassmen had returned to the common room, only to then be reminded of an even more horrifying ordeal.
Professor Sigma had held class earlier that day.
Sigma was famously impartial, he made a point of terrorizing all year levels equally.
The fifth-years had it easiest. Since they were preparing for their O.W.L.s next year, they were assigned a more standard classroom test: a comprehensive review of the past four years' spells. As long as their basics were solid, they could mostly avoid the worst of the chaos. Sure, there was still a surprise twist at the end, but compared to others? Relatively normal.
It was the sixth- and seventh-year advanced class that truly suffered.
They were learning a specialized flame-resistant spell called Frostmail, a defensive charm not commonly used, and generally weaker than Protego, but incredibly effective against fire-based attacks. Especially dragonfire.
Thankfully, Sigma hadn't gotten his hands on an actual dragon. ("If he had," said a still-traumatized Hufflepuff to a younger student, "I swear we'd be dead.")
What he did get, though, wasn't much better, Fireball Mice.
These were timid, squirrel-like creatures that lived inside volcanoes. Their fluffy red fur and puffball tails made them look absolutely adorable, top-tier cute, even. The only problem? They were extremely skittish.
And much like a gecko dropping its tail, these mice had a defense mechanism: when terrified, their tails didn't just fall off. They exploded, with the force of a full-blown fireball.
According to Professor Sigma, whose explanation was, as usual, impossible to follow, it was "a little late in the semester, but some roasting is still necessary." Especially since, in his words, "Most of you have started pairing up by now."
To prevent casualties, Sigma did provide protection, he doused the students in a potion once used to put out dragonfire. It was cheap, effective, and absolutely revolting. Imagine cheap grain alcohol mixed with the juice of rotting, maggot-infested apples. That was the smell.
But the horror didn't stop there.
Some students actually managed to pass through the ordeal unscathed, without triggering the potion.
Sigma, ever the sadist, was delighted. He announced that these students showed "great potential" and would be marked for special training.
Yes, special training.
Underline that. That's going to be on the final exam.
The rest of the students were just grateful they hadn't qualified and once again thanked their past selves for not making the advanced class.
As for the poor Slytherin first-years?
They finally understood the meaning of the phrase: when it rains, it pours.
Because tomorrow… they had Defense Against the Dark Arts.
Some even started envying Nick, the kid who broke his arm, because at least he had a reason to skip class.
But just as everyone began to look up to him with envy, the great hall doors swung open.
Thanks to Madam Poppy Pomfrey's excellent healing magic, he had recovered in no time. After hearing what happened to his fellow first-years, Nick was filled with righteous fury and vowed to stand by his housemates.
"This is what being a united Slytherin is all about!" he declared. "Even if we lose, we don't abandon each other!"
Despite Madam Pomfrey's advice to rest for another day, Nick had convinced her to let him return. And so, he marched proudly into the hall… until he remembered what class they had tomorrow.
That's when the familiar fear returned, the trauma of Professor Sigma's class flashed before his eyes.
Merlin help him… He was starting to feel a twinge of pain in his arm again. Perhaps he should follow Madam Pomfrey's advice and sit out just one more day.
Before he could sneak off, the Slytherin prefect grabbed his hand with a firm grip and beamed, "Nick, you are a true Slytherin. You've proven your courage and character. You'll be a role model for every single first-year Slytherin!"
Nick could only stare blankly as the weight of being a "role model" settled on his shoulders.
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