December 17th, 1992, Hogwarts Astronomy Tower, 9:47 PM
Harry didn't know how long he'd been sitting on the cold stone floor of the Astronomy Tower when Luna found him. Time had become elastic, stretching and compressing in ways that made no sense. Minutes felt like hours, and hours might have been mere moments. All he knew was that his heart had finally stopped racing, though the sick feeling in his stomach remained.
"The Nargles said you'd be here," Luna's dreamy voice drifted through the darkness. "They're usually wrong about most things, but they're quite good at finding people who need finding."
Harry didn't look up from where he sat with his back against the stone wall, the Invisibility Cloak pooled around him like silver water. "How did you know it was me? I'm still under the cloak."
"I can see the space where you're not," Luna said simply, settling down beside him without invitation. Her blonde hair caught the moonlight streaming through the tower's open arches, making it look almost silver. "Like a Harry-shaped hole in the world. It's actually quite fascinating."
Despite everything, Harry felt his mouth twitch slightly. Believing Luna to find something fascinating about invisibility.
They sat in silence for a while, the December wind whistling through the tower's openings, bringing with it the scent of snow and pine from the Forbidden Forest below. Finally, Luna spoke again.
"Everyone's very frightened, you know. In the Great Hall."
"They think I'm the Heir of Slytherin." Harry's voice came out flat, defeated. "They think I opened the Chamber. That I've been attacking Muggle-borns."
"Do you think you're the Heir of Slytherin?"
"I don't know!" The words burst out of Harry before he could stop them. "I don't know anything. How is that possible? How can you speak a language and not realise you're speaking it?"
Luna tilted her head, considering. "I suppose it's like breathing. You don't think about breathing, you just do it. The language must feel natural to you, so your mind translates it automatically."
Harry pulled his knees up to his chest, making himself smaller. "Everyone was looking at me like I was a monster. Like I'd grown fangs and started hissing threats at them."
"They're scared because they don't understand," Luna said gently. "People fear what they don't understand. It's easier to fear than to ask questions."
"But why? Why is being a Parselmouth so terrible?"
Luna was quiet for a moment, her grey eyes distant as though seeing something far away—or perhaps long ago. When she spoke, her voice had lost some of its usual dreaminess, replaced by something more grounded, more sad.
"Do you know much about Salazar Slytherin?"
"Only what everyone knows. He was one of the Hogwarts founders. He valued pure-bloods. He built the Chamber of Secrets and put a monster in it to purge Muggle-borns from the school."
"That's what the history books say," Luna agreed. "But there's more to it than that. Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth... perhaps the most famous one in history. He used the language to control serpents, to communicate with creatures others feared. For centuries, Parseltongue was associated with him and his descendants."
She picked up a small pebble from the floor and turned it over in her fingers. "After Slytherin left Hogwarts, many of his descendants became Dark wizards. Not all of them... Daddy found records of some who were quite ordinary, even kind... but enough that people started to believe Parseltongue itself was Dark magic. That speaking to serpents meant you were destined to become evil."
"That's stupid," Harry scoffed. "A language can't be evil. It's just a way of communicating."
"I agree. But people don't always think logically when they're frightened." Luna let the pebble drop, and it clattered across the stone floor. "Then came You-Know-Who."
The name hung in the air between them. Harry felt his scar prickle.
"He was a Parselmouth too," Luna continued. "A very powerful one. He used serpents as weapons, as guards, as symbols of his power. He claimed to be the Heir of Slytherin, and he used Parseltongue to prove it. For years, people heard him hissing to his followers, to his pet snake, to the creatures he commanded. The language became associated with death and terror."
She turned to look at Harry, her eyes unusually focused. "So when people hear someone speaking Parseltongue now, especially in a school that's being attacked by the Heir of Slytherin... they remember. They remember You-Know-Who. They remember the war. They remember being afraid."
Harry's hands clenched into fists. "But I'm not him. I'm nothing like him."
"I know that. Your real friends know that. But fear makes people forget what they know and remember what they're afraid of."
"Do you think..." Harry swallowed hard. "Do you think I could be descended from Slytherin? Is that why I can speak Parseltongue?"
"It's possible," Luna said thoughtfully. "Salazar Slytherin lived a thousand years ago. A lot can happen in a thousand years. His bloodline could have spread far and wide, mixing with hundreds of other families. You could be his descendant. Or you could have inherited the ability from someone else entirely... there have been other Parselmouths in history who weren't related to Slytherin at all. Or maybe you got it from You-Know-Who when he tried to kill you."
Harry's head snapped up. "What?"
"Well, he did give you that scar. Magic leaves marks, Harry. Not just physical ones. Maybe when his curse failed, something transferred. A piece of his power, or his knowledge, or his abilities." She said it so matter-of-factly, as though discussing the weather. "Daddy's been researching magical transfers after failed curses. It's quite rare, but it does happen."
'A piece of Voldemort's power,' Harry thought, and the idea made his skin crawl. But it also made a strange sort of sense. It would explain why he could speak Parseltongue without learning it, why the language felt so natural.
"Your dad taught you about logical thinking, didn't he?" Luna asked. "About considering all possibilities before drawing conclusions?"
"Yes." Harry felt some of the panic beginning to recede, replaced by the familiar structure of analysis that Ethan had drilled into him. "He always says to gather evidence before making assumptions. To think through the options systematically."
"So let's think systematically." Luna held up one finger. "Possibility one: You're descended from Slytherin. If true, so what? Blood doesn't determine who you are. Plenty of Slytherin's descendants must have been perfectly ordinary people. Being related to someone doesn't mean you'll become like them."
She held up a second finger. "Possibility two: You inherited Parseltongue from You-Know-Who when he cursed you. If true, that's not your fault. You didn't choose it. You were a baby. How can anyone blame you for something that happened when you were one year old?"
A third finger joined the others. "Possibility three: You're a Parselmouth for some completely different reason that has nothing to do with Slytherin or You-Know-Who. Maybe it's just a rare magical ability that appears randomly, like being a Metamorphmagus. We don't know everything about how magic works."
Harry found himself breathing easier. Luna's calm recitation of possibilities was exactly what he needed—a systematic breakdown that turned a terrifying revelation into a series of logical options.
"In any of those cases," Luna continued, "being able to speak to snakes is just an ability. What matters is what you do with it. You used it tonight to stop those snakes from hurting Justin. That was good. That was heroic, even if people are too scared to see it right now."
"Justin." Harry's stomach dropped. "Is he alright? I just ran. I didn't even check if he was okay."
"He's fine. Shaken, but fine. You saved him, Harry. Those snakes would have bitten him if you hadn't stopped them." Luna's voice turned firm. "That's what people should remember. Not that you spoke Parseltongue, but that you used it to protect someone."
They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the stars wheel slowly overhead through the tower's open arches. The panic that had driven Harry to flee was fading, replaced by something more manageable—still anxiety, still worry, but tempered now by Luna's steady logic and Ethan's remembered teachings.
"Do you think they'll ever stop being afraid?" Harry asked quietly.
"Some of them will. The ones who matter." Luna reached over and squeezed his hand. "Ron and Hermione won't abandon you. Neither will I. Nor will your father, when he hears about this. Those are the people whose opinions matter."
"What about everyone else?"
"Everyone else will either come around or they won't. You can't control what other people think, Harry. You can only control what you do." She smiled, that distant, dreamy expression returning. "Besides, I've always thought snakes were quite beautiful. Misunderstood, but beautiful. Like Wrackspurts."
Despite everything, Harry laughed—a short, surprised bark of laughter that echoed off the tower's stone walls. "Thank you, Luna."
"You're welcome. Now, I think you should probably go back to Gryffindor Tower before Ron and Hermione organize a search party. Hermione looked ready to check every room in the castle, and Ron was talking about getting his brothers involved. That could get complicated."
Harry stood, brushing dust from his robes, and pulled the Invisibility Cloak properly around himself. "Will you be alright getting back to Ravenclaw Tower?"
"Oh yes. The staircases like me. They always take me where I need to go eventually." Luna rose gracefully, her blonde hair settling around her shoulders. "Harry?"
"Yes?"
"Being different isn't the same as being wrong. Remember that."
Harry nodded, though she couldn't see him beneath the cloak. Then he made his way carefully down the tower's spiral staircase, following Luna tall the way Ravenclaw Towe while listening her communicating with whatever invisible creatures she perceived in the darkness. Harry doubted she knew he followed.
December 17th, 1992, Gryffindor Common Room, 10:34 PM
The Fat Lady had barely swung open before Hermione's voice rang out.
"Harry James Potter, where have you been?!"
Harry let the Invisibility Cloak fall, revealing himself to the common room. It was nearly empty—most students had gone to bed, still unsettled by the evening's events—but Hermione and Ron were waiting by the fire, both looking furious and worried in equal measure.
Hermione marched over and, to Harry's complete surprise, hugged him tightly before stepping back and glaring. "Do you have any idea how worried we've been? You just vanished! We've been sitting here for over an hour not knowing if you were hurt or hiding or—or—"
"We thought maybe the real Heir had got you, this time..." Ron interrupted, his ears red. "Thought maybe while everyone was busy panicking about the Parseltongue thing, whoever's really behind the attacks had taken advantage to—to—" He couldn't seem to finish the sentence.
The realisation that his friends had been worried for his safety rather than afraid of him made Harry's throat tight. "I'm sorry. I just needed... I needed to think."
"Think?!" Hermione's voice went up an octave. "Harry, the entire school thinks you're the Heir of Slytherin! Professor McGonagall is looking for you! You can't just disappear when something like this happens, ever again!"
"I know, I know." Harry sank into an armchair, suddenly exhausted. "I panicked. I just... everyone was looking at me like I was a Dark wizard, and I couldn't—I didn't know what to do."
Ron dropped into the chair across from him. "Mate, that was mental. You spoke to those snakes. Actually spoke to them in snake language!"
Harry ran his hands through his hair. "Did it... did it really sound that bad? When I was speaking Parseltongue?"
Hermione and Ron exchanged glances. Finally, Hermione said carefully, "It was quite disturbing, Harry. You were hissing and making these sounds that didn't seem human. And the snakes responded to you immediately. They just... stopped. Like you'd given them a command they couldn't refuse."
"I told them to stop attacking Justin," Harry said defensively. "That's all. I wasn't trying to be creepy or Dark or anything like that. I just saw those snakes going for him and I reacted."
"We know," Ron said quickly. "We know you were trying to help. But to everyone else, especially everyone who doesn't know you, it looked like you were controlling a bunch of snakes you'd summoned."
"I didn't summon them! Theodore did..."
"Yeah, and that was a git move on his part," Ron agreed. "Serpensortia in a student duel? He could've got someone killed. Bet he's in detention for the rest of the year."
"If people weren't too busy being afraid of me to remember it was Theodore who conjured the snakes in the first place." Harry slumped deeper into the chair. "Is Justin alright?"
Hermione bit her lip. "That's the thing, Harry. Justin is... he's been attacked."
The world seemed to tilt. "W-what? B-but I stopped the snakes! They didn't touch him!"
"Not by the snakes," Hermione said quickly. "After you left, there was chaos. People were running everywhere, professors were trying to restore order. Justin and a few others fled toward the main doors. He was found about twenty minutes later near the Great Hall entrance. Petrified."
The word hit Harry like a physical blow.
"And Nearly Headless Nick," Ron added grimly. "He was found next to Justin, also petrified. A ghost, Harry. How do you petrify a ghost?"
Harry's mind raced. 'While everyone was distracted by the Parseltongue revelation, the real Heir struck. They used the chaos as cover.'
"So everyone thinks I did it. They think I spoke to the snakes, caused a panic, and then attacked Justin while people were running."
"Some people think that," Hermione admitted. "But Harry, we know better. You were with us, well, invisible with us...leaving the Great Hall. You ran in the opposite direction from where Justin was found. There's no way you could have attacked him."
"Unless they think I did it before I ran," Harry said bitterly. "Or that I circled back."
"Professor McGonagall wants to see you," Hermione heaved. "She came by about twenty minutes ago looking for you. She didn't seem angry, exactly. More... concerned."
As if summoned by the mention of her name, there was a knock on the portrait hole. The Fat Lady swung open to reveal Professor McGonagall, still in her formal robes from the Duelling Club, her expression stern but not hostile.
"Mr Potter. I'm relieved to see you've returned." Her Scottish burr was clipped with barely controlled emotion. "Please come with me. The Headmaster wishes to speak with you."
Harry's stomach dropped, the boy stood on shaky legs.
"Professor, Harry didn't—" Hermione started.
"Miss Granger, I am aware of your loyalty to your friend, and it does you credit. However, this conversation is between Mr Potter and the Headmaster. Now, Harry, if you please."
Harry followed McGonagall through the portrait hole, casting one last glance back at Ron and Hermione. They both gave him encouraging nods, though they looked as worried as he felt.
The corridors were eerily quiet as McGonagall led him toward the Headmaster's office. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls, and the portraits they passed whispered to each other behind their frames.
"Professor," Harry ventured after several minutes of tense silence. "Is Justin... will he be alright?"
McGonagall's expression softened slightly. "Mr Finch-Fletchley is in the Hospital Wing, petrified but otherwise unharmed. Madam Pomfrey assures me that once we obtain the necessary ingredients for the restorative draught, he and the other victims will make full recoveries."
"And Nearly Headless Nick?"
"Sir Nicholas is a more complicated matter, as he is already dead. However, Madam Pomfrey believes the same treatment should restore him, given time." She paused at a spiral staircase. "Sherbet lemon."
The gargoyle leapt aside, revealing a moving staircase. As they ascended, McGonagall spoke again, her voice lower.
"Mr Potter, I must ask you to be completely honest with the Headmaster. Whatever you may think of your ability to speak to serpents, I need you to understand that Professor Dumbledore is on your side. He does not believe you opened the Chamber, nor does he believe you attacked anyone."
Harry looked up at her in surprise. "He doesn't?"
"He does not. Neither do I, for that matter." McGonagall's mouth was a thin line. "You may not realise this, Harry, but you were in plain sight of at least a dozen students and four professors when Mr Finch-Fletchley was attacked. The timeline does not support the theory that you were responsible."
"Then why does he want to see me?"
"Because you are a Parselmouth, Mr Potter, and that is no small matter. Professor Dumbledore needs to understand the extent of this ability and help you navigate the... complications it will bring." She stopped at the top of the staircase, before a gleaming oak door with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin. "He is a wise man, Harry. Trust him."
'But Ethan's voice in his head said something else: "Question everything, even wisdom. Especially wisdom that asks for blind trust."'
McGonagall knocked, and Dumbledore's voice called out, "Enter."
December 17th, 1992, Headmaster's Office, 10:58 PM
Harry had never been in the Headmaster's office before. The circular room was fascinating despite his anxiety—shelves lined with hundreds of books, silver instruments whirring and emitting puffs of smoke, and covering nearly every wall space were portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all currently snoozing in their frames.
"Thank you, Minerva," Dumbledore said from behind his desk. He looked exactly as he had at the Duelling Club—ancient, benevolent, his blue eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. "You may return to your duties. I believe several students may need calming conversations."
McGonagall nodded and withdrew, leaving Harry alone with the Headmaster.
"Please, sit," Dumbledore gestured to a comfortable-looking chintz armchair. "Sherbet lemon?"
"N-no, t-thank you, sir."
"Pity. I find they aid clear thinking, though that may simply be the sugar." Dumbledore popped one into his mouth and settled back in his chair. "Now, Harry, I imagine you've had a rather overwhelming evening."
That was putting it mildly. Harry's eyes roamed the office, taking in the strange silver instruments, the shelf of what looked like glittering magical artefacts, and—there, on a shelf near the window—the Sorting Hat, patched and frayed.
An idea struck him. If he was going to be interrogated about being a Parselmouth, he might as well satisfy his own curiosity first.
"P-professor, w-would you mind if I... c-could I try on the S-sorting Hat again?"
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "An unusual request. May I ask why?"
"I j-just... I w-wanted to ask it something. A-about where I belong." Harry tried to sound casual, though his heart was racing. 'If I'm descended from Slytherin, the Hat would know. It sees into people's minds.'
"By all means." Dumbledore waved his hand, and the Sorting Hat sailed across the room and landed gently on Harry's head.
The effect was immediate. The Hat's voice filled Harry's mind, dry and amused.
'Well, well, well. Harry Potter returns. Having second thoughts about my sorting, are we?'
'I wanted to ask you something,' Harry thought. 'Could I have been in Ravenclaw? Like my dad?'
'Ethan Esther, yes. Brilliant mind, that one. Sharp as a tack and twice as prickly when provoked. You could have followed in his footsteps, certainly. Wit beyond measure, creativity, thirst for knowledge... you've got all the traits for Ravenclaw.'
Harry felt a strange relief. 'So why did you put me in Gryffindor?'
'Because you asked me not to put you in Slytherin, remember? And of the three houses remaining, Gryffindor suited you best. That stubborn courage, that loyalty to friends, that determination to do what's right even when it's hard... those are Gryffindor traits through and through.'
Harry hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning in his mind since Luna's conversation. 'Could I have been in Slytherin? Really?'
'Oh yes,' the Hat said, and there was definite amusement in its voice. 'Very much so. Ambitious, cunning when you need to be, resourceful, a certain disregard for rules that don't make sense. The ability to speak Parseltongue only reinforces it. You'd have done very well in Slytherin House, Harry Potter. Might even have been great.'
Harry scoffed inwardly while the Hat was chuckling in his mind.
'Scoff all you like, but it's true. Slytherin doesn't make people evil any more than Gryffindor makes them good. Houses are tendencies, not destinies. You're exactly where you chose to be, and that choice says more about you than any Sorting ever could.'
"Thank you," Harry reply sheepishly, removing the Hat and placing it back on its shelf. He felt oddly better. If the Sorting Hat—which had literally been inside his head, seen his deepest thoughts—didn't think he was destined to become a Dark wizard, maybe he really wasn't.
Dumbledore was watching him with those penetrating blue eyes. "Did the Hat provide the answers you sought?"
"More or less, s-sir."
Then, a sudden sound made Harry turn.
In the corner of the office, on a golden perch behind the desk, sat a decrepit-looking bird. It was about the size of a swan, covered in dull crimson and gold feathers that were moulting badly. The bird looked absolutely wretched—scrawny, half-bald, and making pathetic coughing sounds.
It reminded Harry painfully of Jasper, though his Golden Snidget friend was vibrant and healthy. He hadn't seen Jasper since September, hadn't been able to bring him to Hogwarts along with Hedwig. The school only allowed owls, cats, or toads, and a XXXX-classified endangered bird definitely didn't qualify. Harry missed the little golden bird tremendously, missed how Jasper would perch on his head or shoulder, missed the cheerful chirping.
'At least Osian was spared Hogwarts,' Harry thought with dark amusement. The Re'em would probably have trampled half the castle by now.
"That's Fawkes, my phoenix," Dumbledore said, noticing Harry's attention. "He's not looking his best, I'm afraid. His time has come."
As Harry watched, Fawkes gave a final, mournful cry—and burst into flames.
Harry eyes widened and jumped back, but Dumbledore remained perfectly calm. The phoenix burned with intense heat, flames consuming its body in seconds. Where the magnificent bird had been was now only a pile of smouldering ashes on the perch.
"P-professor! Y-your bird—"
"Is perfectly fine," Dumbledore said serenely. "Watch."
As Harry stared, something moved in the ashes. A tiny, scrawny, featherless bird poked its head out, looking more like a plucked turkey than anything magical. It gave a weak chirp.
"Phoenixes burst into flame when their time comes," Dumbledore explained, "and then are reborn from the ashes. Fawkes is now a chick again, and will grow back to his full glory in due time. Quite fascinating creatures, phoenixes. Their tears have powerful healing properties, and they are tremendously loyal to their owners. And they make highly… versatile wand cores."
Harry thought of his holly wand, phoenix feather at its heart. 'From a phoenix like this one?'
"Now then," Dumbledore continued, his tone becoming more serious, "I believe we should discuss this evening's events. You must have questions, Harry, and concerns. I hope I can address them."
Before Harry could answer, there was a thunderous knock on the door, and Hagrid's enormous head poked through.
"Headmaster! I need ter speak with yeh about—" Hagrid's beetle-black eyes fell on Harry and widened. "Harry! Yer alrigh'!"
"Mr Hagrid, I am in the middle of—"
But Hagrid was already barrelling into the office, his massive frame making the elegant room feel suddenly cramped. "Yeh can't possibly think Harry's behind this, Headmaster! I won't stand fer it! The boy's as innocent as they come. I don't care if he can talk ter snakes—so what? That doesn't make him a Dark wizard any more than bein' able ter talk ter Hippogriffs makes me one!"
Despite the tension of the evening, Harry felt a rush of warmth. Hagrid—dear, loyal Hagrid—was defending him without hesitation.
"I assure you, Hagrid, I have no intention of accusing Harry of anything," Dumbledore said mildly. "Please, do calm yourself."
"I won't calm meself! Poor boy's probably been scared out of his wits, hasn't he? Whole school turnin' against him for somethin' he can't control." Hagrid turned to Harry, his eyes suspiciously shiny. "I know yeh didn't attack anyone, Harry. Yeh haven't got a mean bone in yer body. Anyone who knows yeh knows that."
"Thank you, Hagrid," Harry said quietly.
"Now, Hagrid, since you're here," Dumbledore said, "perhaps you'd like to join our conversation. I was just about to discuss with Harry the nature of his... unique ability."
Hagrid settled himself in a chair that creaked ominously under his weight. "Parseltongue, yeh mean. Well, I don't see why everyone's makin' such a fuss. So the boy can talk ter snakes. My friend Charlie works with dragons, an' some of 'em can understand Dragonese. Is that Dark magic? Course not."
Harry seized on this. "E-exactly! It's just a language, isn't it? H-how can a language be evil?"
"It cannot," Dumbledore agreed. "Languages are neutral tools. However, Harry, you must understand that Parseltongue carries significant historical weight. Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth, as were his descendants. More recently, Voldemort—" Harry flinched at the name, "—was also a Parselmouth. The ability has become associated in the public mind with Dark magic and Dark wizards."
Harry said, frustration creeping into his voice. "I-i used it to stop those snakes from a-attacking Justin. I-i was trying to help."
"I know that. Professor McGonagall knows that. Hagrid knows that. Unfortunately, in times of fear, people often see what they expect to see rather than what is actually before them." Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Tell me, Harry, have you ever spoken to snakes before? Perhaps without realising it?"
Harry thought back. "There was a boa constrictor at the zoo, when I was ten. I think I spoke to it. I thought I was just thinking at it, but now I'm not sure. It seemed to understand me."
Luna had been right. Harry had been speaking Parseltongue all along without recognising it as anything unusual.
"Fascinating. And you had no conscious awareness that you were speaking a different language?"
"No, sir. It just felt like talking. Normal talking."
Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully. "That is characteristic of inherited Parseltongue ability. Those who learn the language through study experience it as foreign and difficult. Those who inherit it naturally perceive it as their native tongue." He paused. "Do you know what this might mean, Harry?"
'Here it comes,' Harry thought. 'The Heir of Slytherin theory.'
But Harry had spent an hour talking it through with Luna, had systematically considered the possibilities the way Ethan had taught him. He was as prepared as he could be.
"It m-means I might be descended from Salazar Slytherin," Harry said steadily. "Since Parseltongue is supposedly passed down through bloodlines. But it could also mean other t-things."
Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "Such as?"
"S-such as I inherited it f-from Voldemort—" both Hagrid and Dumbledore flinched at the name, "—when he t-tried to kill me. M-maybe his curse transferred some of his abilities to me. Or maybe I'm d-descended from a completely different Parselmouth family and it has nothing to do with Slytherin at a-all. Or maybe it's just a random magical m-mutation that appears in some people." Harry met Dumbledore's eyes. "My Dad taught me to consider all possibilities before jumping to conclusions. I'd need evidence to support any particular theory."
For a moment, Dumbledore looked genuinely impressed. "Ethan is a wise man. You're quite right, of course. Any of those explanations could be true. The lineages of the Founders have spread far and wide over the centuries. Countless families could trace their ancestry back to Salazar Slytherin if they looked hard enough. Being related to him...if you are...would mean very little."
"An' even if yeh are descended from Slytherin," Hagrid added, "that doesn't make yeh evil! Yer mum was Muggle-born, wasn't she? So yeh're half-Muggle either way. Slytherin'd probably turn in his grave knowin' that."
"Quite so," Dumbledore agreed. "Though I suspect Salazar Slytherin's views on blood purity have been somewhat... embellished over the centuries. Historical figures often become caricatures of themselves in legend." He leaned forward. "Harry, I want you to understand something very important. It is not our abilities that define us, but our choices. You could be the Heir of Slytherin himself, and it would not matter if you chose to use your abilities for good."
'That's what Luna said,' Harry thought.
"I-i have a witness," Harry said suddenly. "Someone who can p-prove I was trying to help Justin, not h-hurt him."
"Oh?"
"Luna Lovegood. She was watching the whole duel from the front row. She saw Theodore cast Serpensortia, saw the snakes attack. She can confirm I only spoke Parseltongue to stop them. And she..." Harry voice was steadier than ever.
Dumbledore's expression turned thoughtful. "Miss Lovegood is an interesting young witch. I believe her father publishes The Quibbler?"
"Y0yes, sir. And Luna's... she's very observant. She notices things other people miss."
"I'm sure she does." Dumbledore smiled gently. "Very well, Harry. I believe you. I believe you used your ability to protect a fellow student. However, I must warn you that not everyone will be so understanding. The students will talk. There will be whispers, accusations, fear. You must be prepared for that."
Harry nodded.
"If you need support, my door is always open. As is Professor McGonagall's. And I suspect Mr Weasley and Miss Granger will stand by you as well."
Hagrid sniffled loudly and pulled out an enormous handkerchief. "Course they have. That's what friends do."
They talked for a while longer—about the attacks, about the Chamber of Secrets, about how to handle the inevitable rumours. Dumbledore assured Harry that a thorough investigation would be conducted, that the real Heir of Slytherin would be found, that Hogwarts was as safe as he could make it.
Harry wanted to believe him. The kindly old wizard certainly seemed sincere. But Ethan's training whispered caution: 'Trust, but verify. Benevolence can be a mask for manipulation.'
Still, when Harry finally left the office with Hagrid, he felt marginally better than when he'd entered. At least the Headmaster wasn't trying to expel him or lock him up. That was something.
"Come on," Hagrid said gruffly as they descended the spiral staircase. "Let's get yeh back ter yer common room. It's past curfew, an' the last thing we need is Filch catchin' yeh wanderin' about an' makin' things worse."
"Thanks, Hagrid. For defending me."
"No thanks needed, Harry. Yer a good lad. Anyone who says otherwise'll have ter answer ter me."
They walked in comfortable silence for a while before Hagrid spoke again. "Yer father... Ethan Esther. He's a clever man, isn't he? The way yeh talked back there, about considerin' possibilities—that's not somethin' most twelve-year-olds think about."
"Dad's taught me a lot," Harry said quietly.
"Good lessons, those. Wish more people learned 'em." Hagrid shook his head. "World'd be a lot better place if folk thought before they panicked."
They reached the Fat Lady's portrait, and Hagrid gave Harry's shoulder an encouraging pat that nearly knocked him over. "Get some rest, Harry. Things'll look better in the mornin'. They usually do."
Harry wasn't sure he believed that, but he thanked Hagrid anyway and gave the password to the Fat Lady, who swung open with a sympathetic look.
The common room was empty except for the dying embers in the fireplace. Everyone had gone to bed. Harry climbed the stairs to his dormitory, where Ron was already snoring and the other boys were quiet.
He changed into his pyjamas and lay in bed, staring at the canopy above him. The events of the evening played through his mind on endless repeat—the duel, the snakes, the moment he'd spoken Parseltongue without realising it, the horror on everyone's faces.
'It is not our abilities that define us, but our choices.'
Harry hoped that was true. He hoped that when people calmed down and thought rationally, they'd see he'd been trying to help. He hoped Ron and Hermione would still be his friends tomorrow. He hoped Luna was right about fear fading when understanding grew.
Mostly, he hoped that Ethan would be proud of how he'd handled things—the logical analysis, the systematic consideration of possibilities, the refusal to panic even when panic seemed warranted.
Eventually, exhaustion won out over anxiety, and Harry fell into an uneasy sleep filled with hissing voices and yellow serpent eyes.
December 25th, 1992, Hogwarts Great Hall, 12:47 PM
Christmas Day arrived with fresh snow and a castle almost empty of students. Most had gone home for the holidays, unwilling to stay in a school where attacks were happening. The Great Hall, usually packed with hundreds of students, now held only a single table where the handful of remaining students and staff gathered for Christmas dinner.
Harry had spent the last week in a strange sort of limbo. True to Dumbledore's warning, rumours had spread like wildfire. Students whispered when he walked by, avoided sitting near him in the library, flinched when he spoke. Even some Gryffindors seemed wary, though none had confronted him directly.
But Ron and Hermione had stood firm. They'd made a point of sitting with him at every meal, walking with him to every class, loudly defending him whenever someone made a snide comment within earshot. Luna had done the same, drifting over to join them at random intervals and speaking about Parseltongue as though it were no more remarkable than being able to whistle.
Draco did tried his best to help by throwing some cutting remark blocking the voice of Theodore and his goons. Daphne Greengrass had actually asked intelligent questions about how Parseltongue worked, approaching it as an academic subject rather than a mark of evil.
Still, it was a relief when Christmas arrived and most of the student body departed, leaving Harry in peace.
Now he sat at the small corner of the long table between Luna and Ron, with Hermione across from him, Draco had gone home reluctantly on his father demand.
The feast was magnificent despite the small number of diners—roast turkeys, mountains of roast potatoes, chipolatas, cranberry sauce, gravy, and more wizard crackers than they could possibly pull.
"Excellent crackers this year, Albus," Professor McGonagall said as she pulled one with Flitwick. It exploded with a bang and released a live white mouse, which Flitwick caught deftly and tucked into his pocket.
"Only the best for Christmas," Dumbledore replied cheerfully, pulling a cracker with Hagrid that produced a full-sized flowered bonnet, which Hagrid gamely placed on his head.
Despite the lingering tension of the attacks, the atmosphere was warm and festive. After dinner, Dumbledore and Hagrid led them in carol-singing, with Dumbledore's thin, reedy voice and Hagrid's enthusiastic if off-key bass creating a surprisingly charming duet.
As they finished "Ding Dong Merrily on High," Hermione turned to Harry with a serious expression. "Have you given any more thought to who the real Heir might be?"
Harry had given it a lot of thought. Too much thought, probably. "Whoever it is, they're using the attacks to spread fear. But I can't figure out the pattern. Mrs Norris, Colin, Justin, Nearly Headless Nick... they don't seem to have anything in common except that they're not pure-bloods. Well, except Nick, who's a ghost."
"And the attacks happened during times of chaos or distraction," Ron added. "Mrs Norris during Halloween, Colin after a Quidditch match, Justin and Nick during the duelling club disaster."
"Which suggests the Heir is being opportunistic," Luna said dreamily, nibbling on a piece of Christmas pudding. "Taking advantage of moments when people are distracted or scattered. That's rather clever, actually."
"But how are they doing it?" Hermione's forehead creased with concentration. "Madam Pomfrey says the victims are petrified, not cursed. And the method of petrification isn't anything in any book I've read. Plus, how did they petrify a ghost?"
"The Chamber monster," Harry said quietly. "That's what everyone thinks, right? That's what the message said. 'The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware.'"
"But what kind of monster can petrify people just by looking at them?" Ron wondered. "And how come no one's actually seen it?"
"Perhaps people have seen it," Luna suggested. "But the ones who see it directly die, and the ones who see it indirectly... through a camera, or a reflection, or a ghost... get petrified instead. Draco, once had this suspicion."
The table fell silent as they digested this theory. It made a horrible sort of sense.
"What creature could do that?" Hermione whispered.
None of them had an answer. They continued eating in thoughtful silence, the warmth of the Christmas feast unable to fully dispel the cold thread of fear running through their conversation.
Harry's mind turned to Ethan. His father had sent him regular letters throughout the term, full of encouragement and subtle advice about handling the Parseltongue revelation. But Ethan hadn't been able to visit, hadn't been able to come to Hogwarts for Christmas. The letters had been cryptic about why, mentioning only "urgent matters at the Ministry" that required his attention.
Harry missed him terribly.
As if summoned by Harry's thoughts, a familiar owl swooped through the high windows of the Great Hall—not Hedwig, but a sleek tawny owl Harry recognised as belonging to the Ministry postal service. It landed gracefully beside Harry's plate and extended its leg, which carried two letters.
Harry untied them carefully. One was addressed to him in Ethan's precise, elegant handwriting. The other was addressed to Luna.
"It's from Dad," Harry said, his heart lifting. He handed Luna her letter and tore open his own.
Dear Harry,
First and foremost: Happy Christmas, my brilliant boy. I hope this letter finds you well, warm, and surrounded by friends who see you for who you truly are rather than what frightened people imagine you to be.
I heard about the incident at the Duelling Club. I imagine it's been a difficult few weeks for you.
I want you to know that I am proud of how you handled yourself. Luna wrote to me—yes, I've been corresponding with Miss Lovegood as well. You applied logic, considered multiple possibilities, and refused to let fear override reason. That takes tremendous courage and discipline.
Being a Parselmouth does not make you evil, Harry. As I've always taught you.
Now, as to why I cannot be there for Christmas: I'm afraid I've been detained by what I can only describe as exceptionally cruel bureaucratic nonsense. A Ministry official named Dolores Umbridge ,remember that name, Harry, as I suspect you'll encounter her eventually and she is not to be trusted, has crafted anti-werewolf legislation so draconian it would essentially criminalise lycanthropy itself.
Remus would lose his job. Dozens of others would be forced from their positions, denied housing, marked as dangerous creatures rather than people who happen to suffer from a terrible affliction. The legislation is fear-mongering dressed up as public safety, and I've been working with Sam and others to dismantle it before it can be presented for official vote.
It's exhausting, frustrating work. Dolores Umbridge is a skilled political operator, and she's very good at cloaking bigotry in reasonable-sounding language. But we're making progress. With luck, the legislation will be defeated before New Year.
I know you wanted me there for Christmas, and I wanted to be there. I'm sorry, Harry. Truly. But sometimes we must sacrifice personal happiness to prevent greater harm. You'll understand that as you grow older, though I hope you never have to make such choices as frequently as I seem to.
I've sent along some gifts separately. Nothing too extravagant, but I thought you might enjoy them.
Stay safe, Harry. Trust your friends. Question assumptions. And remember: you are not defined by what others fear you might be, but by who you choose to become.
With love always,
Ethan
P.S. - I've enclosed a small something for Luna as well. Do give it to her with my compliments.
Harry read the letter twice, feeling warmth spread through his chest despite the disappointment of Ethan's absence. His father was fighting for Remus, for werewolves everywhere who deserved to be treated as people rather than monsters. It was important work, even if it meant Harry had to spend Christmas without him.
He looked up to find Luna reading her own letter, a soft smile on her face.
"What did he send you?" Harry asked.
Luna held up a delicate silver bracelet inscribed with tiny runes. "It's a protective charm. He says it will help me avoid 'malicious magical interference' and 'reduce the likelihood of unfortunate hexes finding their mark.' Very practical."
She slipped it onto her wrist, where it caught the light from the enchanted ceiling above.
"Nice," Harry commented.
Ron leaned over. "What'd he send you, mate?"
Harry looked back at the table, where the owl had left a small wrapped package. He opened it carefully to find a beautiful leather journal embossed with his initials, a set of high-quality quills, and a small vial of silver ink.
There was a note tucked inside: For recording your observations and thoughts. A Mind Palace is stronger when it has a physical anchor. - E
"Wicked," Ron breathed. "That's a self-replenishing ink vial, isn't it? Those cost a fortune."
Harry ran his fingers over the smooth leather of the journal. It was perfect—practical, personal, and exactly the sort of thing Ethan would choose. Not flashy, but deeply useful.
"He sounds like a good dad," Hermione said softly.
"He is," Harry agreed. "The best."
They finished their Christmas dinner in good spirits despite the shadow hanging over the castle. Whatever else was happening—the attacks, the fear, the whispers about Parseltongue—Harry had his friends, Dumbledore's support, and Ethan's unwavering confidence in him.
As the afternoon light faded and the enchanted ceiling above them filled with stars, Harry made a silent promise: he would find out who the real Heir of Slytherin was. He would stop the attacks. And he would prove that speaking to snakes didn't make him a Dark wizard any more than speaking to owls made him a bird.