Harry looked at the vanishing king cobra and let out a small, relieved smile. He turned instinctively to find Ron and Hermione in the crowd—but that was when he noticed something strange.
The faces around him weren't relieved.
They were afraid.
He'd seen this look before and had assumed everyone had been frightened by the snake—but the snake was gone now, turned to ash by Snape's spell. Yet those same fearful eyes were still staring directly at him.
And then it hit him.
They weren't afraid of the snake.
They were afraid of him.
But… why?
Harry blinked, confused. He had no memory of doing anything strange. He'd just told the snake to back off—why would that scare anyone?
He had no idea he'd spoken in Parseltongue. No idea that his voice had hissed out in the tongue of serpents. No idea what they had heard.
"What kind of monster are you?!"
The accusation rang out sharply.
Harry turned in the direction of the voice.
It was Justin Finch-Fletchley—another second-year, a Hufflepuff. Harry recognized him immediately. The boy was staring at him with wide eyes and a mix of fear and revulsion.
Harry frowned. "I don't understand what you mean."
Justin took a step back. "Don't pretend! You were speaking to the snake—in Parseltongue! That's the mark of the Heir of Slytherin! It was you—you must have attacked Mrs. Norris! And Luna Lovegood too!"
The moment Justin spoke those words, the entire room erupted.
Most of the students hadn't fully grasped what Parseltongue meant—but Justin's outburst gave them the context they needed. And it all clicked.
Harry had been present during both attacks. Now, he'd spoken to a snake—just like Salazar Slytherin, whose heir was said to control serpents.
It all made sense to them now.
A Hufflepuff girl let out a shriek and bolted from the hall. A second followed her, then a third. Within seconds, the Dueling Club was in chaos, students fleeing in all directions, whispering Harry's name like it was a curse.
Harry turned to explain, to protest—but as he instinctively reached toward Justin, the boy flinched and recoiled. He swatted Harry's hand away as though he'd touched poison and ran, stumbling over his robes in panic.
At that moment, Ron and Hermione stepped forward to stand beside Harry.
Ron looked at him with a conflicted expression. "Harry… you just spoke Parseltongue. It's said only those with Slytherin blood can do that. That's why they think… you're the Heir of Slytherin."
"Parseltongue? Heir of Slytherin? But I'm not… I'm not the heir…" Harry's voice faltered, overwhelmed.
Before he could finish, a strong hand landed on his shoulder—firm and steady. The pressure was grounding, and Harry immediately felt himself settle.
"Harry," said a calm voice beside him, "breathe. Calm down."
He turned and looked up. Sean was standing next to him—taller by half a head, composed and steady. There was something reassuring in his presence, something that pushed back the panic.
"Sean," Harry said quietly, "you… you know Parseltongue too, don't you?"
Sean nodded. "Yes, I do. Just like Ron said, Parseltongue is often associated with the bloodline of Salazar Slytherin. Some of his descendants have had it, too."
Harry's expression tensed again, but Sean continued, his voice measured.
"But Harry, the magical world is full of mysteries. Think about it—how did Slytherin himself come to know Parseltongue? Maybe he learned it. Maybe he inherited it from someone else. No one knows for sure. So there could be other reasons why you can speak it too."
He looked Harry directly in the eye.
"This doesn't prove you're a descendant of Slytherin. And even if—if—you were, it still doesn't mean you're responsible for what's happening."
Sean's voice dropped slightly, firm but kind.
"None of that changes who you are. As long as you know you haven't hurt anyone, then hold your head high. If people misunderstand you, explain it—if you feel like it. If you don't, ignore them. Time will speak for itself. Rumors die when there's no truth to feed them."
Harry stared at him for a long moment. Then slowly, he took a deep breath.
"…Thanks," he said at last, voice steadier. "I needed that."
Just as Sean had said: Harry hadn't done anything wrong in the first place. There was no need to panic, no need to explain himself to people who had already decided what they wanted to believe. All he had to do now was stick to the plan—keep investigating, find the real Heir of Slytherin, and the truth would prove his innocence in time.
As the last of the students trickled out of the dueling hall, the tension finally began to settle.
Later that evening, Sean and Blaise were making their way back to the Slytherin common room.
On the way, Blaise glanced sideways at Sean and said, "Well, there you go again—encouraging the Savior of the Wizarding World."
Sean gave a light shrug. "Harry's under a lot of pressure right now. If you get the chance, say something to support him."
Blaise made a face. "Support him? Sean, are you really sure he's not the Heir of Slytherin? I mean, he did speak Parseltongue…"
Sean didn't hesitate. "I'm sure. I've never believed Harry was the heir. I've always suspected someone else."
He looked thoughtful for a moment, then added, "As for Parseltongue—it's not necessarily tied to blood. Like I told Harry, it might be possible to learn it. In theory, if someone broke it down—mapped out the sounds and meanings—there's no reason a regular wizard couldn't speak it too."
Blaise blinked at him, taken aback. "Seriously? You mean… it's just a language? Like, learnable?"
Sean chuckled softly. "Exactly. Not easy, but not impossible. But that's not what worries me."
He paused, then looked straight at Blaise.
"Think about it—what happened earlier. Harry spoke Parseltongue. Everyone saw it. And you know how quick people are to panic."
Blaise's smile vanished.
Sean continued, "Now imagine how the older students in our House are going to take that. A Parselmouth in Gryffindor—a suspected Heir of Slytherin in their rival house. How do you think they'll react?"
Blaise shuddered as he imagined it. It was truly horrible.
The two of them returned to the entrance of the Slytherin common room, muttered the password, and pushed open the stone door as it emerged from the wall.
Usually, stepping into the common room meant being greeted by the low hum of conversation, laughter, or the soft crackle of the green fire in the hearth. But tonight, as Sean and Blaise walked inside, the room was silent—unnaturally silent.
It was like walking into the eye of a brewing storm.
Every eye turned to them.
Even the senior Slytherins, the ones who rarely showed their faces outside of class or private study, were present—gathered in clusters around armchairs and alcoves, their expressions tense and unreadable. Among them were several members of the Slytherin Brotherhood's reserve faction, identifiable by the subtle silver-green pins they wore.
Clearly, something had been building while they were away.
In Slytherin House, you could dislike Voldemort. You could openly mock the Dark Lord and be dismissed with a wave of the hand—as long as you weren't foolish enough to insult someone's bloodline while doing it.
But Salazar Slytherin? That was different.
The founder was sacred. Revered. You could challenge his ideals in theory, but if you disrespected his legacy—or claimed that his heir had been Sorted into Gryffindor—that was blasphemy. And in Slytherin, blasphemy had consequences.
Sean barely took two steps in before someone spoke up.
"Sean, you're back," a senior Slytherin said. "Good. We need to talk about this Slytherin's Heir business."