In this matter, the Slytherin Brotherhood Reserve Organization did not shy away from the presence of the other Slytherin students.
Or rather—they couldn't.
As a privileged faction within Slytherin House, their influence came not just from tradition or lineage, but from the recognition and support of their peers. When something as significant as the appearance of the Heir of Slytherin was at stake, they couldn't afford silence. They had to show leadership. They had to take a stance.
Sean's gaze swept across the common room.
Almost all the notable faces were present—many of whom rarely appeared outside of formal gatherings. Even Barrett had shown up, though he lingered quietly on the periphery. He hadn't spoken to Sean recently, and in public he maintained the image of a staunch purist.
In this matter, the Slytherin Brotherhood Reserve Organization did not avoid the presence of other Slytherin students. Or rather—they couldn't avoid it.
As a privileged student group within Slytherin, their influence depended on the recognition and support of their fellow housemates. When faced with a matter as serious as the identity of the Heir of Slytherin, they were obligated to take a clear stance—for everyone to see.
Sean's eyes swept across the common room. Several students were already gathered, waiting. Among them was Barrett, who had recently been keeping a low profile. Of course, outwardly, Barrett still maintained a cold distance from Sean. In the eyes of others, his posture hadn't changed—still distant, still proudly wearing his image as a staunch purist, loyal to the ideals of Voldemort.
To most, he even appeared slightly hostile toward Sean.
"Alright," said Dovlia, breaking the silence, "everyone is here. Let's talk about what happened."
She stepped back slightly, and Irina took her place, her tone composed and authoritative.
"First, we need to be clear about one thing—the Heir of Slytherin cannot and will not be in Gryffindor. That's the foundation of this meeting. So, the fact that Harry Potter can speak Parseltongue must be due to some other reason."
Her eyes swept the room.
"After all, the magical world is full of strange exceptions. Even if an ability is known to appear in a particular bloodline, it doesn't mean it can't show up elsewhere. History has seen plenty of cases like that."
Sean nodded slightly as he listened. He had to admit—Slytherin thinking could be unexpectedly flexible when it served their interests. What Irina said now was, in essence, the same thing he had told Harry earlier. And it was working.
Around the room, several of the younger students visibly relaxed. It was as if Irina's words had provided them with an explanation they wanted to hear—something they could hold onto, believe in, and repeat to others. It settled their doubts.
And, in a way, Irina was telling the truth.
Harry's Parseltongue hadn't come from his bloodline—but from something stranger, more magical. A piece of soul, a mark left behind by a spell gone wrong.
The extremely tense atmosphere in the Slytherin common room finally began to ease. With Irina's calm explanation, many students found a reason they could accept—why Harry Potter, a Gryffindor, might not be the Heir of Slytherin after all.
But in every group, there's always someone who feels the need to speak when silence is golden. The kind of person who defecates in the pool, whispers during a play, or says the wrong thing just when everyone is beginning to relax.
"But... what if Harry Potter really is the Heir of Slytherin, then—"
"Shut your mouth!"
"Shut up!"
"Furnunculus!"
"Stupefy!"
"Silencio!"
"Expulso!"
"Densaugeo!"
Before the poor boy could finish his sentence, seven or eight wands were already raised and casting spells.
Beams of light in every color shot across the room and slammed into him. He was blown off his seat and flung backward, crashing into the stone wall. His teeth grew grotesquely long, his tongue twisted and sealed his throat, his skin broke out in boils, his face puffed up like a cursed pumpkin—until only the smallest slits of his facial features remained. Then, mercifully, he passed out.
And judging by the state of him, if someone didn't act soon, he might very well die under the combined effects of all those curses.
Sean stepped forward calmly, drew his wand, and countered the curses in rapid succession. With a few practiced flicks, the swelling went down, the tongue loosened, and the boils receded. Once the boy was breathing more or less normally again, Sean gave him a casual kick, rolling him into the corner like a sack of potatoes.
Then he turned to the rest of the common room.
"As Slytherins, there are things we can say—and things we absolutely cannot say. I hope this helps clarify the difference."
The room was silent, the tension back—but this time, aligned.
Samuel stood up and added in his cold, even tone, "Exactly. Some things must never be spoken. And some things... must not exist."
He let that hang in the air.
"The Heir of Slytherin cannot be Harry Potter. He's the so-called 'Savior' of Gryffindor. We all understand what that means. I trust you'll remember it."
From there, the meeting proceeded to its conclusions.
First: the entire house of Slytherin would collectively reject the notion that Harry Potter could be the Heir of Slytherin. Whatever rumors might spread in other houses, within Slytherin, the matter was closed. There would be no connection between Potter and the Heir—not in word, not in thought, not in action.
Second: every Slytherin student would begin to search—discreetly—for the true Heir. Clues, rumors, whispers in the halls—anything potentially useful was to be passed on. And the reward? It wouldn't come from the reserve organization.
It would come from the real Slytherin Brotherhood.
As an elite group of Slytherin alumni—pure-blood wizards with power, money, and connections—the Brotherhood rarely involved themselves in school affairs. But the moment the Chamber of Secrets was opened, they began watching. And when word spread that Harry Potter had spoken Parseltongue in front of dozens of witnesses, they responded immediately.
Now, they were offering rewards to any Slytherin student who could uncover the truth.
The meeting ended shortly after. One by one, students returned to their rooms.
------------
Sean and Blaise had parted ways and gone to their respective rooms.
During the earlier meeting, Sean had quietly observed Miles Bulstrode. That guy had changed—he seemed more composed, more calculated than last year. Throughout the entire discussion, Miles wore an indifferent expression, as if the whole affair had nothing to do with him. But when the topic shifted to uncovering the true Heir of Slytherin, Sean noticed a subtle reaction. Slight, but telling.
Still, Sean knew it was no use. Miles had already fallen too deep under the diary's influence. His mind was being eroded from the inside out—dominated, piece by piece, by the consciousness inside the diary. That consciousness didn't want to be exposed prematurely, which meant that even if Miles felt something, he couldn't act. He had no control anymore.
After saying goodbye to Blaise, Sean returned to his room with quick steps. Ever since he gained the ability to speak Parseltongue, he'd been itching to test it out—especially on Kulkan. But the meeting had delayed him.
He muttered darkly to himself. Whether in his past life or this one, one thing never changed: he hated meetings.
Once inside, Sean closed the door and walked over to the corner where Kulkan, his magical snake companion, was coiled up in his den. The serpent raised his head slowly, having just woken from sleep, and blinked at him lazily.
Just as Sean was about to speak, he was interrupted by Kulkan's familiar hissing drawl—now perfectly understandable thanks to his newly acquired ability.
"Ah, the busy human finally returns. Off running about again, are we? Gone before the sun rises, back when the moon's about to give up. And all I get in exchange are those vile, tasteless snake pellets. Honestly, even two raw eggs would've been better than that slop. You know, sometimes I wonder if I offended some ancient snake god in a past life to end up like this in this one."
Sean stared at Kulkan, his expression unreadable, and the talking snake immediately grew nervous.
When Kulkan began to slither forward, preparing to act spoiled and maybe rub against Sean's leg like an overgrown scaly cat, Sean turned away and casually called out, "Hogwarts house-elf."
Pop!
A house-elf appeared, bowing deeply. "Master Sean called?"
"Bring me some raw eggs," Sean said. "And if it's not too much trouble, a little fresh meat as well."
The house-elf bowed again, nodded quickly, and vanished with a snap.
Sean turned back to Kulkan with a slow, wicked smile curling at the corners of his mouth.