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Dawn creeps through the enchanted windows of Slytherin's dormitory, casting an eerie green light across the stone floors. Harry Potter sits cross-legged on his bed, dark red hair falling across his forehead as he watches his dormmates slowly wake.
Theodore Nott is the first to fully rouse, his sharp gray eyes immediately finding Harry. "So," he says, pushing himself up against his headboard, silk pajamas rustling softly. "About last night's little incident."
"Incident?" Draco emerges from his curtains already looking immaculate, though Harry catches the slight tremor in his hands as he reaches for his hair potion. "Is that what we're calling it when five fourth-years threaten to hex us into next week?"
"Among other things," Harry replies mildly, though his emerald eyes glint with calculation. "The question is what we do about it."
Crabbe and Goyle exchange glances - even they understand this isn't something that just goes away. Goyle, in particular, looks troubled, his large hands clenching and unclenching on his blanket.
"Simple," Draco declares, moving to his trunk. "I'll write to Father this morning. He'll have those idiots expelled by week's end. No one threatens a Malfoy or his allies without facing consequences." He pulls out expensive parchment and a silver-inlaid quill. "I'll make it clear that any action against us is an action against House Malfoy itself."
Harry watches Draco for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortable. When he finally speaks, his voice carries that particular tone that makes even professors pay attention.
"And what happens next time, Draco?"
Draco's quill pauses above the parchment. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Harry says, unfolding his legs and standing in one fluid motion, "what happens the next time someone decides we're easy targets? Do we run to your father again? And the time after that? Do we spend the next seven years - the rest of our lives - hiding behind other people's power?"
"It's called using available resources," Draco responds, but there's a defensive edge to his voice now. "Father always says-"
"Your father," Harry interrupts smoothly, "built his power through his own cunning and ambition, his own smartness. Do you think he became influential by writing to his father every time someone challenged him?"
Fuck, he's right, Theodore thinks, leaning forward with growing interest. Most firsties would jump at Lucius Malfoy's protection. But Potter's seeing three moves ahead.
Harry begins to pace, his bare feet silent on the cold stone. "We're Slytherins. We're supposed to be cunning, ambitious, resourceful. But look at us - our first instinct when threatened is to run to authority figures like scared Hufflepuffs."
"Hey!" Crabbe protests weakly, then colors when everyone looks at him. "I mean... what else can we do? They're fourth-years. They know more spells."
"Knowledge isn't just about spells, Vincent," Harry says, using Crabbe's first name deliberately. The larger boy straightens slightly at the respect. "It's about understanding people. Their weaknesses. Their pressure points."
"You're talking about revenge," Theodore observes, not disapprovingly.
"I'm talking about establishing our position," Harry corrects. "Right now, we're seen as helpless first-years who need protection. But what if we changed that perception? What if we solved this ourselves, in a way that makes it very clear we're not to be messed with?"
Goyle shifts on his bed, clearing his throat. "That... that makes sense. Like what you did for me in Transfiguration. You didn't ask McGonagall to make Flitwick's nephew stop calling me stupid. You just... handled it."
Harry's lips curve into a genuine smile. "Exactly, Greg. We handle our own problems. We protect ourselves and each other. That's how we earn real respect, not borrowed influence."
Draco sets down his quill slowly, and Harry can see the moment the blonde truly understands. "Father would actually approve," he admits quietly. "He's always saying the best power is the kind you build yourself."
"So we're agreed?" Harry asks, looking at each of them in turn. "We handle this ourselves?"
"What did you have in mind?" Theodore asks, and there's an eager glint in his eyes that suggests he's already imagining possibilities.
Harry pauses. Then, as if the thought just occurred to him, he asks casually, "That fourth-year who threatened us - Mulciber, was it? He had a snake wrapped around his neck."
Theodore nods, adjusting his position on the bed. "Harrison Mulciber. Thinks having a pet snake makes him intimidating." He snorts derisively. "Only uses it to scare younger students. The snake probably hates him as much as everyone else does."
"Interesting," Harry murmurs, tapping his fingers against his knee. "What if we could turn his own snake against him? Make his tool of intimidation into his downfall?"
The others exchange skeptical glances.
"Potter," Draco says slowly, "that's... creative, but how? It's not like you can just ask the snake nicely to switch sides."
"Unless you happen to know Parseltongue," Theodore adds with a chuckle, clearly joking.
Harry's fingers stop their tapping. "Parseltongue?"
The dormitory falls silent. Four pairs of eyes turn to stare at Harry with expressions ranging from disbelief to pity.
Damn it, Harry thinks, recognizing the look immediately. They think I'm ignorant. Some muggle-raised fool who doesn't know basic wizarding knowledge.
He hates that feeling with a passion that surprises him.
Theodore recovers first, though his chuckle holds an edge of disbelief. "Whoever decided to throw you with the muggles was an idiot," he says, shaking his head. "Parseltongue is the ability to talk to snakes. Speak their language, understand them, command them."
"It's an incredibly rare gift," Draco adds, his tone taking on the lecturing quality he uses when discussing pureblood superiority. "Maybe a handful of wizards each century can do it. The last known Parselmouth was..." he pauses significantly, "the Dark Lord himself."
Harry keeps his expression carefully neutral, filing this information away. Snake language. Voldemort could do it.
"Right," Harry says slowly. "So unless we suddenly develop this rare ability, the snake plan won't work."
"Actually," Theodore interjects, a calculating look entering his grey eyes, "I might have a different approach. Something that doesn't require rare magical gifts, just good old-fashioned Slytherin cunning."
𓃴
𓃴
The autumn wind bites with unusual sharpness as the first-years gather on the Quidditch pitch for their inaugural flying lesson. Harry studies the assembled brooms with a critical eye - ancient Cleansweeps with bristles pointing in every direction, their polish long since worn away by countless students. He selects one that seems marginally less decrepit than the others.
Across the field, Gryffindors cluster together, shooting suspicious glances at the Slytherin contingent. The house rivalry that simmers in classes threatens to boil over here in the open air, away from the moderating influence of classroom walls.
"Right then!" Madam Hooch's voice cuts through the morning chill like a whip crack. Her hawk-yellow eyes survey both groups with equal sternness. "Welcome to your first flying lesson. Today we'll cover the basics - summoning your broom, mounting, and simple elevation. No showing off, no racing, and absolutely no attempting advanced maneuvers."
She positions herself between the two house groups. "Everyone stand on the left side of your broomstick. Stick your right hand directly over the broom and say 'Up!' Say it with authority - brooms respond to confidence."
"Up!" The command echoes across the pitch in various tones of determination and uncertainty.
Harry's broom rockets into his hand with such force that the impact stings his palm. Several students turn to stare, including a stocky Gryffindor with sandy hair and a perpetual sneer.
"Figures," the boy - Cormac McLaggen, Harry recalls from the Sorting - mutters just loud enough for everyone to hear. "Probably practiced all summer while his Death Eater friends taught him dark magic."
The temperature seems to plummet. Daphne Greengrass inhales sharply beside Harry, while Draco's hand twitches toward his wand pocket.
Harry turns slowly, his expression perfectly calm except for the dangerous glitter in his green eyes. "I'm sorry, I don't believe I caught that. Would you care to repeat it?"
McLaggen steps forward, emboldened by his housemates' presence. "You heard me, Slytherin. Everyone knows what your sort get up to. Dark magic, Death Eater meetings, probably learned to fly on the backs of thestrals fed with muggle blood."
"How creative," Harry responds. "Tell me, McLaggen - is this level of imagination why you're struggling with first-year Charms? Or is it natural stupidity?"
McLaggen's face flushes an ugly red. "At least I'm not betraying my family legacy! Your parents would be ashamed to see you sorted into Slytherin. James and Lily Potter were heroes, Gryffindor heroes, and their son's nothing but a snake!"
The silence that follows is deafening. Even Madam Hooch seems frozen, caught between intervening and seeing how this plays out.
Harry tilts his head slightly, studying McLaggen like a particularly interesting specimen. When he speaks, his voice is soft, almost gentle, which makes it infinitely more terrifying.
"Interesting theory. Tell me, McLaggen - can you speak to the dead?"
"What?" The question clearly throws him. "No, of course not-"
"No?" Harry interrupts, his tone mockingly sympathetic. "Then how exactly do you know what my parents would think? Have you developed some remarkable necromantic abilities the rest of us should know about? Should we alert the Department of Mysteries?"
McLaggen's mouth opens and closes like a fish. "Everyone knows-"
"Ah, 'everyone knows,'" Harry cuts him off again, taking a step forward. McLaggen instinctively steps back. "Everyone knows what they've been told by people who weren't there, repeated by others who never met them, embellished by those with their own agendas. But unless you've been having séances in Gryffindor Tower, you have no more idea what my parents would think than I do."
He pauses, letting his words sink in. "The difference is, I don't presume to speak for the dead. I don't use their memory as a cudgel to beat children who dare to be sorted differently than expected. That, McLaggen, would be truly shameful."
"They fought against dark wizards!" McLaggen sputters, grasping for solid ground. "They died fighting You-Know-Who!"
"They died protecting their son," Harry corrects coldly. "Not their son's future house affiliation. But please, continue dishonoring their sacrifice by using their death as ammunition in a petty school rivalry. I'm sure that's exactly what heroes would want."
"Mr. Potter! Mr. McLaggen!" Madam Hooch finally intervenes, though Harry notices she waited until after he'd thoroughly eviscerated his opponent. "That's quite enough! Mount your brooms, everyone. We have a lesson to complete."
Students scramble to comply, the tension still crackling in the air. Harry swings his leg over his broom with ease that belies his inexperience, noting how natural the position feels.
"On my whistle," Hooch continues, eyeing both boys warily. "Kick off gently, hover for a moment, then touch back down. Nothing fancy! Three... two... one..."
The whistle shrills.
Harry kicks off, and the world transforms.
Oh, he thinks as the ground falls away. This is what I've been missing.
The sensation defies description - not like jumping or being lifted, but like discovering he's always had wings. The broom responds to thoughts he hasn't even fully formed, banking and adjusting to his slightest shift in weight. The wind whips through his dark red hair, and for one perfect moment, all his calculations and manipulations fall away.
He's just a boy who can fly.
Around him, other students wobble at various heights. Some, like Draco, show natural aptitude. Others struggle against their brooms' desires. But Harry barely notices them, lost in the pure joy of flight.
Then Neville Longbottom's terrified scream shatters the moment.
Harry's head snaps around to see the round-faced Gryffindor shooting upward in an uncontrolled spiral, his broom bucking like a maddened horse. Defective charm work, Harry's mind supplies automatically. Or a broom that's finally given up after too many students.
"Mr. Longbottom!" Madam Hooch shouts, but she's too far away, her own demonstration broom not built for speed.
Harry doesn't think. He acts.
Leaning forward until his chest nearly touches the broom handle, Harry wills his decrepit Cleansweep to perform beyond its capabilities. The wood groans ominously, threatening to snap, but Harry pushes harder.
Neville tumbles off his broom thirty feet up.
Harry dives.
The ground rushes up at a speed that would terrify any sane person. Other students scream. At fifteen feet, he stretches out his right arm, snagging Neville's robes just as the other boy's scream reaches a crescendo.
The sudden weight nearly tears Harry from his broom. His left hand, gripping the handle, feels like it might dislocate. But Harry compensates, using the momentum to swing into a curved descent that would make professional Quidditch players weep with envy.
They hit the ground hard but safely, Harry's legs absorbing most of the impact. Neville collapses to his knees, shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
"Th-thank you," Neville gasps, his face white as parchment. "I thought... I was..."
Harry helps him to his feet, noting how Madam Hooch stares at him with amazement. "Just because we are from different houses that does not mean I would have let you to fall and break something," Harry said with a little smile, and Neville nodded in agreement.
"Potter!" Madam Hooch finally finds her voice, striding over with her broom still in hand. "That was... where in Merlin's name did you learn to fly like that?"
"First time on a broom, Professor," Harry responds truthfully, brushing dirt from his robes.
Her yellow eyes widen impossibly further. "First time? That's... that's impossible. That dive, the acceleration, the..." She shakes her head as if to clear it. "I've seen professional players with less instinct."
She turns to the class, which has descended into shocked murmuring. "Class dismissed! Everyone leave your brooms exactly where they are and return to the castle immediately. Potter, you stay."
Students file away reluctantly, shooting curious glances over their shoulders. Harry catches Draco's questioning look and gives a subtle nod - I'll handle this.
When they're alone, Madam Hooch circles him like a hawk evaluating particularly interesting prey. "Get back on your broom."
Harry complies, kicking off with the same easy grace.
"Now," she says, mounting her own broom, "follow me. Exactly as I fly."
What follows is fifteen minutes of increasingly complex aerial maneuvers. Hooch starts simple - turns, stops, elevation changes. Then she progresses to rolls, dives, and feints that would challenge third-year students. Harry matches her move for move, adding occasional flourishes that demonstrate he could do more if asked.
When they finally land, she's actually grinning.
"Incredible. Simply incredible." She runs a hand through her short grey hair. "Potter, you could be the youngest house Seeker in over a century. That instinct, those reflexes... Slytherin hasn't had a decent Seeker in three years."
"First-years aren't allowed brooms," Harry points out.
"There are always exceptions for exceptional talent," Hooch says dismissively. "I need to speak with Professor Snape immediately. He'll want to see this for himself."
No, Harry thinks, remembering Snape's barely concealed hostility. He definitely won't want to see this.
But he merely nods politely. "Of course, Professor."
"Go on back to the castle," she says, already walking briskly toward the school. "And Potter? Well done today. Both with the flying and... the other thing. Your parents would be proud of how you handled that situation."
She's gone before Harry can respond, leaving him alone on the pitch with only the wind for company.
Severus Snape
The acrid smell of potions ingredients permeates Severus Snape's office, mixing with the underlying scent of old parchment and barely restrained bitterness. The Potions Master doesn't look up from his cauldron as Rolanda Hooch enters, though the slight stiffening of his shoulders indicates he's aware of her presence.
"Whatever harebrained scheme you're about to propose," he drawls, stirring his potion, "the answer is no."
Hooch closes the door firmly behind her. "You haven't even heard what I'm asking, Severus."
"You have that look." He still doesn't turn around. "The same one you had when you discovered Charlie Weasley could fly, or when you tried to convince Minerva to let that Clearwater girl try out despite her fear of heights. So I repeat - no."
"This is different," Hooch insists, moving closer to his desk. "Potter has talent I haven't seen in-"
The stirring rod stops moving entirely.
"Potter." The name drips from Snape's lips like particularly toxic venom. "Of course it would be Potter."
"Severus, just listen-"
"No." He finally turns, his black eyes cold as a winter grave. "Whatever athletic mediocrity the boy has displayed in his desperate bid for attention, the answer remains no."
Hooch's hands find her hips in a gesture that's quelled sixth-years. "Mediocrity? Severus, the boy saved Longbottom's life with a dive that would make professional players jealous. On his first time flying! He has instincts, reflexes, spatial awareness that simply can't be taught."
"How wonderful for him," Snape responds with withering sarcasm. "Perhaps he can add it to his already extensive collection of accolades. 'The Boy Who Lived.' 'The Boy Who Got Sorted Into Slytherin.' And now, 'The Boy Who Can Sit On A Broom Without Falling Off.' Truly, we are blessed."
"This isn't about his fame!" Hooch's voice rises. "This is about house pride! You have a potential Seeker, and you're letting personal bias-"
"Choose your next words very carefully, Rolanda." Snape's voice drops to a dangerous whisper.
She takes a breath, visibly controlling herself. "He could be the youngest Seeker in a century. The boost to Slytherin's reputation, to house morale-"
"First-year students," Snape interrupts, returning to his potion, "do not play Quidditch. This is not merely a school rule, but my personal policy for Slytherin House. I will not have eleven-year-old children risking their necks for the entertainment of others."
"There's precedent for exceptions when exceptional talent-"
"I said no." Each word falls like a stone into deep water. "I don't care if the boy can fly circles around the Chudley Cannons while juggling Bludgers. He will wait like every other student."
"This is ridiculous!" Hooch explodes. "Any other Head of House would be thrilled-"
"Then perhaps," Snape suggests silkily, "he should have been sorted into one of those houses. But he wasn't. He's in Slytherin, under my authority, and I will not endanger my students by placing an untested, attention-seeking brat on a broomstick simply because he managed one lucky catch."
"Lucky?" Hooch stares at him incredulously. "Severus, I tested him myself. Fifteen minutes of complex maneuvers that would challenge O.W.L. students. He performed them flawlessly."
"How impressive. The answer remains no."
"This isn't about student safety, is it?" Hooch's eyes narrow. "This is personal. This is about James-"
"Get. Out." Snape's voice could freeze flame.
"He's not his father, Severus!"
"OUT!"
A wave of wandless magic slams the door open. Hooch storms through it, pausing only to deliver one parting shot.
"You're punishing a child for the sins of the dead, Severus. And you're punishing your own house in the process."
The door slams shut with enough force to rattle the specimen jars lining the walls.
Snape stands perfectly still for a long moment, his knuckles white around the stirring rod. Then, with careful deliberation, he resumes stirring his potion.
Not his father? The thought burns like acid. With that arrogant display? That desperate need for attention? The way he flew like rules and gravity don't apply to him?
The potion, which should be a gentle pearl color, has turned an ugly grey. Ruined by over-stirring and excessive force.
Snape vanishes it with a violent gesture.
Just like his father. Expecting special treatment. Expecting rules to bend for the famous Harry Potter. Well, not in my house. Never in my house.
Harry Potter
Evening descends over the Slytherin common room, casting long shadows through the lake-filtered light. The underwater windows show the occasional passage of grindylows and the giant squid's tentacles. Harry sits in a corner armchair, ostensibly reading "Magical Drafts and Potions" but actually observing the room's dynamics.
Most students give him a wider berth than usual - word of the morning's confrontation with McLaggen has spread, along with Madam Hooch's obvious interest in his flying abilities. But one figure approaches: Gregory Goyle.
"Mind if I sit?" Goyle asks, gesturing to the chair beside Harry.
Harry closes his book, giving the larger boy his full attention. "Of course not, Greg."
Goyle settles into the chair, which creaks slightly under his weight. For a moment, he seems to struggle with words, his hands clasping and unclasping in his lap. Harry waits patiently, recognizing this isn't a conversation to rush.
"What you did today," Goyle finally begins, "with that Gryffindor git. The way you shut him down..." He shakes his head admiringly. "My dad always said the best warriors win with words before wands."
"Your father sounds like a wise man," Harry says casually.
"He's... practical," Goyle corrects with a slight smile. "Says there's no point hexing someone if you can make them hex themselves with their own stupidity."
Harry chuckles. "I'll have to remember that one."
"Thank you for standing up to me last night." Harry finally said after a long moment of silence.
Goyle's cheeks redden slightly. "You helped me first. Nobody ever explained things like you do." He looks down at his large hands. "Most people, they just expect you to understand stuff. And when you don't, they call you stupid or thick or..." He trails off.
"But you actually teach," Goyle continues, meeting Harry's eyes. "You break things down, make them make sense. Like that thing about seeing the needle in the match instead of changing the match. Nobody ever explained it that way before."
"Well, if you want more help with Transfiguration, I'm happy to explain things again. As many times as it takes."
Goyle chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that draws curious glances from nearby students. "Yeah, I'd like that. Maybe Herbology too? I keep mixing up which plants try to strangle you versus which ones just want attention."
"Understandable confusion," Harry agrees with a grin. "Though the key is usually in the latin names. 'Strangulata' is generally a bad sign, while 'Adorabilis' just wants cuddles."
"Is that real?"
"Absolutely not, but it should be."
❾¾
𝔖𝔩𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫
The next afternoon finds Harry wandering the grounds alone, his book bag slung over one shoulder. He's told his dormmates he needs solitude to think through their revenge plans, which is partially true. But mostly, he needs space to process the swirling thoughts about friendship, and loyalty.
Harry meanders toward the lake, finding a secluded spot near a cluster of ancient oaks. He pulls out "A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration" more from habit than actual interest in reading.
A rustling in the undergrowth draws his attention. A small grass snake, perhaps hunting mice or simply enjoying the rare autumn warmth, emerges from beneath a pile of leaves. Its scales shimmer with an almost metallic sheen in the dappled sunlight.
"Hello there," Harry says absently, the way one might greet a cat or niffler.
"A speaker!"
Harry's book tumbles from nerveless fingers. The voice - melodious and slightly sibilant - resonates not in his ears but somehow directly in his mind. The snake has risen up, its small head swaying as it focuses on him with an intensity that seems impossible for such a tiny creature.
"You can hear me, young speaker?" the snake continues, slithering closer. "How unexpected! It has been so very long since one of your kind walked these grounds. You smell of old power, ancient power. The walls themselves whisper of you."
"I... what?" Harry manages, his mind racing to process this impossibility. "You're talking. I can understand you talking."
"As I understand you," the snake confirms, coiling near his feet in a position that somehow conveys delight. "Though your accent is strange. Modern, but with echoes of the old tongue. How curious."
Harry's analytical mind kicks into overdrive despite his shock. Talking to snakes. That meant only one thing. Parseltongue.
"Tell me," Harry says, the language flowing from him like he's always known it, "what do you mean about the walls whispering?"
The snake seems pleased by his acceptance. "The castle knows a speaker has returned. The stones remember the last one, though it was before my hatching. The other serpents speak of it sometimes - the chamber that sleeps, the big snake below. Old stories, probably exaggerated."
Harry files this information away for later examination. "Are there many serpents in the castle?"
"Oh yes," the snake says eagerly. "In the walls, the dungeons, the greenhouses. We go where we please, mostly. The two-legs cannot speak to us, so they cannot tell us where not to go."
An idea begins forming in Harry's mind. "The two-leg students... do any of them keep serpents as companions?"
"Only a few," the snake confirms. "Though most are not kind to their serpents. They use them for intimidation, for fear. The black serpent especially - she who lives with the cruel fourth-year. She speaks often of her unhappiness."
Harry's eyes light up. "This changes everything."
"What changes, speaker?"
"Tell me more about this unhappy serpent," Harry requests, settling cross-legged on the ground. "What's her name? What does she say about her... owner?"
The grass snake coils more comfortably, clearly enjoying having an audience. "She is called Sylvia, a milk serpent of impressive size. Her two-leg - Mulciber, the others call him - uses her to frighten younger students. He does not feed her properly, keeps her confined when she is not being used for his games. She dreams of escape but knows not where to go."
"And if someone could speak to her?" Harry prompts. "If someone could offer her a better situation?"
"She would be most grateful," the snake says immediately. "Serpents are loyal to those who show them respect, speaker. We remember kindness as long as we remember cruelty."
A snake that's already predisposed to dislike its owner, used as a tool for intimidation, dreaming of escape... it's perfect.
"Where can I find more serpents to speak with?" Harry asks.
"Everywhere, if you know where to look," the snake responds. "The greenhouses are warm. The dungeons have many hiding places. Even the library has a few who enjoy the quiet. Would you like me to spread word that a speaker walks the castle again?"
"Not yet," Harry says quickly. "This ability... I think it should remain secret for now. But I would very much like to meet Sylvia. Can you arrange that?"
"Of course, speaker. She suns herself by the greenhouses most afternoons when her two-leg is in class. Tomorrow, perhaps?"
"Tomorrow," Harry agrees.
They continue talking for another hour, Harry learning about the secret highways of the castle that only serpents know, the gossip they overhear, the things they see that wizards miss. By the time the snake slithers away with a promise to return, Harry's entire worldview has shifted.
I can talk to snakes, he thinks, staring at his hands as if they might show some sign of this ability.
Standing and brushing off his robes, Harry allows himself a genuine smile. The fourth-years thought they were intimidating when they threatened him with a snake. They have no idea how badly they've miscalculated.
Let's see how intimidating they are, Harry thinks with dark satisfaction, when their own weapon turns against them.
Tomorrow, he'll meet Sylvia. And then... then he'll show everyone exactly what kind of serpent they've awakened.
𝔖𝔩𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫
𝔖𝔩𝔶𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫
Thursday evening arrives with ominous clouds and the promise of rain. Harry takes his time after dinner, deliberately separating from his usual group with murmured excuses about needing a particular book from the library. His dormmates accept this easily - Harry's studious nature is well-established.
But Harry doesn't go to the library.
Instead, he takes a circuitous route through the castle, choosing corridors he's mapped during late-night explorations. Third floor, past the trophy room, down a narrow staircase that most students don't know exists, through a shortcut behind a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.
He emerges in a dead-end corridor near the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom - isolated, rarely traveled after dinner, with only one exit. Perfect for an ambush.
Which is exactly what I'm counting on, Harry thinks, pulling out a random textbook and leaning against the wall in apparent absorption.
He doesn't have to wait long.
Footsteps echo from the main corridor - multiple sets, moving with the confidence of predators who've spotted prey. Harry affects a look of surprise as five figures round the corner, blocking his only escape route.
Harrison Mulciber leads them, Sylvia draped around his shoulders like a living scarf. Her scales gleam black with hints of red in the torchlight, and Harry can see the intelligence in her dark eyes as she focuses on him.
"Well, well," Mulciber drawls, his voice carrying the particular arrogance of someone who's never faced real consequences. "Little Potter, all alone. No prefects, no loyal dog to protect you."
"Hello, Mulciber," Harry responds mildly, closing his book casually. "Fancy meeting you here. I don't suppose we could discuss this like civilized wizards?"
One of the other boys - Rosier, Harry thinks - barks out a laugh. "Civilized? You cost us house points with your showing off, made us look bad in front of Flint."
"You made yourselves look bad," Harry corrects, tucking his book into his bag with unhurried movements. "I just happened to be there when you did it."
Mulciber's face darkens. "Still got that smart mouth, don't you? Maybe we should teach you what happens to first-years who don't know their place."
"Yes," Harry says thoughtfully, "you mentioned something about that before. How did that work out for you?"
"No friends to save you this time, Potter," another boy adds, pulling out his wand. The others follow suit - five wands pointed at one apparently defenseless first-year.
Harry's lips curve into a smile that would terrify anyone truly paying attention. His eyes glitter with anticipation rather than fear.
"Friends?" he says softly. "Oh, I don't need friends."
His voice changes, becomes something Other. "I have something much more reliable."
The change is instantaneous.
Sylvia's head snaps up, her entire body going rigid with shock. "Speaker!" she hisses in delight. "Finally, finally a true speaker! I had begun to think you were only legend!"
"What are you doing?" Mulciber demands, trying to grab his pet as she begins moving around his shoulder, trying to escape him. "Sylvia, stop! I command you to stop!"
But Sylvia's already responding to Harry's will, her coils shifting from decoration to weapon.
"Show him," Harry commands in that terrible, beautiful language. "Show him what you think of his treatment. Show them all. But don't kill him. Not yet."
"With pleasure, speaker," Sylvia responds, her coils tightening around Mulciber's neck much faster than anyone expected.
Mulciber's eyes bulge as his airway constricts. His hands scrabble uselessly at the scales he's taken for granted, the pet he's treated as an object rather than a sentient being. The wand tumbles from nerveless fingers as survival instinct overrides magical training.
"This one has been cruel to others," Sylvia reports, sounding deeply satisfied. "He uses me to frighten children, keeps me hungry to make me more aggressive. Shall I squeeze tighter, speaker? Shall I show him what fear truly feels like?"
The other fourth-years stand frozen, wands half-raised, clearly terrified to act lest they make things worse. One actually takes a step backward, his face pale as parchment.
Harry steps forward casually, hands still in his pockets, looking completely unconcerned that a student is turning purple in front of him.
"You know," he says conversationally, addressing the group while ignoring Mulciber's increasingly weak struggles, "I've been reading about snake-related deaths. Fascinating subject. Did you know constriction can cause unconsciousness in under a minute? Brain damage in three? Death in five?"
Mulciber drops to his knees, his face now an alarming shade of purple. His friends look between him and Harry with growing panic.
"Please," Rosier whispers, his wand hand shaking.
Harry's green eyes snap to him, cold as winter frost. "Please? Interesting word. Tell me, Rosier - how many first-years said 'please' when you cornered them? How many begged before you and your friends decided to have your fun?"
He turns back to Mulciber, who's now on his hands and knees. "Enough, Sylvia. He's learned his lesson."
The snake loosens immediately, and Mulciber collapses completely, gasping and coughing as precious air floods his lungs. Sylvia unwinds from his body with sinuous grace, crossing the floor to Harry without hesitation.
"You saved me from him," she says gratefully as she winds up Harry's leg and arm, settling around his shoulders in the exact position she'd occupied on Mulciber. "I am yours now, if you'll have me. I wish to stay with the speaker who showed me kindness."
"I'd be honored," Harry replies, stroking her scales with genuine affection. "You'll be well-fed, free to come and go as you please, and never used as a tool for cruelty again."
He looks at the five fourth-years - Mulciber still wheezing on the floor, the others pale and shaking. When he speaks, his voice carries a quiet menace that's somehow worse than shouting.
"The next time you think about threatening me or my friends, remember this moment. Remember how easily I took control. Remember that I chose to let him live."
His smile is sharp as a blade, cold as winter moonlight.
"Because next time, I might not be feeling so... merciful."
He walks past Mulciber, pausing at the corridor entrance.
"Oh, and if any of you are thinking of running to the professors? Do remember that using pets to intimidate younger students is grounds for expulsion. And I have a witness now who'd be very happy to testify about all your previous activities."
Sylvia raises her head and hisses agreement, her forked tongue tasting the fear in the air.
"Pleasant evening, gentlemen."
Harry strolls away, humming quietly under his breath - a Celestina Warbeck tune he'd heard at Mrs. Figg's, oddly enough. Behind him, he leaves five thoroughly terrified fourth-years and one gasping boy who's just learned what happens when you threaten the wrong snake.
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