"Professor, may I speak to you?" Neville looked up absentmindedly from the pile of parchment rolls he had just collected from a fifth-year class and smiled warmly when he realized that the speaker was Albus Potter.
"Of course, Al," he intoned, switching to the familiar moniker now that they were alone. Calling him Mr. Potter always felt weird as it brought back memories of being in classes with Harry. While it had been odd with all three Potter children, it was especially uncomfortable with Al, as he alone had inherited his father's deep green eyes. "And you know you can call me Neville when we are alone," he added with a smile as Al looked unusually nervous. He had never been nearly as self-assured as his brother but over the past four years, he had overcome many of his insecurities so to see him fiddling with the leather strap of his book bag and avoiding Neville's eye was unsettling. "So, what did you wish to speak about?"
Al looked up, surprised, as though he had forgotten why he was standing there. Neville was about to ask him if he was feeling all right when he spoke, "I need to ask you something but I was hoping that you wouldn't tell my dad."
Neville looked at him; he knew that Al and Harry were close and he could not imagine what he would tell his professor and would not tell his father. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that, Al."
Al widened his eyes and pushed his hands against the oak desk, gazing intently at his parents' old friend. "No," he said, his voice rising in earnest. He seemed to realize it and purposely took a slowly breath, his hands relaxing against the dark wood before speaking again. "It's nothing serious; I just want to tell him on my own terms."
Neville looked into the pleading emerald eyes, sparkling in the early afternoon sun and knew he could not deny his request. "Okay," he said slowly, to ensure that Albus knew he was cautious about involving himself in this, "ask away."
"I heard from…somewhere," Albus began in a way that made Neville question the legality of source, "that my dad is a parseltongue and I know you knew my dad in school and I was wondering if you could possibly confirm it…or deny it or, you know. But if you don't know or don't want to tell me then it's fine and I'll just leave." Albus said all of this in a fast, high voice and turned as though preparing to race to the door of the greenhouse.
"Wait, Al," Neville said, trying rather hard not to laugh, "I'll tell you what I know. I doubt your dad would mind, though I don't know why you won't ask him but it seems like harmless information." In truth, Neville was sympathetic to Albus' plight. Rumors about Harry Potter were common in the halls of Hogwarts, some rather wild and unflattering, so it was no wonder that his children would be eager to discover the facts. Unfortunately, Neville could confirm this particular unpleasant rumor and he was rather reluctant to do so. Despite attempts to rectify false prejudices against the Slytherin house, that Voldemort had been a parseltongue was widely known and so the trait remained a sign of a dark wizard.
Taking a deep breath, he answered, "Yes, he was though I only saw him do it once."
Neville was not sure what he had expected Al's reaction to be: perhaps slumped shoulders and rattling breaths or wide eyes filled with anguish or even a gasp of horror. What he did not expect was a curt nod, as though Neville was merely confirming something he considered fact, and a very well phrased follow up question, "You don't happen to know if it's a family trait or if there is some sort of magic involved to cause a wizard to become parseltongue?"
Some sort of magic.
Neville knew that was Al's politically correct way of referring to the type of dark magic that wizards of his generation only spoke of in hushed, intimidated voices. He decided to address the former inquiry first. "Well, I know that You-know, I mean, Lord Voldemort," Neville began with a wince, hating that after all these years he still had difficulty saying the name, "inherited the trait from his ancestors but I don't know about your father. I'm afraid that I don't know much about the trait at all. I'm sure there are many people who know much more on the subject than a Herbology Professor. Your dad, for example."
This statement was met with a short silence in which Al knit his eyebrows together, apparently thinking. "Yes, I'll do that," he finally said in a polite, clipped way that told Neville that he had no plans whatsoever of taking his advice. Neville decided not to press the matter but watched with anxious eyes as Al picked up his book-bag, gave Neville the tiniest of waves, and pulled open the heavy door of the greenhouse, disappearing from Neville's sight.
***
Albus closed the door behind him harder than he had meant but his mind was too preoccupied to care. His father had always told him that he had a vivid imagination and now he disparaged it as ideas raced across his mind, colliding and molding and birthing new ideas, most of them too uncomfortable on which to dwell.
"So, what did he say?"
Al turned his head quickly in the direction of his best friend whom he had momentarily forgotten had been waiting for him. "Not much we didn't already know," he said in a voice he forced to be calm.
"I don't believe you," Scorpius Malfoy answered candidly, placing himself directly in front of Albus, "You're shivering." The dry tone of his voice was cut by something Al recognized as concern.
"It's cold out here," Al said quickly, knowing it was a weak defense as it could not have been less than sixty degrees on the sunny September day.
"Right."
"I meant in comparison with the temperature of the greenhouse," Al amended, his voice rising unintentionally.
"Look," Scorpius said, ignoring Al's most recent decoy completely, "the only reason I waited outside was because you promised to give me a blow by blow of the conversation."
"Fine," Albus said, partly because he did owe it to Scorpius and partly because there was so much racing through his head that he thought it might explode if he did not let it out. "Well, first he confirmed that my dad is a parseltongue –"
"Which we already knew."
"Do you want me to tell you what happened or do you want to interrupt? Probably the latter since we all know how much you love the sound of your own voice!" Scorpius raised his eyebrows, trying to look cool and intimidating, but Albus could see he was hurt. "Sorry, Scor," he muttered, waiting for Scorpius to nod his head, which served the dual purpose of accepting the apology and urging Al to continue, "So, then he said that he had only seen him actually do it once and that he didn't know where my dad's power came from." Albus stopped, not sure he wanted to continue.
"Did you ask him whether he knew how the parseltongues were generally formed?"
"He didn't know in general, only that Voldemort's power was passed down through his family." He had now reached the part that had caused him so much discomfort in the greenhouse.
"Well," said Scorpius, his grey eyes staring at nothing in particular as he absorbed this information, "that really isn't anything we didn't already know."
"Yeah," Albus said, though he had not listened to the statement with which he was now agreeing. His train of thought was immediately interrupted by a pale hand waving wildly in front of his face. "Merlin, Scor," he said, grabbing the wrist attached to the inquisitorial hand and pulling it to the side, "Are you trying to give me a seizure?"
Using his free hand, Scorpius gently peeled Albus' fingers from around his wrist and flexed it several times before asking, "Something wrong, Al? You seem a little on edge." Al sighed and ambled slowly to the nearest bench, thinking about the catalyst of this expedition. Scorpius had casually mentioned that his dad had accidentally given information that had led to the natural conclusion that Harry was a parseltongue but when Scorpius had inquired further, Draco had told him he did not feel comfortable talking about it. Ever since then, Albus had become obsessed with discovering more without raising suspicion from his parents and aunts and uncles. But the library had yielded practically nothing on the subject so he had gone to Neville, knowing he was the only adult he truly trusted to keep his secret. And now he had said something that had shaken Albus and he was not sure how to relay the information to Scorpius.
***
Scorpius watched his closest friend collapse on a stone bench and walked swiftly towards him, glaring at a couple second-year Ravenclaws nearby who scattered. He smiled satisfyingly to himself, acknowledging that being a prefect had its benefits, but immediately curved the corners of his mouth towards his pointed chin, watching Al clearly battle an internal struggle. "Want to tell me what happened in there that got you so upset?" he asked casually, though his jaw tensed as he sat down and Al turned his face in the opposite direction.
He had expected Al to deny his mood, but instead he said, "I already told you."
"So are you upset that Longbottom confirmed your dad's a parseltongue, that he doesn't know why, or that Voldemort is the most well known parseltongue? Because, I have to tell you, we already knew all that." He watched as Al's shoulders tensed as he slowly twisted his head down and center before lifting it towards his friend and Scorpius was shocked to see real fear flooding from his almond-shaped eyes. "Ok, Al, you have to tell me what's wrong," he said in a quiet urgency.
Al shook back his shaggy head and sighed, "Ok, so while Longbottom was talking, I sort of pieced together a theory that kind of freaked me out."
Scorpius snorted. "I'll say, I haven't seen you so white since James fixed the stairs so that you toppled into that suit of armor and charmed it so you were stuck in there for seven hours."
"If I hadn't been claustrophobic before that, I definitely am now," Albus said with a shudder. Scor smiled gently, encouraging Al to continue. "Neville just said that he only knew that Voldemort's parseltongue was hereditary and then he didn't say anything about my dad's and he didn't mention any other ways that one could become a parseltongue. So I began to wonder if inheriting it is the only way someone can become a parseltongue and that made me wonder that, since Voldemort's the only known parseltongue of our time, maybe, you know…"
"Your dad isn't related to Lord Voldemort," Scorpius said instantly.
"How do you know?" Al asked callously, kneading his knuckles across his thigh.
"Because your dad is the savior of the Wizarding World, the mascot for the light; there's no way he's related to the most evil wizard of our time!" Scorpius said evenly, knowing it did not really answer the question. "Look, maybe if you just talk to your dad –"
"No," Al said firmly, standing so suddenly that Scorpius slipped off the bench, "We're late for Transfiguration." Scorpius checked his watch, swore, and got to his feet, hurrying after Al back to the castle and up the three flights of stairs to the Transfiguration classroom. He knew the conversation was far from over but the threat of detention loomed much closer. Al yanked the door open and they both stumbled into the room, causing the eyes of the fifth-year Gryffindors to switch focus from their notes to their two harried-looking peers.
"You're late, boys," said Professor Danforth, peering at them from his unusually large, mahogany eyes that seemed even larger in his round, pale face.
"Sorry, Professor," Scorpius said when Al failed to take notice of their predicament, staring blankly at their professor in a way that appeared to irritate him even more, "We lost track of time." It was a weak excuse and he knew it, but what else could he say?
"Five points from Gryffindor," he said, already turning back to the board, "Each." Scorpius sighed softly but it had not been overly harsh so he calmly headed to a pair of empty seats, making sure that Al was following him. As he settled down and pulled out his class notes, he caught sight of Rose Weasley watching him with raised eyebrows, clearing inquiring why they were late. He gave a tiny shake of his head, which she took to mean they would discuss it later and then turned her attention Al, who had made no effort to begin note taking and was absentmindedly fiddling with an eagle-feather quill. Scorpius shrugged, as if to say that he did not know what was wrong with Al. Rose rolled her eyes, clearly in disbelief, tossed back her mane of reddish-brown hair and bent over her notes. Scorpius glanced at Al, beginning to think that maybe he really did have no idea what was wrong with him.
After class, Al got up and was out the door before most of the students had even put away their quills. Scorpius, hurried to catch up with him, jamming his knee into a desk as he ran. Limping in a hurried fashion, he caught up with Al as he practically jogged up a secret staircase that was a straight route to Gryffindor tower. "Al," he gasped, narrowly avoiding a trick step, "Can't you slow down?" Al ignored him but steadied his pace by a fraction, allowing Scorpius to maneuver himself so that he was just below Al's left ear. "I swear, I think you can ease up on the Quidditch training any time now," Scorpius grumbled, clutching a stitch in his side.
"You didn't have to walk with me," Al said, his voice strangely subdued.
"Well, we never really finished talking about the whole parseltongue thing, so I figured that since we're done with classes for the day, we could do it now."
"We talked about everything we know," Al said, quickening his pace again, "So, now we need to discover the things that we don't know."
"And how do you plan to do that?" Scorpius wheezed, his platinum hair slung across his face, damp with sweat.
Al turned, a slightly maniacal grin on his face. "I'm going to the library."
"But we already searched the library," Scorpius panted, "Several times."
"Not the restricted section."
"And who are you going to ask for a note?" Scorpius asked, "Which Professor is going to give you permission to go snooping around the restricted section on a hunch?" They had arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady but Al was too distracted to notice and had gone several paces before he realized that Scorpius was no longer behind him. Rather abashedly, he turned and walked towards Scorpius, seeming to release the fervor he had built up as he slowly retraced his steps.
"I'm not going to ask for permission," he said softly, avoiding Scorpius' gaze, "I'll go tomorrow night, after curfew."
"And how do you plan to not get caught by Filch?" Scorpius asked, lowering his voice as several sixth walked by them, gave the password ("Cornish Pixies"), and climbed through the portrait hole, throwing Scorpius and Albus odd looks.
"By using my dad's cloak," Albus said simply, managing to catch the door before it shut with his seeker reflexes. Scorpius had gone on enough nightly excursions to understand the reference to the invisibility cloak passed down the Potter line. He did, however, spot one huge flaw in the plan.
"Doesn't James have the cloak?" he asked, unconsciously pinching the skin on the back of his hand as he always did when nervous.
"He sure does," Albus said casually, maneuvering himself into the common room.
"And doesn't James get a bit obnoxious when lending it to you?" he asked, following Albus into the almost deserted common room, shooting furtive looks at the third years sitting at a nearby table.
"That is his tendency, yes," Albus said, walking over to a seat near the unlit fireplace and pulling out his Charms homework.
"So, assuming you don't want him to know about your little expedition, considering he may tell your dad, how exactly do you plan to get the cloak?" Scorpius pressed on, placing pale hands on the back of a vibrant red chair, reflecting the gold of the lights.
"Who said I was planning to ask his permission?" Al said, looking up, eyebrows raised and an elfish grin spread across his thin face. When Scorpius continued to look incredulous, he elaborated, "I happen to know that Thursday, first period, James' dorm room is empty so I'll just sneak in, get the cloak, go to the restricted section, and return the cloak the next morning, none the wiser."
"Except me," Scorpius grumbled, "Don't you realize that as a prefect, I should report this?" Al smiled in a way that told Scorpius that he knew Scorpius would never report him, irritating Scorpius even more. "Fine, do what you want but I'm not going to be part of it." Ignoring Al's never wavering smile, Scorpius, too, sat down and pulled out his Charms notes.
"Whatever you say, Scor," Al murmured, taking out an eagle feather quill and a sheath of parchment, "It's ten inches, right?"
"Yeah," Scorpius said, pinching the now pink skin of his hand. "Fine, I'll come," he finally sighed, "but only to keep watch."
"Stop doing that," Al said, prying apart Scorpius' hands, "you'll really do damage." Scorpius rolled his eyes but resolutely continued deciphering his notes, resigned to his newly instated role in Al's mission.
***
The next morning Albus waited until the majority of the Gryffindor boys had gone to class and snuck into the seventh year's dormitory, nimbly shifting between beds, trunks, and various clutter until he reached his brother's trunk. Gently, he pulled it open and carefully sifted through the contents. Considering his normal, devil-may-care attitude, James was surprisingly anal when it came to tidiness so it did not take Al long to find the slippery, silver cloak folded under a pile of cashmere sweaters. He tucked it into his leather bag and slipped from the room as quietly as he had entered, unaware that a pair of blue eyes were watching him from behind the velvet draws of a four-poster bed.
A/N: I'll try to update sometime next week. Lots of love, Miiamya