I don't own Harry Potter. All credit belongs to J.K. Rowling. No money is being made from this.

"Serpensortia!"

The snake that burst from the tip of her wand was a common viper. It's body was short, perhaps sixteen inches long, and stocky, its scales not far in color from the dirty grey-brown tiles.

Its unblinking eyes were fixed on her.

They weren't menacing, or angry. They were completely void of emotion, ocular scales giving them an odd, almost alien sheen. Vertical pupils crossed the irises like black stiletto daggers.

Victoria let out an exhale, feeling incredibly stupid. A snake. Honestly. She had to be wrong. Muggleborns couldn't talk to snakes; anything she heard had to be purely consequential. Yes, yes, that was it.

Still, her heart was in her throat, and her wand-arm was trembling with a sick mix of fear and excitement, and she realized she wanted to prove herself wrong.

The girls' bathroom on the second floor was a great spot to do something incriminating in. No one in their right mind would want to be in Myrtle's vicinity. Scratch that. Just no one, period. The ghost was quiet a handful, and her idea of amusement was driving the rare company half-mad with wails.

But Myrtle had her uses.

After the ever-sobbing specter flushed herself down the toilet, she left Victoria an entire room completely free of witnesses, while the threat of her presence was enough to discourage even the noisiest of students from barging in.

The snake's body coiled, ready to spring. What would one say to an animal like that? Hi, how are you, didn't seem to be appropriate.

Victoria stared back at the snake, hoping it would start hissing and solve her dilemma on its own, but the creature kept mum. It was deceptively still, though it could strike faster than an eye could blink. It was a good thing she didn't conjure a deadlier, more exotic specimen.

The snake reared its triangular head, venom glands on the sides of its face prominent, and Victoria did the only thing she could think of.

She told it to stop.

Only it was a long, low hiss that left her mouth, not speech. Or rather, not human speech. The sound sent chills down her back, smooth and raspy, flat and full of feeling at once. It was beautiful, and it flowed like a song of an ancient rite.

"You speak?" the snake hissed, lowering its body and slithering forward methodically. Its tongue flickered in and out of sight, and this intimidating creature which would send most screaming, began to look almost… cute. Victoria slowly crouched, not wanting to scare the animal that just began to warm up to her.

"I speak."

The snake slithered into her lap, enjoying the heat after the cool touch of the tile on its belly. "You're one of us," it said simply, like stating a fact. Victoria, remembering her animagi form, let out a short, affirmative hiss.

She wouldn't know it until much later, but the snake had something else on its mind.

Victoria didn't have the heart to vanish the little viper (who had fallen asleep curled up under her robes), so she gave her the directions out of the castle, the snake's color and its small size letting it blend in with the floor and avoid detection.

Not a minute after, Myrtle popped her head from the toilet.

"Still here, are you?" she said, sniffing loudly.

Victoria didn't bother replying to the ghost. She turned the faucet on and splashed her face with generous handfuls of ice-cold water. The billowing sleeves of her standard Hogwarts robes were heavy with wetness, but she didn't care enough to cast a drying charm.

In the cracked mirror a grim, pale face stared back.

This was absurd. It felt like life was spiraling entirely out of control and the logical grounds she stood on (which, in the magical world, were iffy at best) had disappeared from under her feet and left her hanging mid-air.

She was not adopted. It wasn't denial talking; anyone who had seen her and her parents could tell what they were to each other. She had her mother's face shape, her jutting cheekbones. She had her father's eyebrows, his mile-long jet-black eyelashes, and small lips.

They would've told her if there was anything. Victoria didn't trust people as per rule, but she trusted them that much. No, there was something else at play here.

"You look like Tom when you do that. He was older when I met him, but he used to stare into space so intently. All the girls were in love with him - Olive Hornby -"

"Tom? Tom Riddle?"

Sure it was a common name, especially back when Myrtle lived, but she was grasping at straws here.

Myrtle's pensive mask fell for a moment, revealing surprise. Behind her eyeglasses, the ghost's eyes were wide as saucers. "You know him?"

"I've heard of him. He was the Head Boy in 1945, right?"

Myrtle huffed wetly, settling on the toilet seat like it was a throne. "I suppose he was. I was dead for two years then, and the Ministry put a restraining order because I wouldn't leave Olive -"

Two years ago. 1943. Malfoy said a mudblood died in 1943.

"- alone. You know, I died right here, in this stall, because that little prat was laughing at my acne, and I came here to cry."

Victoria tried not too look too eager. For once, she needed Myrtle in a good mood. "What happened next?"

"I died," the ghost said simply. "Well, I was crying, and that I heard someone speak. It was a boy. I didn't catch what he was saying, but I poked my head out of the door to tell him to leave, and that I'll tell Dippet if he ever noses around girls' lavatory again, and then there were these two huge yellow eyes - right about where you're standing," Myrtle pointed her transparent finger at the row of sinks - "and that was it."

She looked very pleased with herself.

Victoria turned around. There was the mirror, the sink she used right below that, gold paint flaking off the faucet -

It was so tiny she almost missed it. A delicate craving of a snake, rough in texture and blackened with time, grime, and poorly maintained preservation charms, but still there, in the exact shape of the Slytherin crest, its jaws open wide in triumph.

Victoria backed away.

"Thanks, Myrtle," she said, and ran out, pushing past a tired-looking Ginny Weasley in the otherwise empty corridor.

"You weren't at the game," Draco said by the way of greeting.

Victoria, her eyes dull, black bruises lining them, blinked slowly at the boy. "Oh, that. I was busy. How did it go?" she asked half-heartedly, turning another page of thick tome that covered her lap. She seemed to be drowning in the musty parchment.

Draco snorted. "You would have loved it. Someone set a bludger on Potter - I swear it wasn't me" he said, and Victoria didn't doubt him. He wouldn't keep his mouth shut about it if he did. Neither would she, for that matter. "It broke broke his arm."

"Did we win?"

Draco looked down at his shoes, perfectly polished as always, as if they suddenly became very interesting. "No."

"Then why on Earth would I love it?"

Blaise, who was standing behind Draco, tried to cover up his laughter with a cough. "Lockhart," he deadpanned, "deboned his arm."

Victoria's eyebrows shot up.

"Nice to know. I'll make sure not to break my arm around him."

Draco and Blaise shared a long look before taking spots on the couch on either side of her. She stared back and them, still clutching the book. Her hands had curled into a mimicry of claws a long time ago, and the force with which she pressed them into the pages left little indents in the old parchment.

Draco attempted to pry the book from her, to no avail. The muscles in her hands might as well have turned to bone.

Sighing, he gave up on the endeavor, leaning into the soft green cushions and rubbing his face in the most un-Malfoy-like gesture she had ever seen him do.

"You've been here for the past twenty hours. Sooner or later you'll have to put that book down before you starve to death. You look awful. I've never seen you so," he waved his arm at her as if his was unable to pinpoint a specific thing, "messed up before."

"Thanks," she said hollowly, dislodging her fingers enough to turn another page before they locked into place again.

On her right, Blaise frowned. "What Draco means to say is: what are you up to?"

The witch ignored him. Seeing something in the book, her spine straightened suddenly. "Do you know anything about blood-type wards?"

It was impossible to tell who she was addressing, but Draco opened his mouth first: "There's a ward on the Manor that doesn't let mudbloods pass, and a few others that were used when -" he broke off suddenly.

Victoria felt as though a bucket of ice-water had been dumped on her shoulders.

"Oh…" she said, before pulling herself together, "Since they can only recognize blood types, do you think there any ways they can be tricked? How sensitive are they?"

Draco looked at her blankly. "I have absolutely no idea how they work."

"Well, I'm telling you that's how they work," Victoria barked, shutting the book with a disdainful glance. As much as she didn't want to believe in blood, it did matter. Muggleborn, half-blood, pureblood, muggle - these were blood types, as much as the medical A, B, AB, and O. They didn't determine how strong ones magic was - they were just different kinds of magic, with their own unique signatures.

Which begged the question: how did she pass through the Malfoy Manor wards?

Collin Creevy was found petrified the next day.

Severus rubbed his temples tiredly. The dungeon room, his private lab, was even deeper in the bowels of the castle than the Slytherin dormitories, dark and bare, save for a few shelves stocked with books and what could have been a small apothecary in its own right, long tables and the cauldrons set atop them. The fumes of various potions hung thickly in the humid air. It smelled of old parchment and various herbs, decaying flesh and cloying poisons.

The delicate scent of lilies should not have been so overwhelming, but, he mused, nothing can block the draw of Amortentia. The fragrance was stronger than anything else, and it was deadlier to him than the Drought of Living Death brewing in a nearby cauldron.

He made it for his six-year class, and for two days now, he couldn't bring himself to dispose of it.

"Professor?" a muffled voice came from the door. When he didn't respond, there was a particularly loud sound, almost like whoever was on the other side had kicked the door in exasperation.

As much as it was an act of vandalism, it succeeded in drawing Severus into present moment long enough to put the lid back on the cauldron. With a flick of his wand, the door swung open.

Victoria Savorgnan strode in, looking very damn well like she owned the place, and the general expression of disappointment on her face strongly reminded him of the times he cowered before his Master, waiting for approval that rarely came. It was foreign on the face of a second-year, but it fit her. He was different when he came to Hogwarts: timid and quiet. She was a polar opposite, and with a sort of morbid curiosity, Snape wondered just how far the girl could go given time.

"Professor Lockhart found himself in a crisis today - I think he ran out of hair gel - so he promoted me to being his errand-girl, and asked me to give you this," she said, handing him a roll of parchment that despite being tied neatly, showed signs of meddling with. Severus mentally cursed the moron for not placing protective charms on potentially confidential information and handing it to Savorgnan, of all the people. "Collin Creevy was attacked last night, and Professor Lockhart requested a special order on revival potions."

Severus arched an eyebrow. "Lockhart requested it?"

"I suppose he wanted to feel involved. Especially since he's done himself no favors lately."

Savorgnan's eyes strayed to the cauldrons. "Is that Veritaseum?" she asked, drifting closer to the table.

"Don't!" Severus snapped, freezing the girl in her tracks,"Touch anything."

"I wasn't going to, but thank you for the warning," she murmured, craning her neck to get a better look at the transparent liquid inside.

Severus's arm shot out lighting fast, pulling her away from the table by her shoulder. She stumbled, struggling with surprising strength for someone so small, and her hands flailed, accidentally brushing over one of the cauldrons with enough force for the lid to slide open.

His hand on her shoulder loosened. The warm perfume of lilies dispersed through the room, filling every nook with its sweet, soft aroma.

The girl turned around to face him. "Sir?" No response. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Sir?"

"Close the lid," he hissed, blinking quickly, the way a sleepy person often does. She did as bid.

Severus came back to his senses abruptly, startlingly even. Savorgnan was staring at him openly, probably wondering if he lost it.

Wait. Why was she so calm?

Any witch's or wizard's first encounter with Amortentia is the most powerful. He had to pull away a few of his own six-years away from the cauldron, not before casting a discrete bubblehead charm on himself. No one is immune to its effects.

No one, except for the little freak in front of him.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked, knowing full well that any of his second-years knew the answer it would be her.

"No," she said slowly. "Contrary to the popular belief, I am not a walking encyclopedia. Are you… alright, Professor?"

"Yes. Did you smell anything when the lid was open?"

"That depends on why are you asking."

"Don't be insolent, Savorgnan. Did you smell anything at all?"

"No. Nothing. Are you sure you are fine, sir?"

"Get out."

"First a squib's cat, now a mudblood. Cheers to the Heir!"

"To the heir!" they echoed, raising their butterbeer high in the air before drowning it to the bottom.

Victoria joined in. It would look suspicious if she didn't, and she didn't have the grounds to preach high moral values to begin with. She could twist, and shape, and mold. She could make people believe her more than they believed themselves by dangling things they wanted over their heads. And Victoria had something on them now. She could get them to see, slowly, step after step, but she could. She would.

"To Lord Voldemort," she whispered, lifting her drink. "To Myrtle Warren. To everyone whose lives he ruined."

A very much anticipated Tom/Victoria encounter is coming in the next chapter.

What do you think about Victoria's resistance to Amortentia and her parseltongue. I'd love to hear your theories.

On that note, are there any particular relationships you want me to explore. I'm thinking of gradually setting up Snape as a mentor figure, but I'm not sure about friendships yet. Theo? Blaise? Draco? Pansy? Daphne? Someone from another house?

Thank you so much for your reviews. They are amazing and I am honestly shocked at how many positive responses this story got.

Salazara