The Man With Two Shadows

It took five nights of practice before Harry was able to wiggle the bolt on his cupboard open with a bent nail. There wasn't much of a crack between the door and the wall, only enough to slide a few millimeters at a time, and the bolt was heavy enough that if he wasn't pressing at just the right angle the nail would slide instead of moving the bolt.

Harry persisted, counting the seconds in his head as he levered the bolt, hoping each night that he could slip it free before the second hour after sunset. Each time when he failed, he had to painstakingly lever it back into place before allowing himself to sleep - it wouldn't do to raise suspicions.

Finally, the sixth night, the fates seemed to conspire in his favour. Uncle Vernon had gone to bed early with a headache, Aunt Petunia was in the study taking care of accounting, and Dudley had gone to visit one of his friends for the evening. An hour after dark Harry had the cupboard open, slipped out as silently as a serpent and quietly bolted the door behind him. He tiptoed to the back door, left unlocked to await Dudley's return later that night, and slipped out without a sound.

He walked slow and quiet down the walk, his heart pounding with nervousness, staying close to the hedge until he was well out of sight of the upstairs windows in case his aunt happened to glance outside. As soon as Harry was out on the sidewalk, he broke into a run. He had forty minutes by his count, which would be plenty of time to reach the park at a walk, but everything was going so well he was terrified that he would arrive only to find he had missed the allotted time.

Harry had to slow before he was halfway, out of breath. In his desperate desire to reach the park on time, he'd failed to pace himself and pushed much harder than he was used to. He held his side, walked as quickly as he could manage toward his destination. His head ached, the exhaustion pulsing through him as he tried to recover.

He hurried on, tingling with excitement that almost drowned out his weariness. He was going to meet someone else like him. Someone with the secret, rare ability that he had only discovered so recently. Another sliizashisa, whatever the strange word meant.

He reached the park, only to be confronted with another problem. It was occupied by dozens of people. Couples, joggers, people waiting for the bus. . .

Harry looked around, tried to see if anything seemed out of place, if there was anyone who gave an indication of being different. No one within his sight seemed unusual.

He walked toward the center of the park, looking around slowly and carefully, suddenly acutely aware that he was out alone at night. Even Dudley wasn't supposed to be this far from home alone. It wasn't safe.

"Are you lost, dear?"

Harry jumped at the voice, accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. He whirled to face the woman who'd spoken. "No! I'm meeting someone. He should be right over there. Thank you."

He gestured vaguely toward the other end of the park, ducked away from her and ran.

What was he thinking coming out here on the word of a snake?

Snake.

He stopped short, knelt on the ground, looked around. "Hello," he hissed quietly. "Anyone down here? Can you tell me where master-not-master is?"

"I'm right here," came a voice, quiet, hissing, but distinctly human.

Harry straightened, turned slowly. His forehead was aching worse now, exhaustion and fear and something more.

A man stood there, cloaked in black. The first thing Harry noticed was the bright green stone in the heavy gold ring on the man's hand, before his gaze traveled up to the hooded face. What little Harry could see appeared much younger than Uncle Vernon or his occasional visitors. The man was probably in his thirties. His lips were curved up in a gentle smile. "Greetings, fellow Heir," he whispered, still in that hissing voice that Harry knew instinctively was the same as serpents spoke.

"Heir to the snakes, the sliizashisa?" Harry asked. His heart was still pounding, Harry felt his hands trembling with nervousness. He didn't want to seem ignorant, but he wanted information, and he had the horrible feeling that with this man he would not get a second chance at. . . anything.

The man's smile changed, a tempered curious look. "Heir of Slytherin," he translated. "Though to a snake, the word you are saying means only Slytherin, and you are too young to have been Sorted."

Harry did not understand this at all. "You wanted to meet me?" he asked, looking down at the man's ring again, his voice faint. "I don't want to bother you with too many questions."

"It is no bother, young Heir. We must get to know one another very well, after all."

Harry felt a shiver run through him, starting at his forehead and slipping icily down his whole body. "Why?" he asked, unable to manage more than the single word. He was suddenly very afraid of this man, and cursed himself for rushing off to a secret meeting like this at night.

"Don't be afraid. Look into my eyes."

Harry slowly raised his head. The man had pushed his hood back a bit, exposing the rest of his face. It was not a sinister face at all, he looked kindly, though a bit stern. His smile shifted again, becoming almost sad.

"I am a teacher at an exclusive boarding school," the man said, his eyes searching Harry's. "My name is Quirinus Quirrell. I have reason to believe that you will shortly be extended an invitation to attend this school. As I am a professor there and you have had no exposure to our world, I thought it wise to come and introduce you to the truth in person."

He gestured with one hand, and a large snake's head emerged from his sleeve. "This is Nagini, my close friend and confidant. It is she who worked tirelessly on my behalf to arrange this meeting."

"Greetings, smaller-master," she hissed, bobbing her head respectfully to Harry.

Harry nodded back. "I'm pleased to meet you, Nagini." The fear was seeping out of him now, but that only brought the evening chill to his notice. Harry wished he had a coat.

Quirinus Quirrell seemed to notice his discomfort. "Oh, how foolish of me. Here, let me. . ." He turned to the side, moved his arm in a careful motion, then pulled a thick cloak of dark fabric that matched his own out from his other sleeve. He held this out to Harry. "Do you want to walk, or sit down?" he asked. "This conversation could take some time."

Harry wrapped the cloak around himself, warm and comfortable. He glanced over, saw an empty park bench nearby. "We could sit," he offered tentatively.

The professor smiled, and Harry wondered what other things he hid in those big sleeves of his. Nagini slithered out and off into the darkness, to hunt for her dinner if Harry's guess was correct. He usually was, with snakes. He had much experience with them and good instincts.

They crossed to the bench, sat down.

"I am sure you have a great many questions already, young Harry," the professor said, folding his hands in his lap. "You may ask them whenever you wish, I shan't think less of you for the curiosity. I am a teacher first and foremost, and an eager mind full of questions is one of the greatest gifts a teacher can find in a student."

Harry nodded, but wasn't ready to speak yet.

They sat in silence a moment, then the professor continued before the quiet could grow uncomfortable. "You have spoken with snakes for several months now," he said. "And from what they tell me, you have tried to converse with them for as long as you've been living here. Why?"

"Well, sir, they were always around. I wasn't allowed a real pet, so I got used to them, and they seemed so much more faithful. They're. . ."

Harry's words stopped, he found he couldn't explain his emotions.

"I understand," the professor said softly. "I too lived a lonely childhood. It was my greatest joy to discover the simple, undemanding friendship of serpentkind. We two, alone in this generation, understand what a true gift we have been given."

"Are we the only. . ." Harry remembered the translation, "Slytherins in London?"

The professor laughed, softly. "No, that is not the right word. I'm sorry, I forget how much you don't know. Slytherin is a house in my school, one of four, and the surname of its founder. Heir of Slytherin would be the term you are looking for, as serpentkind know only Slytherin's true descendants and consider them as the same thing. But the. . ." he hesitated. "The proper word in our language for people who can talk to snakes is 'parselmouth' and the language and ability to speak it is called 'parseltongue'. And unfortunately for you and I, the ability carries a bit of a stigma in our world."

Harry sat quiet for a long moment, absorbing this.

"What kind of stigma?" he asked at length. He'd never heard of a parselmouth, but then his social education was hardly the most extensive. Dudley saw to that.

The professor sighed. "Unfortunately, the founder of Slytherin house, our great-ancestor and the one from whom the parseltongue ability is passed, after the founding of. . . the school, was cast out after an argument with his fellow-founders. The three who remained passed down their ancient feud, with the result that Slytherin's house is seen as corrupt, manipulative, and even evil. Perception can shift reality, and sadly the members of the house accepted and conformed to the way they were seen. Not completely, of course, there are still those of strength and cunning, who properly carry on Slytherin's legacy. Myself, the head of house Severus Snape, a handful of others."

"I understand," Harry said quietly, staring at his feet. When outnumbered, forced into a role, you accepted it or paid for it. The fact that these 'Slytherins' had been forced into a role that brought dishonor upon their ancestor was a terrible tragedy.

Harry looked up. "You said we were Heirs. Do you mean that we are actually related to Slytherin's line somehow?"

"Yes. Well. . ." again the professor hesitated, as though changing what he'd been about to say. "There are many who are related to his line, he lived centuries ago, but you and I are the only two in whom his gift for parseltongue manifested. Therefore, we are the closest to his bloodline, his true heirs. And those to whom serpentkind will lend obedience and trust."

"It's very rare," Harry asked. "The ability to talk to snakes?"

"Incredibly rare. Even among. . . those related, it has only shown itself in me, and now you, in recent decades."

Harry nodded. "And people will think I'm. . . evil if they find out about it?"

The professor was silent a long moment. "Yes." he said. "There are those, Slytherins of the old families, believers in our true calling, who would honour you for the gift. But they are few. Until we reach the school, until you are Sorted, I would suggest that you are very careful not to use your ability before others. Once you have a safe place there, we can discuss the future in greater detail."

"You've said that twice now, 'Sorted,' like it's something important."

The professor chuckled. "I think it is time I told you the full depth of your inheritance. You see, Harry, the ability to talk with snakes is not the only special thing about you. I am going to show you something. It may scare you, but please trust me and do not make a scene. Can you do that?"

Harry nodded slowly. The professor pulled a thin wooden rod from his sleeve. "Lumos," he whispered, and the tip of the rod began to glow. Harry waited.

"Serpensortia," the professor said, and a spectral serpent appeared from thin air, as though it were a hologram drawn by the rod's glowing tip, then solidified and dropped to the ground with a quiet hiss.

Harry blinked. "You're some kind of magician," he whispered. "How did you do that?"

The professor's smile twisted, as though he were displeased. "Stupefy," he snapped, and a red bolt of light shot out from his rod, hit the coiling snake. The creature fell limp, then disintegrated.

Harry leapt to his feet, but stopped himself from shrieking, held his silence until he could speak with a modicum of calmness. His whisper was harsh, but not carrying. "You killed it!"

The professor's smile tightened. "It was not real. Serpensortia."

Another snake, perfectly identical to the first. Drawn on the air like a shimmer of light, then it solidified and dropped to the ground.

"This is not a trick," the professor said quietly. "This is a true power. The snake is a magical construct which will obey my commands until I release the spell or it is hit with a disruptive or hostile magic. It cannot pass through items, once conjured it is corporeal, but it has no mind or spirit beyond pure command. In this, constructs are inferior to living animals who have a tiny spark of their own intelligence, amplified and brought to sentience by our magic."

"That's not possible," Harry whispered.

The professor waved his wand again, wordlessly, in a complex pattern. The snake on the ground trembled, shrank and expanded, reshaped itself and shimmered until it was a silver goblet. The professor picked it up, handed it to Harry. "I can change it to anything," he said quietly. "What would it take to convince you?"

Harry stared at the goblet, once a snake conjured from the air. He didn't know much about magic tricks, but he took a few steps away from the professor to be sure he wasn't going to swap it away quickly. "Change it back to a snake," he said. The cup trembled, Harry felt it in his hands as the silvery surface morphed into scales, as it unwound into the same snake that the professor had disintegrated earlier.

"Are you alive?" Harry whispered to it.

The snake looked at him expectantly, but did not reply. It felt unnatural, like something essential was missing from it, some tiny spark of mental connection that could be sensed in all living creatures and was inexplicably absent. Harry shuddered, dropped it to the ground.

"Finite," the professor said, and the snake simply vanished.

"True power?" Harry asked, trembling.

This was too much, too strange, too right.

It made perfect sense. It was ridiculous. He didn't understand.

"We call ourselves wizards," Quirrell said, his voice cutting through Harry's confusion. "Snakes call us wizshis in respect of our name. We are a tiny, tiny portion of the populace, a hidden community that is largely separate from the. . . non-magical folk of the world. Your aunt, uncle, cousin - they have no gift for magic. They are worthless, as I am sure you have seen. The school I work for is called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. We teach young wizards and witches - witch is the female variant of wizard - like yourself how to use their power."

Harry wanted to protest that he had no power, but he could remember too many strange and unbelievable experiences throughout the past year. While one part of him wanted to run home and lock himself in his cupboard and never see another wizard again, the much larger part of him reached out for the knowledge like a plant reaches for the sun.

He was special. The Dursleys knew it, and hated him for it. He looked up, met the professor's eyes. "I believe you," he said.

"Those without magic," the professor whispered, stepping closer, "we call them 'muggles'. The word in itself is not an insult, nor a compliment. Merely a fact. Like many words, though, it can be used in many ways."

"Muggle," Harry whispered, the word carrying a harsh edge as he pictured the title applied to his relatives. He smiled, decided he liked the fit of it. "Muggles."

"Muggles are weaker than wizards, in body and mind and spirit. While I do not blame them for their nature, they are still beings with the ability of choice. And their choices have shown me that they are unfailingly petty and foolish creatures."

Quirrell met Harry's eyes again. "I wish with all my heart that you need not stay in their presence another minute. If I could take you away this very night, bring you to Hogwarts which is my true home, I would do so. But you are legally under the care of another wizard, whose will it has been that you remain with your 'blood relatives' for no better reason than that they share your mother's ancestry."

The professor sounded angry, bitter, as though Harry's experience were somehow his own. He took a breath, slowly, calmly, then reached for Harry's shoulder. Harry flinched instinctively and Quirrell's hand paused, hesitated a few inches away, and he returned it to his opposite sleeve instead.

"I am sorry, Harry," he said softly. "I truly am. I have great power, but I cannot save you from the Dursleys. Not yet."

"I understand," Harry muttered. He hadn't come here expecting to be freed from them, but for a brief moment his hopes had trembled higher, hoping there would be a loophole, something Quirrell could do for him.

The professor took another breath, then his face returned to his half-stern, half-friendly smile. "You must have more questions."

"I am a wizard?" Harry asked, the term feeling strange on his tongue. He felt arrogant saying it, as though he were laying claim to some great legacy, one he didn't think he deserved.

"Not just any wizard," the professor said. "You are of undeniable strength, and bear the legacy of Salazaar Slytherin as strongly as myself. You could be the greatest wizard of your era."

Harry laughed softly. "I doubt that."

"I do not seek to cause undue pride, and I do not deceive you," the professor said, his voice stern. "You have potential for greatness beyond anyone else I have ever met." Quirrell smiled, this time smile seemed secretive, ironic. "You are, in fact, already the most famous wizard of your era," he said more quietly.

Harry laughed again. "Famous, me?"

"Indeed. Wizarding culture is largely separate from the muggle world, we have charms of concealment and so can not be found even by their most advanced technology, so I could understand if you have no knowledge of your true value. Your aunt and uncle did not tell you how your parents died."

It was not a question, but Harry answered anyway. "A car crash," he said.

"Lies," the professor snapped. "Your parents stood in defiance against the greatest force of conquest the wizarding world had seen since the fall of Grindelwald. Wizards also have the capacity for pettiness and folly, you see, and we are more powerful than muggles and thus better at performing such deeds. Lord Voldemort, who sought to claim the wizard's world complete, killed your parents before your eyes when you were but a babe. And in vengeance and power, you destroyed him. That is why you are famous, Harry Potter. That is why you carry that scar like a bolt of lightning hidden upon your forehead. That is why every child born to witches knows your name from the cradle. Because you are their savior."

Harry swallowed, his throat dry. "I killed someone when I was only a baby?" he asked hoarsely.

"Not killed. You destroyed him. Your parents bodies lay before your crib, while of Lord Voldemort nothing remained but ashes."

Harry shook, suddenly glad that the worst he had done to Dudley was lock him in a cage with a snake. If he had the power to burn people to ash when he was only a baby. . .

"You say this school, Hogwarts, can teach me to control my power?" he asked, desperately. "To use it safely?"

Professor Quirrell chuckled softly. "Yes, my boy." He hesitated, then held out his hand, wooden rod extended. "Take my wand for a moment, it will help show you something."

Harry took it gingerly. "It's cool," he said, surprised. It had been in the professor's hand, in his robes, it should have matched his body temperature.

Quirrell's smile widened. "Yes, very good. That is the first indication that you have the gift, you can feel the power within the wand. Some feel warm, some cool, some sharp or soft or glassy. They do not ever feel wholly natural, there is a power to them that matches to the power within us. Now, this is a simple spell. Hold it up in front of you at this angle," he said, holding his own hand in demonstration.

Harry copied the motion, Quirrell took hold of the wand to adjust his angle. "Now, say 'lumos'."

"Lumos," Harry said.

"No, lumos," Quirrell repeated. "Not so quickly, use the same timing as mine. 'lumos'."

"Lumos," Harry repeated, and he felt something flicker through him, and a light twinkled for a bare moment at the tip of the wand.

Harry's breath caught. "Lumos," he said again. "Lumos. Lumos. Lumos."

Finally the light stayed. Dim, fainter by far than that Quirrell had created, but steady and unflickering.

The professor's grin widened still farther. "I didn't expect you to manage so much," he whispered, holding out his hand. "I had hoped it would reveal the spark within you, but this. . . with a wand not your own, at your young age? You truly deserve the mantle of legend, and I know it will only grow greater as the years progress."

Harry beamed. He had never felt so proud in his life. He handed the wand back to Quirrell, and his light went out. He felt it, knew it with an eighth sense that he couldn't define. He had felt it before, when he vanished the glass at the zoo. When he found himself suddenly safe from Dudley and his gang. But now it was controlled, calm and smooth and readily accessible. Like trapping a thunderstorm's furious rains in a gentle pond.

"True power," he whispered, watching the wand with eager eyes.

"You will have your own wand before you arrive at Hogwarts," the professor assured him. "Every student gets their own, custom suited to their potential. Your wand will grow with you, shift with you, be your closest ally and truest companion. Trust your wand, and it will never fail you. Though wandless magic can be done, accidentally or occasionally intentionally, use of a wand allows greater strength and near-perfect control in your spellwork."

Harry nodded, his heart beating fast at the memory of the magic that had suffused him, visible like a sound that pulsed through his whole being, inexplicable and pure and deep and his.

Then a thought came to him, and his hopes plummeted. "I have no fund for schooling," he said dejectedly. "I was to attend the local high school, there's no way my aunt and uncle will pay for a specialty school like Hogwarts."

"Do you think the gratitude of the entire wizarding world is worth so little?" Quirrell asked, that ironic tone back in his voice. "You are not only famous, Harry, you are wealthy beyond the imagination of most young men your age. Your Hogwarts tuition could be paid a hundred times over and still leave you spending money for life."

Harry blinked, truly taken aback. His dead hopes began to flutter back to life. "Truly?" he asked, voice trembling.

"I told you, I will not lie to you," Quirrell said. "Another wizard holds legal custody of your vaults until you come of age, but he has as much of an interest in you attending Hogwarts as I do. Money will not be an obstacle."

Harry cast his memory back, tried to remember what questions he still had. He had so much new knowledge, piling on top of itself, he felt overwhelmed.

"I should return to the school," the professor said quietly, looking into Harry's eyes. "I know it is hard for you to escape, but will you meet me here again? You will have more questions, and there is much more you do not even know yet to ask which you should know before you come to us. It would be harmful to your reputation should you arrive ignorant."

"I don't deserve a reputation," Harry said, still a little uncomfortable at the idea of notoriety. He'd always worked hard to avoid being noticed. Standing out was a sure way to invite trouble.

"You do." Quirrell's voice was firm, unwavering. "Of anyone I have met, you are the one with the most potential. Do not put yourself down, it does no good to yourself or others. You must learn to embrace your strength, the power of your name and reputation. Strength in magic is not the only thing of value within the wizarding community, and you stand in a very good position to monopolize on several—" he cut off, tilted his head as though hearing a voice from far away, grimaced. "I must go now," he said. "Can you meet me again?"

"I will try," Harry said. "As soon as possible."

Quirrell nodded. "If I am not here, ask after Nagini. I will try to send her if I cannot wait for you myself."

He strode quickly away, calling in a low hiss for his snake companion. She emerged from the darkness, her dark outline slithering behind the professor like a second shadow.

Harry sat down on the bench, and only then realized that he still wore the professor's spare cloak. He jumped up, intending to return it, but as he turned the man and snake vanished with a crack like soft thunder.

Harry slowly sank back down to his seat, closed his eyes. So much to absorb. A whole world he'd never known existed.

The feel of power. The promise of more. Power and wealth and status. This had to be a dream, Harry decided, but he opened his eyes and found that he still sat on the park bench. The paths were emptier now than when he'd arrived, the bus station quiet and dark. A pair of girls walked by together, heads close, talking about something that made them giggle.

Harry knew he should go home, but he wanted to stay here until he could finish processing what he'd been told. He knew that the moment he set foot back in the Dursley's home he would slip back into himself, into the quiet submissive Harry who was not rich or famous or powerful. He would cower, he would fetch, he would run, he would hide.

He gripped the cloak's edge tightly, the fabric a tangible reminder of the truth.

He did not need to fear muggles. He was a wizard.

He sat several more minutes until, mind settled, he stood and set out toward Privet Drive. He had lost track of time, had no idea how long it had been that he sat and talked with Professor Quirrell.

He hoped the door would still be unlocked. He could probably jigger the back window, they left it open a crack for airflow to the furnace and he was probably skinny enough to slip through into the basement. The door at the top of the stairs would be locked, but it would be easier to get through than the front door with actual security systems on it.

He cringed, imagining the Dursleys' reaction if they caught him setting off the alarms in the middle of the night.

Wizard. Power.

He shook his head. Not yet. He couldn't afford to think like that, not for real, not yet. When he was with the professor, when he was at Hogwarts, then he could be strong. Right now, he needed to survive.

He was lost in his thoughts as he turned down the familiar street, neared the drive to Number Four. He didn't notice the car pull up alongside him until it was too late.

"Well, well, well, look what we have here," came the last voice Harry wanted to hear. "My stupid cousin, out walking alone at night? And why do you have a blanket over you? It makes you look even dumber than usual."

The car's back door opened, pushed by Malcolm, one of Dudley's friends. "Get in, Potter," he said, leering.

"My house is right there," Harry said, not trying to hide the tremble in his voice. "I don't need a ride for twenty feet."

"Is your friend coming, or not?" asked Malcolm's father from the front of the car. "You're letting all the heat out."

Dudley sneered at Harry. "Coming?"

Harry wanted to run, but he knew Dudley would be waiting for him by the time he reached Number Four. He couldn't stop imagining what terrible punishments his aunt and uncle could devise. He had never in his entire life broken so many rules as he had this night, nothing he said or did could save him at this point. He climbed into the car, pulled the door closed, buckled his seatbelt. His stomach felt like he had swallowed his heart.

Malcolm sat very close to him, pressed him up against the door, whispered threats of violence in Harry's ear, laughed at him. Harry tried to ignore him, didn't try to resist. They pulled into the drive. Dudley threw the door open the moment the car stopped, ran around and yanked Harry's door open just as fast, so quickly that if Harry hadn't been buckled in he would have fallen on his face. Malcolm snickered, hit the release, and Harry flopped out onto the ground. He disentangled himself from the seatbelt, got to his feet.

"Thank you for the ride," he said quietly to Malcolm's father. The man gave a brusque nod, then Malcolm shut the door with one last sneer. The car backed up, its headlights swept across the yard, then the sound and light of it faded into the distance and left Harry and Dudley alone.

"So, cousin," Dudley said, grinning evilly. He smacked one hand against the other as if in warmup.

Harry stood frozen, his eyes inexorably drawn toward the movement of Dudley's fist. He felt sick, but didn't dare speak, didn't dare move.

Dudley took a step forward, loomed over Harry. "You were meant to be locked safely in your cupboard. So what are you doing out on the streets alone at this time of night? Huh? You think my dad will let you get away with this? You think I will?"

Harry could have said a dozen things. He had a glib insult ready, could easily have pretended to compliment Dudley's sudden increase in vocabulary. His voice was stuck somewhere between his throat and his stomach. He said nothing, tensed for the blow he knew was coming.

"Brat thinks the world is his to play with, huh?" Dudley demanded.

Harry wasn't listening, he was watching the hands.

"I think you need to learn a few important life lessons in respect," Dudley said, and his fist came up.

Harry could have run, if he hadn't been frozen with fear. He knew that whatever Dudley did to him was only a precursor to what Uncle Vernon's punishment would be. Though the more Dudley hit him, the less likely Vernon would. It was a worthwhile tradeoff.

He tried to believe that. But amid the fear and pain, a glimmer of light shone in his mind like hope in a stained glass window. Professor Quirrell's promise that he could attend Hogwarts.

They're only muggles. I won't be here forever. Wizards are better than this.

Author's Notes:

This chapter has undergone some minor revision 7-9-17; nothing substantial was changed, I just tweaked the wording on some awkward sentences and switched to using "quotes with italics" to indicate parseltongue. (Note that not all italicized words within quotes are parseltongue, only italic text within italic quotes.)