The village was a bland construction of Muggle make. See one, and see them all. It was almost cute, the way these unimaginative Muggles tried to one-up each other with the most level green grass and the most over-fertilized carnations without realizing they were all exactly the same, fanatic believers in a boring fashion incapable of dreaming up an arrangement with even a hint of a personality.
Then again, the girl supposed, that was what Muggles were. Mindless sheep, worshipping gods of neon and paper, stubbornly believing they still had even a trace of individuality and free will in this world of mass-producing, offshoring capitalist dystopia.
Personally, the girl felt it was foolish for a number of wizards and witches to gather in a Muggle neighborhood in the outskirts of Berlin, even considering their argument that such a gathering in magical neighborhoods would draw unwanted attention from Aurors. She just suspected that the people she was about to meet were generally disliked by the rest of the Wizarding World and simply didn't want to admit it. At that sardonic thought, she felt her lips quirk upwards.
She skipped across the street, approaching the mansion. It was centuries old, near the city center, and if one didn't know who had occupied this place since it was built (or perhaps appropriated from the original Muggle owners), one would consider it a miracle that it had remained untouched during the Muggle barbarism during the Second World War. The girl inhaled, approached the door, and picked up the snake-head door knocker. She knocked, three times, the clash of heavy iron reverberating in her bones.
The door cracked open. The gaunt, tall man looked down at her with dispassionate eyes.
"Einladung?" he said.
The girl merely smiled, puckered her lips, then hissed.
The man didn't even blink. He closed the door, then it reopened, missing the chain. He moved to the side, allowing the girl to step inside. As the door closed, the sounds of motor vehicles and conversation from outside disappeared, replaced by a heavy, pensive silence, as if all noise was being absorbed by the thick carpet underfoot.
"The other guests are present in the games room," the doorman said, in German. "To the left, you will hear it before you see it. If a door does not open, it is off-limits."
"Danke schön," said the girl, and turned left.
The interior of the mansion made her feel a little bad about calling the Muggles bland. Just a little. It seemed that despite artisan culture being more prevalent in the magical world than the non-magical, people that lacked taste and imagination were present on both sides. The long carpet was a plain maroon, the walls covered in boring paintings of green fields and weapons on racks. Perhaps she was a tad spoiled, attending Hogwarts, with all its quirks and hidden depths.
The drone of conversation grew as she approached a pair of double wooden doors, inlaid with brass decorations; she pushed down on the bar and it opened with a soft creak. Her appearance went, for the most part, unseen and unheard. About a dozen witches and wizards milled about, weaving between chairs and tables. In the corner, unattended instruments softly played music by themselves. A long table in the center was covered in finger foods and various drinks. A large, aged banner hung behind the podium on the far end of the room, a black serpent writhing on a white background. The girl cast a dispassionate glance over its occupants; when one pair of eyes turned her way, she blinked and gave a small, cool smile.
"Guten morgen," she said, her accent just so. "I see I have come to the correct place."
"Hello, darling." The woman who had noticed her entrance was an attractive enough individual, perhaps nearing middle-age but having aged gracefully to this point. Her German had an accent that might have come from somewhere in the Italian peninsula, though none of her memories could pinpoint precisely where from. "You are much younger than I expected, but I suppose if Stefan let you in, you have an invitation."
"Affirmation ," she hissed softly. " Peaceable intentions. Satisfaction."
Parseltongue was a strange language. In the limited world of serpents, many human concepts — indeed, even concepts shared by many mammals and other higher animals — did not exist. As a means of communication, it was quite inefficient. That meant it was rarely studied, only by individuals like Crouch as a matter of pride, leaving only the natural-born speakers, which could be numbered in the two-digits all over the world.
Riddle had been shackled by his arrogance. His belief in his superiority was so unshakable that he did not once consider that there may be others who possessed the same talents he did. So focused was he upon Dumbledore, whom he believed his fated enemy, that he neglected to look beyond Britain, where Parselmouths had gone all but extinct — in part by his elder self's hand, no less.
The woman's smile widened just a tad, and another pair of eyes turned at the hissing noise.
"The pleasure is all mine, darling," said the Mediterranean witch. "I am called Contessa."
"It feels like it has been a long time since we've had newcomers," said an elderly man. "Call me Leviathan."
Even as she smiled, the girl took the measure of the man and marveled at how fitting it was. Though perhaps quite different in shape, he doubtless weighed as much as his namesake. He had quite the mustache, though sadly his beard was not able to hide the multiple chins underneath. The hair on the top of his head was almost gone save for a pair of tufts around the temples which he had likely kept out of a sense of sentimentality. Certainly not out of a sense of fashion. A part of her withered. When she had first heard of a secret society of Parselmouths, she had expected something more… grandiose, than this.
"I suppose that's not your true name," she said, and the walrus-like man laughed.
"What's to say it isn't?" he said. Contessa looked as though she wished to roll her eyes. "Alas, no. We do not use real names here. Not that I expect anything to happen, but one can never be too careful."
So he said, despite the fact that a fourteen-year-old girl had found this meeting by near accident, asking just the right questions at a library in Paris.
"I will think of something for myself," the girl replied, with a slight smile. "Might I ask why we are using codenames, though?"
Leviathan and Contessa shared a glance. "As I am sure you already know, people like us are not seen in the greatest light in Europe," said Leviathan. "In most places, really. And when it is believed the Devil himself took the form of a serpent to tempt Man to sin?"
"It's a way to prevent us from uttering the names of our friends in public, even by accident," said Contessa. "I do not know the true names of everyone here. It is good you did not introduce yourself."
As if I would tell these fools my real name. Her real name was not interesting enough to be used by someone of her caliber. For all his faults, Tom Riddle had recognized this as well and had thus forged a new identity. She would save her true name for when the snake needed to retreat into the tall grass, take refuge in the mundane, whence she would scheme and, when the time was right, strike.
"In an ideal world, we would not have to do this," Leviathan continued. "But people fear us. Rightfully so, perhaps. Yet we cannot take on the whole world. Not yet."
The girl tilted her head. Rightfully so? While she had yet to properly dissect these individuals, she hardly thought these were the kind of witches and wizards to be feared. An overweight man, a few popinjays in clothing brighter than their futures. The only one who felt a step above the others was Contessa, and the girl still had to question the woman's taste in friends.
"Of course," said the girl agreeably. She cast an eye over the rest of the crowd, absently noting the small tics, the body language; they pretended to speak to each other, but they were listening in. "In Britain we had a terrible Dark Lord whose ability to speak to serpents was well-known."
"Ah, yes. I know of whom you speak." Leviathan gave a slight smile. "He represents the true potential of a Parselmouth, does he not? Though inconvenient for us, it is good that he showed the world what we are capable of."
The girl gave a bland smile. This fat fool truly thought to credit the Dark Lord's success with a gift he'd not ever had to work for! She almost wished to laugh in his face. The Dark Lord Voldemort was more than the ability to speak to snakes; he was the incarnation of terror, a power so vile that only fools dared even speak his name. He was a once-in-a-generation wizard, born with incredible power and a genius that few could match — least of all this fool!
Calm, she reminded herself, the biting sensation of Occlumency cooling the coals of her contempt, while sharpening each of her five senses. The urge to Curse this man and leave was great, but she needed allies still.
"And yet, we were feared long before the Dark Lord came along," Leviathan said, lowering his voice slightly. "Do you know why?"
The girl tilted her head. Why were Parselmouths viewed with caution? Why did Riddle's gift impress his fellow Slytherins, and why did it bring such scrutiny from others? She had thought it was the mark of Salazar Slytherin's descent, but he was not the first wizard to speak to serpents. Riddle did not know. Stark did not know.
She did not know.
"Ah, you are yet young, and you likely have never met another of our kind," Leviathan said, his smile patronizing. "It is a long story. But have you ever wondered about the origins of this language? Serpents are not sapient creatures, not like Mermen or Goblins. Indeed, this language is painfully simplistic, to converse with painfully simplistic creatures. Why would anyone care to come up with it? And why does it pass through our blood?"
"A curse," the girl whispered.
"Perhaps," said Contessa. "Or a blessing."
"A gift nonetheless."
The individual who'd spoken was a young man. His wheat-gold hair was combed to one side, and his handlebar mustache was likewise cared for. He wore immaculate dress robes, well suited for the current fashion of the mainland, in dark blues and autumn maroons. His lips smiled easily, but his blue eyes were like flecks of ice.
"Did you know that modern man has only walked this Earth for two hundred millennia?" he said. "A mere blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things. And that is only on our own planet — what about other worlds, which have existed for far longer?"
He spread his hands. The audience was completely silent, their attention solely focused on the man.
"There are incredible things out there, things so massive that we could be staring them in the eye and never realize it. But when our species was young, our ancestors saw." He smiled softly. "That is the difference between us and the rest of the magical world. We have witnessed things that we should never have seen, and not only did we survive, we learned to communicate with them. That is why we are shunned. That is why we are feared. Because there is great potential in what we can do, with the power and knowledge of elder races."
He clasped his hands behind his back and turned around, fixing his eyes on the banner. "One day — and perhaps this day may only come long after I am dead and forgotten — but one day, we will reach the precipice. One day, we shall shed our mortal coil, cast away our limited existence. We shall become immortal, in body and mind, and we shall join our primordial friends in godhood as equals."
He turned back around again, and met her eyes. "That is why we are feared. Do you understand, now?"
Oh, she well understood. She understood that these people were truly self-deluding idiots that needed a more productive hobby. Still, though, there was such a thing as useful idiots — especially rich ones.
She gave a small, hesitant smile, fluttering her eyelashes. "Not yet. But perhaps one day, I will."
His eyes glinted with satisfaction. "Good." He straightened, giving a warmer smile. "Apologies for the dramatics! I was part of the theater group at Beauxbatons. I am called Prophet. It is a great pleasure to have you here."
"The pleasure is mine," she replied easily.
"We are a rather exclusive club, due to our nature, so it is always a great occasion when a new member joins." He twirled his mustache. "I suppose you have been told about code names, yes? Have you, by any chance, thought of one for yourself?"
Three memories in one body, one of which gave her glimpses of the future. This fool thought to name himself Prophet? Then let him bend, or break. She was the only one who knew the future — for she would be writing it. The girl let her smile widen, and spoke:
"Call me Cassandra."