Snake-Song V

Last Chapter: Harry reveals himself to be a Parseltongue during Lockhart's Duelling Club.

Snow fell that night at Hogwarts, burying the grounds in a layer of bitter cold. The ice reached with cool hands into the castle itself, grasping the denizens in a wintry miasma. Harry had spent the last day with Susan in the library, staring down at books mentioning Slytherin, Slytherin House, and Slytherin's Monster. Sometimes he didn't dare look up; he felt the eyes of the students on him constantly. Watching – waiting – for some explosion of malice.

They all seemed to have forgotten he was the-Boy-Who-Lived. Meanwhile, he had learned that Voldemort had claimed to be the Heir of Slytherin; and Voldemort had killed his parents. For once he wished they would remember that.

Skimming through dusty books revealed little – except for a single scrap of information. Bellbight Hall; Harry recalled that, in his letter, Cold Tom Blue named him as 'Harry of Bellbite Halle'. Harry himself had totally forgotten about it – until he came across The Fall of the Serpent: The Latter Age, by Horace Hake. Voldemort was included therein – almost – as an afterthought, as his claim to Slytherin's bloodline was suspect.

Harry was flicking through the pages, when he landed on a description of Voldemort's assault on 'Bellbight Hall', described as the ancestral home of the Potter family. Charlus and Dorea Potter, his paternal grandparents, had died that day, and much of his inheritance was burned to the ground with them.

He'd had to stop himself from weeping in full view of the library, with its peering, hostile eyes. And then things seemingly went from bad to worse; soon after, Justin arrived. Harry's stomach had dropped immediately. They'd not spoken since he'd accidentally revealed himself as a Parselmouth; Justin had avoided him, speaking only to Ernie and Megan.

"Harry," Justin said. He stopped by their table at a polite distance.

The whole of Hogwarts seemed to be watching.

"I… I don't believe you set the snake on me, and I don't believe you're the Heir of Slytherin. It doesn't make any sense that you would be, you know, with what's happened to your family – and, and I'm rambling. I'm still a bit shook up, you know? I'll speak… I'll speak to you later."

Then he walked away, and Harry felt his muscles relax. Justin was clearly wary, but that might've been so much worse. Word of their conversation would get around the school at speed, too.

"Thank Merlin," Harry whispered to Susan, knowing others were listening in.

A first year Ravenclaw was making a comedic attempt at shielding himself behind a tall pile of books.

Susan leaned across the table, and whispered back; "At least Justin's on your side. If your own housemate spoke out against you…"

Something twisted in Harry's gut. He was still dreading Monday. The first lessons after the weekend were going to be… tense, to say the least.

And he still had to convince Greengrass to help him.

He felt like a great boulder was resting atop his chest, pushing him, crushing his lungs. Harry frowned deeply. It was too much at once; he felt paralysed. Should he go to Greengrass now? Would being seen talking to a Slytherin – a recluse in her own right – only make things worse? Or should he wait until Tuesday, and get the awful classes over with? They were only History of Magic and Transfiguration; everyone sat quietly in Binn's classes, and Professor McGonagall was masterful at controlling her student's attention.

But he would still have to wait outside the classrooms and walk through the busy halls. Could he deal with the staring, the hostility? They would, he expected, try and bully him.

Monday finally arrived with yet more snow, and without a conversation with Greengrass. He'd tried to talk to her, having been told by Wayne that she had taken an abandoned classroom as her own, but his courage had failed him half-way there. Susan had rolled her eyes at his sheepishness, but he knew she understood.

Classes were not quite as bad as he expected. There was hostility, true; but also fear. People were more afraid than angry. Harry suspected they were afraid of openly opposing him, lest they find themselves petrified – or worse..

Tuesday's Potions class proved, as Harry expected, to be abominable. Snape had decided, once again, that he hated him, and proceeded to make snide remarks throughout the lesson. He was so distracting that Harry's Sleep-Aid potion fizzled when it should've crackled, then popped when it should've purred. By the end, his concoction was a limp green rather than a bright blue. Snape took one look at it, sneered, and vanished it right out of vial.

Harry felt himself go red. He sat quietly for the rest of the lesson, stewing in his embarrassment. At least until something hit him lightly on the shoulder. Harry whirled around on his stool to see… nothing. Then, he saw it; piece of paper on the floor. A cruel note, he thought caustically, snatching it from the floor.

The paper was mostly flat, though slightly curved at the edges. It'd probably been charmed to fly like a magical carpet. Harry read it reluctantly.

Sorry about Professor Snape, Potter.

There is more going on than you know.

Malfoy

Harry pursed his lips, his embarrassment fading. The Slytherins weren't even in this class; Malfoy must've noticed Snape's mood, then persuaded a Ravenclaw (with whom the Hufflepuffs shared Potions) to deliver the message. "Show off," he muttered. Ever since that cautious meeting on the train back in first year, Malfoy had always been amicable to him, though without attempting to extend the hand of friendship too far. Was this the beginning of a change? Was he offering a chance for Harry to embrace his changed reputation, to become 'the Heir of Slytherin', even if he wasn't?

Harry rubbed the back of his head. Perhaps he was overthinking things. He'd been thinking a lot more about schoolyard politics lately; he'd had to, now the Heir had announced himself, now he was in the firing-line. It made his head ache. Worse, the peeling back the layers of friendship, considering shallow and self-interested possibilities behind the associations people made… it was terrible. It felt like he was turning everything into a transaction.

Shoving the note into his pocket, Harry watched Susan finish her own potion. Hers was appropriately blue, albeit a little darker than Snape had pronounced ideal. The professor called it 'acceptable, just about' and waved her away.

The class was over soon after.

"He's awful," Susan told him, as soon as they were back in the corridor and out of ear-shot.

"Yes," Harry replied hollowly. There was nothing really to say; he'd expected nothing else. "He is."

"I should ask my aunt about him," she said fretfully, "there must be a reason why he hates you so much – after all, there's no reason–"

Harry clutched at his head. Pain was bursting across his forehead. "–Susan, stop – stop, please."

Thankfully, Susan fell silent. The pain slowly withdrew, like a finger steadily withdrawing from his eye socket. His next breath was more a sigh of relief. What was that? It hadn't felt like the pain in his scar.

"Sorry, Harry," he heard Susan murmur beside him.

No, he realised. Just stress. "It's… it's okay."

The rest of the walk to the library was made in silence. Madam Pince, the librarian, watched them like a vulture from her perch behind her desk. She, too, had been listening to the Hogwarts rumour-mill. Harry and Susan had been careful not to upset her, lest they were to lose access to the books they required.

Which, slowly, they moved toward. Half a dozen rows of bookcases were devoted to history alone, sequestered toward the rear of the library.

"–He's weird, you know, just weird. I don't know how you put up with him last year."

Harry paused, frowning. That was an older Ravenclaw's voice, one whose name he couldn't quite recall. They were just one row over…

"Violent, too, remember that troll?" This time, it was a girl's voice. "Poor thing was just lost and confused, and he–"

"Oh, shut up Glossop. And Partington, d'have any idea what you're really saying?"

Something awkward settled in Harry's throat; he definitely recognised that voice. It was Alan.

"Potter is – well – Potter. He's the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, not some patsy for slimy Salazar Slytherin!"

"Didn't help your cousin when he tattled on her, did it?" Glossop replied snidely.

Beside him, Susan gasped.

…

"Don't mention that again."

"What?" Glossop sounded like Alan was a moment away from cursing her. "What? It's true, isn't it?"

"You don't know what ha–"

Harry and Susan were so keen to eavesdrop that they lost sight of their surroundings, so it was a surprise for them when Madam Pince whipped past, heading straight for the noise. Their argument had become quite loud. "Enough," she snapped. "Out, out – all of you!"

"But, Madam P–"

"Out!"

Harry heard shuffling across the bookcase, then saw Partington and Glossop pace away. They looked like third, or perhaps fourth years. They didn't notice him.

Alan followed thereafter, his new friends Granger and Longbottom in tow.

Alan and Granger headed straight by but, by chance, Longbottom glanced down the corridor as he passed… and jumped as he and Harry locked eyes. It took just a few moments for Granger to double back, with a particular Ravenclaw in tow.

Harry and Alan stared each other down, green to grey. Harry himself had no idea what to do, or think. Why was he still defending him? The last time they'd come across each other, they had argued terribly.

Eventually, Harry decided on a nod. Alan nodded back stiffly and left.

Granger looked longing at him with her big brown eyes, while Neville just stared, frozen, as white as a ghost.

They too left.

"At least he isn't totally against you," Susan whispered hopefully.

Harry huffed. He could almost feel what had gone unsaid; maybe there was still a chance to reclaim their friendship. It wasn't likely, and he didn't dare voice the thought either. "That's one out of a thousand students," he replied instead.

They made the rest of the way in silence, surrounded by bookcases twice the height of an adult man. No one else was around.

"That's not fair," Susan said once they sat. "Most of Hufflepuff backs you - even Justin, and the other houses are split down the middle."

It didn't feel like that. All Harry had felt these last few days was staring, and all he'd heard was muttered insults. "I know," he eventually admitted, hefting a heavy tome from a nearby bookcase, "I know… it's just… I'd gotten used to people ignoring me last year. The new first years obsessed over 'the-Boy-Who-Lived' for a while – especially Creevey, poor lad – but they began to stop before all this… this mess."

Now he couldn't walk the corridors of Hogwarts without someone watching him.

He dropped Slytherin's Grief, the Tragedy of the House of the Snake just a little too hard on his chosen desk. It proved to be a difficult text, full of long words Harry didn't recognise. Soon he felt his headache returning. This was always how it went; a promising book turned out to be useless, almost incomprehensible*. Slytherin's Grief bombarded him with too many magical and non-magical terms to count in the introduction alone.

In an hour, all the information he'd gathered amounted to, well, tragedy. Salazar Slytherin had twelve children; partially because he was – reportedly – fond of children, but also to retain control of his bloodline. The idea was that each child would marry, and that their children in turn would be matched in a series of cousin marriages. Thus Parseltongue would remain under the purview of an extended clan, who would occasionally marry outside the family to avert the adverse effects of inbreeding.

Disturbingly, the book seemed to imply that magic could, to a large degree, ward-off those… issues anyway. To Harry, that sounded very much like an excuse.

All this was to protect the secret of Parseltongue. Not the language itself; the ability to speak of serpents was of scarce value in and of itself. No, it was something Parseltongue could achieve, some separate but connected ability, some great power that Slytherin sought to guard and control.

For whatever reason, his plan had not come to pass, and Harry was left to daydream about Parseltongue's hidden strength… a strength he could possess. Perhaps it could be used in a duel? He imagined struggling against a faceless foe, retreating before their might, until he burst into Parseltongue, summoning greater power from the depths of magic long lost.

Harry's eyes glazed over, the book totally forgotten. He didn't care.

Summoning? That was an idea. Some of the older students suspected Slytherin's Monster was a chimaera. What if Parseltongue empowered Alchemy? Harry pondered the idea that some mishappen creature was stalking the halls, a jumble of twisted limbs and seething hatred, and shuddered. Now he definitely hoped he wasn't related to Slytherin; no power would be worth that legacy… but that would require approaching Greengrass.

He sighed, snapping out of the reverie. "I'm going to talk to her," he told Susan suddenly.

Susan blinked, looking up from her own book. She'd been staring at the pages forlornly, her nose scrunched like a rabbit. She was having no more luck than him, he knew. "Okay," she said.

"Stay here – I'll… I'll do it now."

Harry set into a brisk march toward the fourth floor, ignoring any and all distractions. He didn't even consider the idea that he might be ambushed, and that Susan hadn't let him walk around alone for that very reason. He wasn't ambushed, and he found the abandoned classroom Greengrass and Davis had claimed without issue.

He stopped before the door, his ears twitching. Could he hear something? Sweeping his eyes down the corridor, he saw… nothing. Like most of Hogwarts' corridors, it was totally empty. A single line of paintings watched him with infinite patience… at least until one snapped; "Well, go in and see her then!"

That jolted him into opening the door–

–and as soon as he twisted the doorknob open, he was overwhelmed by the sound of music. The cry of a soaring note, launching itself into his heart; then the whisper of a downtrodden valley, shimmering with endless melancholy. The music was resonating straight through him, filling him with emotions he couldn't quite place, like stars shining for a moment then winking out of sight, seen but never understood.

And then the music stopped. Greengrass, violin in hand, was watching him from across the room.

She looked no less unnerving for her beautiful music. Her auburn hair hung loose, framing pale, near pallid skin. And contrasting thereto, perched atop her small nose, was a pair of strange round spectacles, tinted black as night.

They were as closed as Harry's own glasses were open - though both were equally round.

Not that it mattered.

It's unpleasant, Harry realised, not to be able to see her eyes. It was difficult to know where she was looking, what she was thinking. Didn't people say that eyes were the window to the soul?

If so, Daphne Greengrass' soul was hidden behind a lens of shadows, unreachable and unreadable.

Her thin lips twitched. "Potter. I thought you might find me."

She spoke in very clipped, precise tones.

Harry tried his best to smile disarmingly. He failed, so instead fidgeted with his hands. "Yes – well, uh, I've been told you might be able to help me."

"I might."

There was a long moment of silence, like the lull after a gust of wind.

"So, will you?"

"After a year of being ignored, why should I? Even when you ran right through me, you didn't even pause to apologise."

He'd thought up a few explanations for that ("Excuses," Susan had called them), but he forgot them all in the moment. "Uh, yes, I'm… I'm sorry about that. I was angry, at the time. I should've stopped."

Greengrass frowned, so Harry tried to insert a little levity into the conversation. "But don't feel too bad about me ignoring you – I've ignored almost everyone, after all."

"Indeed." She did not sound impressed. "Young Master Potter, a celebrity who doesn't need the adoration of his fans. A clever persona."

Harry wasn't sure what a persona was, but he got the gist. "It's not a persona, Greengrass. I just want to learn magic."

Greengrass said nothing for a moment. He felt – far more than he could see – her eyes tighten as she studied him.

It was then he realised that Davis was nowhere to be seen.

"Very well," she said, striding over to a nearby table. She placed her violin into a case, then sat on one of the chairs. "Say I believe you – that you aren't just an idiot putting on pretensions – why should I help you? I don't like you."

Harry made sure to walk to the table slowly, giving himself time to think. Why should she help him? It was a question he'd feared, yet expected. He had only one answer, and he wasn't sure it was a good one. Frankly, he didn't know enough about Greengrass. He didn't know enough about anything, and he was only just coming to realise how little he knew.

"I can help you with duelling," he offered, "if you want. In return for, uh, I'm sure you've already guessed – I want my own, uh, background looking into."

Daphne leaned back, falling silent once more. She was thinking, calculating; Harry had never met someone like her, someone so… self-interested. Not a child, anyway. Who knew what adults thought? Uncle Vernon could seem quite self-interested (in fact, he was almost totally motivated by it), but Harry knew that even he genuinely loved his family… except Harry. Perhaps Greengrass was the same?

He had no way of knowing.

"I'm not interested in duelling," Daphne replied eventually. Harry closed his eyes and sighed. Well, that was all–

"– but I'll take you up on your offer. Better to be able to defend myself, I suppose. It's not enough to make up for your insult toward Tracey, however. Find something for me, and I'll help you. In fact, I promise I'll research the genealogy of the wonderful Harry Potter to the 30th degree* – even your… Muggle side."

As out of his control as the conversation had become, Harry still felt a flicker of anger at the insult. He let it pass. How many other chances would he get?

"Find what?"

Greengrass studied him again, as if weighing his worth. "There is a black cube," she eventually began, "in the Forbidden Forest. Or so it's rumoured. I want you to find the cube, or search for it until you're sure it isn't there."

Harry listened, his brows raising as she spoke. The Forbidden Forest? "You're asking… you're asking a lot for – what was it, a cube?"

"The cube is valuable to my family. It's my price," Greengrass said flatly. "Take it or leave it."

She was watching him emotionlessly too, he noticed. In fact ,she'd spoken her whole request very… robotically. Not that Greengrass was likely to know what a robot was. Was she trying to hide her real thoughts? Did she hate him that much?

He filed that away; speculation wouldn't do any good. "It's dangerous," he said, "what you're asking."

It was no secret what lurked in the Forbidden Forest. Centaurs and Werewolves and worse.

"I know," Greengrass replied carelessly. "That's why I'm asking the most dangerous wizard in my year."

Harry didn't know whether to be flattered or offended. He settled on wary. "In the year," he said. "Why not ask an older student – a seventh year, even?"

Greengrass tilted her head in such a way that Harry just knew she was looking at him like he was an idiot. "And how should I blackmail a seventh year into going into the Forbidden Forest, Potter?"

The word blackmail rankled at his pride, but Harry had to admit that she made a good point. She had the advantage – what was it called, leverage? All he had was the promise of duelling lessons… and who knew if he could really teach anyone?

Harry sighed, feeling the jaws close in. There was no way out. "Fine," he said. "Say I agree – how am I supposed to find this cube? The forest is huge. And what even is it, anyway? Why'd you want it?'

Greengrass had sat totally still as he bombarded her with questions. It was unnerving. Almost as unnerving as the lack of eye contact. "The cube is called a Poglotki," she said carelessly. "It will be a jet black cube, able to fit in the palm of your hand. It will emit magic – so much magic you won't be able to cast magic around it, even. Why I want it is my family's business."

"Retrieve it for me and I'll find out if you're related to Slytherin, or not. Or don't, and I'll get someone else to find it. Your choice."

Daphne Greengrass, Harry now knew, wasn't normal. He wasn't entirely sure she was even human. At least, he'd listen to arguments proposing the opposite. There was no tone to her voice, no warmth. It was as though she were made of ice.

Everything she said was logical, cold and, worst of all, correct. He grit his teeth. "Fine," he said – more spat, really, "I'll get your cube, but it won't be quick. It'll take some preparation."

Greengrass nodded shortly. "I'll approach you next week for my first lesson."

Then she reached down to a bag by her feet and pulled out a book. Harry knew a dismissal when he saw one and stormed from the room, fuming. How dare she! That mean, frozen, awful! –

– He darted right, just missing Tracey Davis coming the other way. She grinned haughtily at him when they passed each other, as if she already knew the source of his rage.

Harry stewed in his anger for much of the night. Susan didn't know anything, unsurprisingly, about asteroid impacts in the seventeenth century, and they couldn't find anything in the history books either. Not that they really knew where to look.

It was all infuriating. He imagined Greengrass' blank face that night when he closed his eyes to sleep; but in this image her eyes shone with laughter behind her impenetrable glasses, and her lips were curled in the faintest of smirks.

Sleep came slowly. And as it did, Harry's thoughts drifted once more to Greengrass; and this time to the music. He'd recognised it before. It was Muggle music. How strange, he decided, as he slipped finally into unconscious…

GLOSSARY:

I'm not going with the retconned grandparents. Charlus and Dorea were semi-canon for years and years, and I see no reason to change that. The assault on the Potter manor is, also, a fanon event, and one I am particularly fond of. It was invented for good reasons, being a suitable explanation for the dearth of other Potter's in the Wizarding World.

Did you ever pick-up a university-level textbook when you were twelve? That's a frustrating experience.

Derived from the Russian 'to absorb' or 'to devour'.

That's a thousand years.

A/N:

So, fanon favourite Daphne Greengrass finally appears! I've moulded her specifically for this story, rather than taking her off-the-shelf personality in its entirety. In some aspects she resembles her fanon archetype - her friendship with Travey Davis, for one - but in other ways she is unique.

What do you think of this version of Greengrass so far? In fact, what do you think of the 'Ice Princess' Greengrass archetype in fanon in general?

And what is this black cube, and why do the Greengrass family want it?

NEXT CHAPTER:

Conditions grow graver in Hogwarts; Harry dares the Forbidden Forest, searching for the mysterious Poglotki…

Find out next time on The Duellist… or on D-iscord, where it is already out; or read that and the chapter thereafter on P-atreon.

See you later!

JoustingAlchemy