CHAPTER 5: THE TONGUE OF THE SERPENT
The air grew heavier here, tinged with an edge of something forbidden. He headed straight for Borgin and Burkes, its grimy windows promising treasures the Ministry might frown upon. Labels like "dark" or "grey" meant little to him—magic was magic, and he'd master it all.
Inside, the shop was a maze of shadows and oddities: shrunken heads leering from a shelf, a glass case of glinting knives, a faintly humming necklace that made his skin prickle. Harry made for the back, where a towering bookshelf sagged under dusty tomes. Titles leaped out at him—an Auror's handbook, Introduction to Dueling by Antonin Dolohov, Legilimency: The Intrusion of the Mind. Each promised skills he craved. But then his gaze snagged on something else—a book so ancient its leather cover cracked at the edges, its title obscured by faded, looping script.
He squinted, focusing until the letters resolved: The Tongue of the Serpent by Herpo the Foul. His breath hitched. Parseltongue. A book on the serpent language, penned by one of history's most infamous wizards. Priceless didn't begin to cover it—especially for him, a Parselmouth, one of the rare few who could decipher its secrets. Voldemort had been the last known speaker in Britain, a legacy Harry now carried. If Borgin knew what he had…
No price tag marked the books, so Harry gathered his haul and strode to the counter, schooling his face into calm indifference. Mr. Borgin, a gaunt man with oily hair and a perpetual sneer, looked up from a ledger, his eyes narrowing.
"Well, well, well," Borgin drawled, leaning forward. "Mr. Potter in my humble shop. Never thought I'd see the day."
Harry met his gaze evenly, scar plain on his forehead. "Mr. Borgin, a pleasure. First visits don't mean last ones. I've got Galleons and an interest in what you offer. Let's call this the start of a fine partnership."
Borgin's sneer twitched into something closer to a smirk. "Your family's coin speaks loud enough, lad. Discretion's my trade—show me what you've got."
Harry set the books down, the Parseltongue tome last. Borgin's brow quirked at it, but the clink of Harry's bottomless pouch stole his focus. "Two hundred thirty Galleons," he said, grinning like a wolf. "Won't even dent that vault of yours, eh?"
Harry didn't flinch. It was a steal—Borgin had no clue what he'd just sold. Handing over the coins, Harry tucked the books away, a quiet triumph buzzing in his chest. He couldn't wait to crack them open.
One item remained: a trunk. At a specialty shop near Gringotts, he splurged on an Auror-grade model—five compartments, an undetectable extension charm, built to last. It'd hold his growing library and then some. Shopping done, he returned to the Leaky Cauldron, sinking into a corner booth with a plate of shepherd's pie.
He'd barely taken a bite when the door burst open, admitting a giant of a man—broad as the doorway, wild black hair spilling over a tangled beard. "Hagrid!" Tom called, wiping his hands on a rag. "What brings you?"
"Lookin' for Harry, Tom," the giant rumbled, voice like rolling thunder. "Couldn't find 'im at them relatives—nasty Muggles, they are."
Tom jerked a thumb toward Harry. "He's right there, having his dinner."
The giant—Hagrid—turned, bushy brows shooting up. "Harry! There yeh are! Been searchin' high an' low—where've yeh been? How'd yeh get here alone?"
Harry set his fork down, irritation flaring. "I've known I'm a wizard for a while," he said coolly. "Figured out the magical world on my own. Don't need a guide, but thanks anyway, sir."
Hagrid's massive frame stiffened, his beetle-black eyes narrowing slightly, as if Harry's words had struck a nerve. For a moment, Harry wondered if the giant might haul him out of the pub then and there, but the crowded room—full of curious onlookers—seemed to hold him back. Hagrid scratched his tangled beard, huffing a breath that rustled the edges of his coat.
"Well, blimey, Harry," he said, his gruff voice softening a touch. "Yeh've got yer dad's spirit, that's fer sure. Still, promise me yeh'll be careful, eh? This world's got its dangers, an' I'd hate to see yeh stumble into 'em blind. I was the one who took yeh to yer relatives that awful night—Lily an' James gone, on Dumbledore's say-so. Broke me heart, it did. When yeh get to Hogwarts, come find me—I'm the gamekeeper there. Got plenty o' tales 'bout yer folks, 'specially yer dad. Him an' his mates—Sirius, Remus, an' Peter—always stirrin' up trouble, they were. Reckon yeh'd like to hear 'em."
Harry's spoon paused midair, his irritation giving way to a flicker of curiosity. "You knew them? My parents?"
"'Course I did!" Hagrid boomed, a wistful grin breaking through his bristly face. "James was a right laugh—could charm the scales off a dragon, he could. An' Lily—sharpest witch I ever met, with a heart bigger'n this pub. I'll tell yeh all 'bout it, soon as yeh're at school."
With a hearty pat on Harry's shoulder that nearly knocked him into his stew, Hagrid lumbered off, his massive boots thudding toward the brick wall that hid Diagon Alley. Harry watched him go, the giant's words sinking in like stones in a pond. Hagrid had known his parents—really known them. That was a thread worth pulling, a chance to piece together the family he'd lost. To carve out his place in this strange new world, he'd need to understand where he'd begun.
But another name lingered in Hagrid's tale—Dumbledore. The great Albus Dumbledore, the one who'd ordered Harry dumped on the Dursleys' doorstep that fateful night. Harry's jaw tightened as he stirred his stew absently, the broth cooling in the bowl. He'd read about the man in Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts—the wizard who'd toppled Gellert Grindelwald, the only one Voldemort ever feared, a towering figure in magical history. So why had he condemned Harry to a decade of neglect, locked away with Muggles who despised him? And now, sending Hagrid to fetch him, as if Harry were a lost parcel needing collection—what was the old man playing at?
"Keeping tabs on me, are you?" Harry muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing. "Well, I'm not your puppet." He vowed to tread carefully around Dumbledore, to assume the worst until the man proved otherwise. Trust wasn't something he'd hand out—not to someone who'd left him to rot and never bothered to check in.
Tomorrow, he'd return to Number 4 one last time this summer, gather the few scraps of his life there—some tattered clothes, a broken toy soldier, the stubs of candles he'd hoarded—and move to the Leaky Cauldron until September 1st. The Dursleys wouldn't care; they'd be thrilled to see him gone. At the pub, he'd have his wand—his key to power—and a chance to flex his magic without prying eyes. He'd been poring over Wizarding Customs and Traditions, and his hunch about the Trace had held true: the Ministry tracked magic by wand and location, not by person. In a bustling hub like the Leaky Cauldron, surrounded by adult wizards casting spells over their ales, any flickers of magic from him would blend into the noise. Perfect.
He didn't give a toss about grades or gold stars—those were for peacocks strutting around with parchment to wave. Harry wanted mastery, raw and real, not for bragging rights but for survival. October 31st, 1981, had stripped him bare—parents dead, a scar for a souvenir, and a Dark Lord's curse that somehow misfired. He'd be the best not to impress, but to ensure that night never repeated itself. If Voldemort—or any other shadow like him—came hunting, Harry would be ready, a force to match them blow for blow.
"Freedom," he whispered to Snow, who cocked her head as if listening. "That's what this is about. No one telling me who to be, what to do. Just me, you, and that wand." She hooted softly, a note of agreement, and Harry felt the ember of his resolve flare brighter. He'd wield his power like a blade, sharp and his own, until the day he stood beyond anyone's reach.
He would finally be free…
Harry leaned back in his chair at the Leaky Cauldron, the remnants of his stew cooling in the bowl as the firelight danced across the pub's weathered beams. Snow preened her feathers beside him, her quiet presence a steady comfort amidst the low hum of conversation—witches debating potion prices, a grizzled wizard muttering about broomstick regulations. The day's revelations weighed on him, a tangle of anger and possibility, but beneath it burned a fierce clarity. Freedom wasn't just a dream—it was a goal, a prize he'd seize with both hands once that wand was his.
He glanced at the sack of books beside him, their leather spines glinting faintly in the dim light. Tomorrow, he'd make his final trip to Privet Drive, a swift in-and-out to grab what little mattered—a threadbare jumper, a cracked mug he'd once hidden biscuits in, the stubs of pencils he'd sharpened with a kitchen knife. The Dursleys wouldn't notice or care; they'd probably throw a party the moment he was gone. Then he'd settle here, in a room above the pub, until the Hogwarts train rolled out on September 1st. Two months of liberty stretched before him, a canvas to paint with magic.
"Tom!" Harry called, waving the barman over as he cleared his plate. "Can I get a room sorted for the summer? I'm staying 'til school starts."
Tom ambled over, wiping his hands on a stained apron, his gap-toothed grin widening. "A room, eh? 'Course, lad—plenty o' space upstairs. Got a nice one overlookin' the Alley, if yeh fancy it. Three Galleons a week, meals included. That suit yeh?"
"Perfect," Harry said, fishing three gold coins from his sack and sliding them across the table. "Starting tomorrow—I've got some things to grab from home first."
"Done," Tom replied, pocketing the Galleons with a nod. "I'll have it ready by noon. Anything else yeh need?"
Harry hesitated, then leaned in, lowering his voice. "Yeah, actually. You know much about magic rules? Like… practicing spells outside school?"
Tom's bushy brows lifted, a knowing glint in his eye. "Curious, are yeh? Well, the Ministry's got their Trace—tracks wand magic 'round young'uns 'til they're seventeen. But here?" He gestured around the bustling pub. "Place is crawlin' with wizards day an' night. Spells goin' off left, right, an' center—bit o' light flickerin' from you'd get lost in the din. Just don't go blastin' the roof off, eh?"
Harry smirked, the confirmation sparking a thrill in his chest. "Wouldn't dream of it. Thanks, Tom."
The barman clapped him on the shoulder and shuffled off, leaving Harry to his thoughts. He'd suspected as much from his reading—the Trace was sloppy, tied to wands and rough locations, not sharp enough to pin a single caster in a crowd. At the Leaky Cauldron, he could experiment, hone his skills in secret. Not for some teacher's gold star—he'd leave that to the show-offs—but to forge himself into something unbreakable. October 31st, 1981, had taught him the cost of weakness. Never again would he be that helpless babe, caught in a storm he couldn't fight.
He pulled First-Year Spellcraft: A Primer from his sack, flipping it open to a dog-eared page. "Wingardium Leviosa," he murmured, tracing the incantation and the wand motion sketched beside it—a smooth swoop and flick. The book promised levitation, a feather floating at his command. He imagined it now, the wand in his hand, its redwood-and-elder grain thrumming with power as he bent the air to his will. Two months until he could claim it, but once he did, he'd waste no time. He'd master every spell he could, build a foundation no Dark Lord—Voldemort or otherwise—could topple.
Snow hooted softly, nudging his arm with her beak. "What's that, girl?" Harry asked, glancing at her with a half-smile. "Think I'm getting ahead of myself?"
She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming like twin moons, and let out a low trill that felt like encouragement. "Yeah, you're right," he said, scratching under her chin. "We've got this. Step by step, we'll get there—stronger than anyone expects."
A clatter from the bar drew his attention—Tom arguing with a wiry wizard over a spilled tankard, the air briefly sparking with a cleaning charm. Harry watched, fascinated by the casual magic woven into every corner of this place. Soon, that'd be him—wand in hand, shaping the world as naturally as breathing. But Dumbledore's shadow loomed in his mind, a puzzle he couldn't ignore. The great wizard had left him with the Dursleys, and now Hagrid was sniffing around on his orders. Was it control? Guilt? Something darker? Harry's fingers drummed the table, his resolve hardening. He'd play along for now—go to Hogwarts, hear Hagrid's stories—but he'd keep his eyes sharp and his trust locked tight.
He stood, stretching as the fire popped behind him, and gathered his things. "Come on, Snow," he said, offering his shoulder. "Let's get some rest. Big day tomorrow—last time I'll ever call that place home." The owl hopped up, her weight a familiar comfort, and Harry climbed the creaky stairs to a spare cot Tom had lent him for the night. He lay back, staring at the cracked ceiling, the hum of the pub fading below. Freedom wasn't just coming—it was his to take, one spell, one choice at a time. And when he was ready, no one—not Dumbledore, not Voldemort, not the whole wizarding world—would stand in his way.
August 31st, 1991
A month had swept by since Harry claimed his corner of the Leaky Cauldron, and the magical world had unfolded before him like a tapestry stitched with wonders. His small room above the pub—a narrow space with a slanted ceiling, a rickety bed, and a window overlooking the bustling Alley—had become a sanctuary, its walls alive with the echoes of clinking Galleons and chattering voices drifting up from below. Each day brought something new: a turbaned wizard from Istanbul swapping tales of flying carpets, a stern witch from Beauxbatons complaining about British tea, a gaggle of kids from Ilvermorny marveling at self-stirring cauldrons in Diagon Alley's shops. Harry soaked it all in, his ears sharp and his curiosity sharper, piecing together a mosaic of magical cultures, schools, histories, and the tangled web of wizarding politics.
His self-study had become a rhythm, a pulse driving him forward. The first-year spellbooks, once daunting, now felt almost childish—he'd mastered Lumos in a flicker, the wandless glow of his cupboard days refined into a steady beam with a borrowed wand from Tom's stash. Changing a matchstick into a needle took three tries, the wood warping and glinting into silver under his focus. Wingardium Leviosa came even easier, a feather dancing above his desk like a leaf caught in a breeze. But he refused to coast. Potions, he'd heard, were a beast—rumors of a professor who grilled first-years on day one had him poring over Magical Drafts and Potions, memorizing ingredients and brewing steps until they slotted neatly into his mind palace. Each night, he'd collapse onto his bed, the day's knowledge cataloged behind mental doors, a fortress of his own making.
"Reckon I'm ready for that potions git, Snow," he said one evening, sprawled on his quilt with the textbook open beside him. The owl, perched on the windowsill, tilted her head and hooted—a sound Harry took as approval. "Yeah, thought so. No pointy hat's gonna trip me up."
Physically, he'd shed the last traces of Privet Drive's neglect. The nutrition potions—bitter, syrupy concoctions he'd choked down daily—had worked their magic, filling out his once-scrawny frame. At five feet one, he stood tall for eleven, his shoulders broader, his cheeks no longer hollow. He caught his reflection in the room's cracked mirror sometimes, a boy who looked thirteen staring back—healthy, strong, a far cry from the waif who'd skulked under the stairs. It fueled his resolve; every inch he'd grown was a defiance of the Dursleys' starvation.
The mind arts had blossomed too. The Mind Arts – A Beginner's Guide to Occlumency was his nightly companion, its meditation exercises a lifeline. He'd sit cross-legged on the floor, Snow's soft hoots a distant hum, and clear his mind—pushing out the day's noise until only stillness remained. Memories—Dudley's fists, Vernon's roars, the wand's electric surge—found safe havens behind shimmering barriers he built with each session. He wasn't invincible yet; a skilled Legilimens could still breach him, he knew that. But after a month, he trusted he'd sense an intruder—a prickle at the edge of his thoughts. Eye contact was the key, the book warned, so he'd keep his gaze sharp and guarded around wizards like Dumbledore. If it came to it, he'd break the stare and sever the link.
"Got to stay one step ahead, don't we?" he murmured to Snow, who ruffled her feathers in reply. "No one's rummaging through my head—not without a fight."
His favorite discovery, though, was An Introduction to Dueling by Antonin Dolohov. The book's worn cover hid a treasure trove of spells and strategies—disarming jabs, shield charms, footwork drills that made his pulse race. Competitive fire burned in him; he could already picture himself weaving through opponents, wand flashing. Dolohov's past— a Death Eater, locked in Azkaban for slaughtering countless under Voldemort's banner—gave him pause. "Evil sod," Harry muttered, flipping a page. "But he knew his stuff." The man's skill rivaled legends—Grindelwald, Dumbledore, even the Dark Lord. Harry wouldn't discard that expertise over morals; knowledge was power, and he'd take it from any source.
Downstairs one afternoon, he'd overheard a group of grizzled wizards debating the International Dueling Championships over their Firewhiskies. "Under 14's in Paris, two years from now," one growled, puffing a pipe. "Lad of twelve can enter—needs a sponsor, though, someone to handle the paperwork and vouch for 'em."
Harry's ears perked up, and he'd grilled Tom about it later. "True enough," the barman confirmed, polishing a glass. "Big event—wizards from all over, showin' off their chops. You'd need a contact with dueling know-how, mind. Teacher, maybe, if yeh impress one at Hogwarts."
"Two years," Harry mused aloud, back in his room, the dueling book open on his lap. "I'll be twelve next summer—old enough to compete." He imagined it—standing in a Paris arena, wand raised, the crowd's roar a distant hum as he outmaneuvered some cocky French kid. All he needed was a mentor, someone seasoned to back him. Hogwarts loomed tomorrow, a castle brimming with potential allies—maybe a professor, if he proved his worth. Dueling wasn't just a game; it was survival, a skill to sharpen against whatever shadows—Voldemort's or otherwise—might hunt him one day.
Harry rose from his chair in the Leaky Cauldron, stretching his arms above his head until his spine gave a satisfying pop. The floorboards groaned beneath his boots, worn but sturdy from his wanderings through Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. He glanced at Hedwig—Snow, as he sometimes called her—perched atop the rickety wardrobe, her white feathers catching the dim light of the room he'd rented for the night. Her amber eyes gleamed with a quiet alertness, as if she, too, sensed the shift on the horizon.
"Tomorrow's the day, girl," he said, his voice low but brimming with excitement. "Hogwarts. Think we're ready for it?"
Hedwig let out a bright, eager hoot, her wings rustling slightly as she bobbed her head. Harry's grin widened, a rare softness creeping into his expression. "Yeah, me too. Let's get packed—the train leaves first thing."
He turned to the small pile of belongings scattered across the bed. With careful hands, he folded his new robes—crisp black wool and the shimmering Acromantula-silk cloak—layering them neatly into his Auror-grade trunk. His books followed, stacked with a reverence he didn't bother to hide: The Standard Book of Spells, Introduction to Dueling, and the ancient, leather-bound The Tongue of the Serpent, its secrets whispering to him even now. The wand holster hugged his wrist, his wand snug within reach. As he worked, the weight of what lay ahead settled over him like a mantle—thrilling, substantial, and entirely his own to shape.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
August 31st, 1991
In the high tower of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore sat behind his cluttered desk, the flickering light of a dozen candles casting long shadows across the room. His fingers steepled beneath his chin, his half-moon spectacles slipping slightly as he sank deep into thought. Tomorrow, Harry Potter would step aboard the Hogwarts Express, its scarlet engine carrying him from the Muggle world back to the magical one he'd been born into. After a decade under the care of those dreadful Dursleys, the boy would finally return—a moment Albus had anticipated for years.
Or so he'd believed.
The Headmaster's brow furrowed, his twinkling blue eyes narrowing as he sifted through recent revelations. Harry hadn't been languishing at Privet Drive as Albus had assumed. Mrs. Figg, his ever-watchful Squib neighbor, had sent an owl nearly a month ago, her spidery script tinged with worry: The boy's gone, Albus. Haven't seen him in weeks. Then Hagrid's report had landed like a stone in still water—sent to fetch Harry for his school shopping, the gamekeeper had found Number Four empty of its youngest resident. Only later, at the Leaky Cauldron, had Hagrid stumbled upon him, sitting alone with a plate of food and a pile of purchases, every item on his Hogwarts list already secured.
Albus leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "Curious," he murmured to Fawkes, the phoenix perched nearby, who tilted his head in silent agreement. "Very curious indeed."
The parallels gnawed at him. Sixty years ago, another orphan had walked Diagon Alley's cobbled streets alone, rejecting aid with a steely independence that masked a hunger for something greater. Tom Riddle. Albus could still picture him—sharp-featured, pale, and poised, clutching his own wand with a possessiveness that hinted at the darkness to come. Harry Potter hadn't even been Sorted yet, and already the echoes were there: the self-reliance, the quiet determination. Too many similarities for comfort.
He'd been so certain of one thing, though—Voldemort's wand. The twin cores, both plucked from Fawkes' fiery tail, had seemed destined to intertwine. Albus had visited Ollivander weeks ago, leaning casually against the counter as he probed. "The phoenix feather wand, Garrick—did it choose young Harry?"
Ollivander had chuckled, a dry, knowing sound, and waved a dismissive hand. "No, no, Albus. Not that one. You'll see, in time."
"But surely—" Albus had pressed, only for Ollivander to fix him with those unsettling, glassy eyes.
"Trust me, Headmaster. Harry's wand is… unique. Unlike anything I've ever sold before."
That refusal to elaborate had left Albus restless. He'd tried again, owl after owl, each met with the same cryptic deflection. One of a kind, Ollivander had called it. A wand of exceptional power for a boy from a lineage steeped in magic, tempered by a childhood Albus could only imagine had been bleak. The scar on Harry's forehead—jagged, lightning-shaped—loomed in his mind, no mere remnant of a curse. It was something more, a tether to the night Voldemort fell, a connection Albus couldn't yet unravel. Did that link explain the echoes of Tom in Harry's steps?
He rose, pacing the circular office, his robes whispering against the stone floor. "I must keep watch," he said aloud, more to himself than to Fawkes. "A third Dark Lord cannot rise—not under my stewardship, not with those shadows already lingering."
Yet what he'd seen of Harry so far stirred a complex brew of emotions. Pride, yes—the boy's independence was remarkable, his curiosity insatiable. Tom the innkeeper had laughed when Albus inquired, wiping a glass as he spoke. "Harry? Good lad, that one. Polite, sharp as a tack. Been in and out of here all summer, asking questions, soaking it all up." The shopkeepers of Diagon Alley echoed the sentiment—friendly, respectful, a boy who paid his way and left no debts. Flourish and Blotts had practically adopted him, his visits so frequent the clerks knew him by name.
"A studious one," Albus mused, pausing by a window to gaze at the darkening grounds. "Much like myself at that age." He'd devoured books too, chasing knowledge with a fervor that had shaped him. Where would the Sorting Hat place Harry tomorrow night? Gryffindor, with its lion-hearted legacy, seemed a natural fit—James and Lily's courage ran in his blood. Yet Albus couldn't shake the sense that another House might claim him, a twist he couldn't predict.
The scar held answers, he was sure of it. Perhaps a closer look, a gentle request—but no. He shook his head, silver beard swaying. "Too soon," he murmured. "He's wary, guarded. I must earn his trust first." The Prophecy loomed, its words a riddle etched in his mind: The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Harry was that one, Albus felt it in his bones, but guiding him required patience, a steady hand.
He returned to his desk, sinking into the chair with a sigh. "We'll wait," he told Fawkes, who trilled softly in response. "Build a bridge, step by step. That's the way forward."
Outside, the stars began to prick the sky, and far below, the Hogwarts Express stood ready for its journey. Tomorrow, Harry Potter would arrive—and Albus Dumbledore would be watching.
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