The Tenth Weasley - CH - 61

The day had started just like any other. Classes came and went in their usual dull routine, but for Harry, there was little relief beyond the structured lessons. Ever since the whispers had started—since Dumbledore had begun his not-so-subtle surveillance, since the accusations of being the Heir of Slytherin had turned from murmurs to outright hostility—Harry had made it a habit to avoid lingering in the open halls of Hogwarts.

He had learned the hard way that his presence in the main corridors was an invitation for trouble. Whether it was hushed insults, crude hexes thrown from behind corners, or self-proclaimed "heroes" from Gryffindor and Ravenclaw attempting to challenge him like some kind of villain in a dueling club, he had grown weary of their games.

And so, after classes, Harry retreated to the one place where the rumors had no real hold.

The dungeons.

The twisting labyrinth beneath the castle was home to Slytherins, and though the common room itself was protected by enchantments, the dungeon halls beyond were a maze that only Slytherins truly mastered. By the end of first year, every member of the house had memorized the entire layout—a necessity, since even Hogwarts’ own ghosts hesitated to navigate the cold, winding corridors.

For outsiders, the dungeon was unnerving.

For Harry, it was home.

He exhaled as he stepped beyond the threshold of the lower corridors, the familiar damp air wrapping around him like a protective cloak. Here, at least, he didn’t have to constantly watch his back.

Slytherins were not foolish enough to attack him.

Even if they believed the rumors—even if some whispered that he was the Heir of Slytherin—they wouldn’t be so reckless as to challenge him outright. Slytherins thrived on caution, on maneuvering behind the scenes rather than making open declarations of hostility.

To them, Harry was either a potential ally or a dangerous opponent.

Either way, they wouldn’t attack unless they were sure of victory.

The same could not be said for the rest of the school.

As he walked deeper into the winding corridors, Harry let his guard slip, just a little. Here, at least, he didn’t have to worry about a rogue spell hitting him from behind. His pace slowed, his shoulders loosened, and the tension he carried throughout the day eased just enough for him to take a breath without the weight of constant vigilance.

His feet carried him toward the Slytherin common room, but just before he reached the hidden entrance, something shifted in the air.

A presence.

Not a student.

Not a professor.

Something else.

Harry stopped, his senses sharpening as he turned his head slightly, his fingers itching for his wand.

Silence.

The dungeons were always quiet, the kind of stillness that swallowed sound whole, making it impossible to tell if someone was approaching. But Harry had spent enough time sneaking through the castle to recognize when he was not alone.

He took a step forward—casual, unhurried. His hand moved subtly toward his wand, fingers curling around the handle, ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

Another step.

Then—

A whisper.

Hissing.

Low, slithering words that curled through the shadows like smoke.

"Ssssoon… Ssssooon the blood will flow again…"

Harry’s breath hitched.

He wasn’t sure if he had truly heard it or if his mind was playing tricks on him, but the sound—no, the voice—was unmistakable. It was a he had never heard before.

Harry turned sharply, his eyes scanning the empty corridor, the flickering torchlight casting long, wavering shadows against the damp stone walls.

Nothing.

And yet…

The whisper remained, curling around him like an unseen predator, waiting.

Harry stood frozen in the dimly lit dungeon corridor, his fingers clenched tightly around his wand. The whisper had faded, but the weight of its presence still coiled around him, pressing against his thoughts like an unseen force. He wasn’t imagining things. He knew what he had heard.

Parseltongue.

The voice of a Parselmouth.

The realization sent a sharp jolt through him. For weeks, he had been the center of Hogwarts’ rumor mill, whispered about in every corridor, accused of being the Heir of Slytherin. The idea had seemed ridiculous to him at first—just another excuse for students to turn their fears into a convenient scapegoat. But this…

This changed everything.

There was another Parselmouth at Hogwarts.

Harry exhaled slowly, his breath steady despite the chaos inside his mind. He had spent so much time dodging accusations, trying to keep his head down while others sought to expose him. Now, if the truth got out—if people found out that he is a Parselmouth—it wouldn’t just be whispers and hexes in the corridors.

It would be outright war.

He needed to think.

Quickly.

Turning on his heel, Harry moved with measured steps through the dungeon, retracing his path back toward his private room. He kept his pace casual, careful not to appear like he was running from something—because the moment he looked afraid, others would start asking questions.

And Harry couldn’t afford questions right now.

As he neared the entrance to his quarters, the reality of his situation began to settle in. The entire school was already watching him too closely. Dumbledore was keeping an eye on his every move. The Weasleys and the Potters were flooding him with concerned letters, and now, Slytherin’s upperclassmen were plotting ways to expose him.

If word got out that Harry had heard Parseltongue in the corridors…

No.

He couldn’t allow that to happen.

Harry’s mind raced, sifting through possibilities. The only people who knew about his ability were Daphne, Blaise. Daphne and Blaise wouldn’t betray him. They were his closest friends, and they had never once acted against him.

Harry reached his door and flicked his wand, muttering the sequence of charms and curses that sealed his private chambers from any unwanted visitors. The magic shimmered briefly before the door creaked open, and he stepped inside, exhaling as the protective wards snapped back into place behind him.

Blaise and Daphne were already waiting.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Blaise observed, lounging on the couch with a book in hand.

“Or worse,” Daphne added, raising a brow. “Malfoy?”

Harry shook his head. “No. It’s not Malfoy.”

Daphne’s expression tightened. “Then what is it?”

For a moment, Harry considered lying. He could brush it off, say he was just tired, let them think it was nothing. But no—he needed them. He couldn’t do this alone.

He took a steadying breath. “I heard something,” he admitted. “In the dungeon. It was Parseltongue.”

The room went completely silent.

Daphne and Blaise exchanged glances, their usual calm exteriors momentarily cracking.

“You’re sure?” Blaise asked, voice unusually serious.

“Completely,” Harry replied. “Someone—or something—was speaking Parseltongue.”

Daphne’s brows furrowed. “But that doesn’t make sense. You’re the only Parselmouth in Hogwarts.”

“Apparently not.”

Blaise leaned forward, his usual smirk absent. “What did it say?”

Harry hesitated, recalling the eerie whisper that had slithered through the air. “Something about blood… and how it would flow again soon.”

Daphne’s breath hitched. “The attacks.”

Blaise muttered a curse under his breath. “This is bad, Harry. Really bad.”

Harry knew it was.

He had spent so much time trying to prove that he wasn’t the Heir of Slytherin—trying to stay under the radar, to avoid any unnecessary attention. But now, whether he liked it or not, he was tangled in this mess.

The real Heir of Slytherin was here.

And they weren’t finished yet.

Harry sat down heavily, rubbing his temples as the weight of the situation pressed against him. “If anyone finds out I heard this, it’s over,” he murmured. “I’ll be blamed for everything.”

Daphne nodded grimly. “Then we need to make sure no one finds out.”

Blaise crossed his arms. “And we need to figure out who the real Heir is before they strike again.”

Harry looked between his two best friends, feeling a rare surge of gratitude. They weren’t just allies—they were his people. The ones who would stand by him no matter what.

He exhaled sharply.

“Then we better start searching.”

The dungeon corridors of Hogwarts were always dimly lit, the flickering torchlight casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. Harry had been here many times before, but tonight was different. Tonight, he was searching for something—or rather, someone.

The Heir of Slytherin.

He moved carefully, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, ears straining for the faintest whisper of movement. This was the same area where he had heard Parseltongue before, the voice slithering through the air like an unseen predator. He had to be close to something.

Then, suddenly—

A loud hiss.

Harry barely had time to react before a wave of snakes came flying toward him, thrown from the darkness of the corridor. His instincts took over—his wand flicked up, and a shimmering, dome-like shield materialized around him.

Protego Totalum!

The snakes collided with the barrier and bounced off, landing in a writhing heap around him. Their bodies twisted and coiled, fangs flashing as they hissed in outrage. Harry's pulse quickened as he realized what had happened.

Serpensortia.

Someone—or multiple people—had conjured them, casting the spell from the shadows.

And now, he was trapped.

The snakes, confused and agitated from their sudden summoning, turned toward the nearest warm body—him. Their eyes glowed eerily in the dim light, and Harry could hear their hissing growing more aggressive.

"Attack. Strike. Bite. Defend ourselves."

Harry could understand them. Every furious word.

His first instinct was to speak, to tell them to calm down, to let them know he wasn’t a threat. But just as the words started to form on his tongue, his gaze flicked beyond the snakes—

Figures hidden in the shadows. Watching. Waiting.

It was a trap.

They had conjured the snakes not just to attack him—but to test him.

To see if he would speak to them.

A cold realization settled over him. If he so much as whispered in Parseltongue, the truth would spread like wildfire. The rumors of him being the Heir of Slytherin would turn into certainty. There would be no more denying it.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Harry’s grip tightened around his wand. If he couldn’t use his voice, he’d have to use his magic.

He swiped his wand in a wide arc. "Incendio Periculum!"

A line of fire erupted in front of him, crackling to life between him and the serpents. The sudden heat sent the snakes recoiling, their bodies writhing away from the flames. The light from the fire cast eerie shadows on the walls, illuminating the hidden figures at the end of the corridor.

Harry didn’t wait to see their reaction.

He turned and ran.

He moved swiftly through the dungeons, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew they wouldn’t chase him—whoever they were, they got what they came for. But they didn’t get what he came for.

He still didn’t know who the Heir was.

And now, more than ever, he had to find out—before the entire school turned against him.


The dungeon corridors were silent.

The only sound was the soft rustling of Harry’s cloak as he moved through the Slytherin common room, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. Everyone was asleep, oblivious to the storm that was about to descend upon them.

Harry had been patient. He had investigated, listened, and observed. It hadn’t taken him long to uncover the culprits—the sixth and seventh years who had conspired against him, who had sent the serpents after him as a test, who had nearly pushed him into a trap that could have destroyed his life.

And now, it was his turn.

He stood before the door to the sixth-year dormitory, his wand flicking in intricate patterns as he silently unraveled the locking wards. Years of ward-breaking practice with Bill had paid off—no one in Slytherin could keep him out if he didn’t want to be kept out.

The door creaked open.

Inside, the dormitory was bathed in the pale light of the enchanted torches. The upperclassmen slept soundly in their beds, unaware of the presence that had just entered their space.

Harry lifted his wand.

"Serpens Maxima."

A massive snake, its scales dark as ink, slithered into existence at the foot of the first bed. Its body stretched long and powerful, its forked tongue flicking in and out as it surveyed its surroundings.

Harry didn’t stop there.

He moved from bed to bed, summoning more snakes—poisonous, coiling creatures that slithered under the sheets, wrapping themselves tightly around the bodies of the sleeping Slytherins.

One by one, each of his attackers was marked.

Some had their arms pinned to their sides by thick, muscular coils. Others had snakes looped around their necks, their hisses whispering softly into their ears as they slept.

Harry ensured that none of them would be harmed—this was a warning, not an attack.

But it would be a warning they would never forget.

His next stop was the private quarters.

Some of the older students had secured their own rooms, protected by wards designed to keep out intruders. They might have believed themselves safe, but they had underestimated Harry Weasley.

With calculated precision, he dismantled their defenses, one by one, slipping into their sanctuaries like a shadow. Each time, he placed a serpent directly onto the bed, ensuring that when they woke, the first thing they would see would be a pair of gleaming fangs.

By the time Harry returned to his own quarters, the work was done.

And now, all he had to do was wait.

The Slytherin common room was in chaos.

Students were whispering in frantic voices, recounting the events of the night. Some were pale and shaken, others furious but too afraid to say anything out loud.

Professor Snape had been called in to remove the serpents, and while he had managed to do so without much difficulty, the damage had already been done.

The message was clear.

There was no proof, no evidence, nothing to link Harry to the attack. But every single one of them knew.

It was him.

It had to be him.

And if there was one thing they understood now, it was that Harry Weasley was not to be trifled with.

The next time someone came for him, they would think twice. Because if this was his warning—then what would his retaliation look like?