The Tenth Weasley - CH - 58

The whispering never stopped.

No matter where Harry Weasley went—down the corridors, into the Great Hall, through the library—he could hear the murmurs trailing after him, hushed voices that barely concealed the fear beneath them.

"He's not a real Weasley."

"He's the Heir of Slytherin."

"He's the one who did it—he petrified Filch’s cat!"

It had been subtle at first. Averted gazes. First-years scurrying out of his way. A few Gryffindors throwing suspicious glances his way whenever he entered the Great Hall. But now, the rumors had spread like Fiendfyre, igniting fear in the younger students and wariness in the older ones. It wasn’t just the Muggle-borns who flinched when he passed anymore—it was nearly everyone.

Even the older Slytherins, those who had once regarded him as an intriguing enigma, now watched him with careful curiosity. They never outright accused him, but there was something different in the way they spoke to him, the way they measured their words, as if considering whether aligning themselves with him would be a dangerous mistake or a brilliant opportunity.

At first, Harry found it amusing. It wasn’t the first time Hogwarts had run wild with ridiculous theories, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. But after weeks of being whispered about, eyed like a predator in the dark, the weight of it started pressing down on him.

It was during dinner that Blaise finally snapped.

“Enough,” he said sharply, slamming his fork onto the table. His voice cut through the quiet hum of the Slytherin table, drawing the attention of those nearest to them. “If you have something to say, say it to his face instead of whispering like cowards.”

The students nearby hastily looked away, their faces turning back to their plates, but the damage was done. The message had been sent—Harry was being watched, and now everyone knew that he knew.

Daphne sighed, setting down her goblet with an irritated huff. “Honestly, I don’t know why you’re letting this get to you, Harry. It’s Hogwarts. People are always going to talk.”

“I don’t care that they’re talking,” Harry muttered, stabbing a piece of roast beef harder than necessary. “I care that they’re stupid enough to believe this rubbish. Me, the Heir of Slytherin? Seriously?”

Blaise smirked, leaning back against the bench. “Well, to be fair, mate, you are a Parselmouth, which makes you the prime suspect.”

Harry shot him a glare. “Gee, thanks.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “And then there’s the little fact that you’re not actually a Weasley by birth,” she added in a low voice, though not low enough that a few eavesdroppers nearby didn’t catch it. “That really set the fire going.”

Harry scowled. That part still stung. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he had been adopted, but it had never been common knowledge, either. The Weasley name had been his shield against scrutiny for years. Now, with that shield chipped away, people were looking at him in an entirely different light.

The worst part? His own family was on edge.

His parents—Molly and Arthur—had written more letters in the past week than they had in his entire first year combined. Even Bill and Charlie had sent owls, asking if he was all right, if he had noticed anything strange, if he needed anything. And then there were the Potters, hovering at the edges of the situation like vultures waiting for their chance to swoop in.

He had expected this from them—Lily Potter, with her endless worrying and desperate need to reconnect, James Potter, trying to play the part of the concerned father, and Rose, innocently asking if the rumors were true, if he really was Slytherin’s Heir.

But what he hadn’t expected was Charlie Potter’s silence.

Charlie, the Boy-Who-Lived, had said nothing.

It was unsettling.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s getting annoying,” he admitted. “Even the professors are acting weird. Dumbledore called me to his office again yesterday.”

Daphne straightened, her brows furrowing. “Again?”

“What did he want?” Blaise asked.

Harry shrugged. “Same thing. Asking if I knew anything about the Chamber of Secrets. If I’d seen anything suspicious. He’s keeping an eye on me, I can tell.”

Daphne’s expression darkened. “He’s suspicious of you.”

“I know.”

“That’s not good,” Blaise muttered, pushing his plate away. “If Dumbledore starts poking around, it’s only a matter of time before he finds something he doesn’t like.”

“Let him try,” Harry said, voice low. “He won’t find anything.”

Blaise studied him for a moment before giving a lazy smirk. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter in the long run. You’re already feared, Harry. Whether you like it or not, you’re the new dark prince of Hogwarts.”

Daphne snorted. “Dark Lord Weasley,” she corrected with a smirk.

Harry groaned. “Not you too.”

She grinned, her amusement flickering away just as quickly. “You should be careful, though,” she warned. “Jokes aside, this whole ‘Heir of Slytherin’ thing? It’s not going to go away anytime soon.”

“I know,” Harry muttered, stabbing at his food again. “Believe me, I know.”

News, especially one as sensational as the reopening of the Chamber of Secrets, never stayed within the walls of Hogwarts for long. Letters had already been sent out by the upperclassmen, reaching their families, friends, and even distant relatives. The owl posts carried stories of fear, speculation, and intrigue beyond the castle’s enchanted barriers, into the heart of the wizarding world.

For many, especially the older generation, this wasn’t just another Hogwarts mystery. It was history repeating itself.

Grandparents who had been students fifty years ago, when the Chamber was last opened, responded to their grandchildren’s frantic inquiries with tales of fear and paranoia, recounting how the school had been in an uproar back then. Some recalled how Muggle-born students had been terrified for their lives, how professors had struggled to maintain order, and how the attacks had ended with a death. The death of a student.

But it wasn’t just nostalgic horror stories that filtered back through the letters.

The upperclassmen of Slytherin House had written to their families as well—families with deep-rooted connections to the past, those who had once been Death Eaters, who had escaped Azkaban under the convenient excuse of the Imperius Curse. These former followers of Lord Voldemort had seen firsthand how their master had declared himself the Heir of Slytherin. If the Chamber was indeed open again, they wanted to know if it was Voldemort’s work.

Had he returned?

Or had someone else taken up his legacy?

In the dim glow of the Slytherin common room, hushed voices murmured beneath the flickering green flames in the fireplace. The older Slytherins huddled in groups, some whispering urgently while others sat quietly, deep in thought.

"They say the Dark Lord was Slytherin’s Heir," a sixth-year muttered to a group of younger students, his eyes darting around the room. "But if he was, then who is opening the Chamber now?"

"Maybe he left something behind," another speculated. "Something that could carry out his will even if he isn’t here."

A few eyes flickered toward Harry Weasley, who sat at his usual place in the common room, pretending to be engrossed in a book. He could feel the weight of their stares, the curiosity, the suspicion.

They still think it’s me.

Blaise and Daphne sat on either side of him, both pretending not to notice the attention Harry was receiving. They knew better than to acknowledge it; doing so would only add fuel to the fire.

Daphne, however, leaned in slightly and whispered, “The letters have gone out.”

Harry didn’t react at first, keeping his gaze on the pages before him. “What letters?”

“The ones to their families,” Blaise answered quietly, eyes flicking over the gathered students. “Slytherins want answers. The old families—especially the ones who were with him—they want to know what’s going on.”

Harry turned a page in his book, voice measured. “And what are they expecting to hear?”

Blaise smirked. “That’s the interesting part, isn’t it? If Voldemort really was Slytherin’s Heir, then why is the Chamber opening now, when he’s supposed to be gone? And if it’s someone else, then who could be powerful enough to claim that title?”

Harry didn’t respond.

But he already knew what many of them were thinking.

All eyes were slowly turning toward him.

Letters poured into Hogwarts over the following days, answers coming from the outside world. Some of them were frantic, written in scrawled, hurried ink, warning their children to stay away from the rumored Heir of Slytherin. Others were more composed, filled with calculated words and veiled curiosity.

One particular letter had arrived for a seventh-year Slytherin named Adrian Montague, whose family had long been tied to the Dark Lord’s former circle. He read the parchment carefully before folding it with a thoughtful look.

“Anything interesting?” another seventh-year, Cassius Warrington, asked.

Montague’s lips curled slightly. “My father says that the Dark Lord never truly confirmed his bloodline. He claimed to be the Heir of Slytherin, but there was never any real proof.” He tapped the folded letter against his palm. “If the Chamber has truly been opened by the Heir, then the Dark Lord may not have been the last of Slytherin’s line.”

A silence fell over the group.

"So what does that mean?" a younger Slytherin asked hesitantly.

Montague’s gaze slid toward the other end of the common room, where Harry sat with Blaise and Daphne.

"It means," he said slowly, "we may have a new Heir among us."

Harry, of course, had no intention of playing into their games.

He knew what was happening. He had been called to Dumbledore’s office once already, had received more letters from his family than he cared to read, and now, half of Slytherin was subtly watching his every move.

They were waiting for him to slip up.

To confirm their suspicions.

To either prove or disprove the rumors.

Slytherins were ambitious. They knew power when they saw it, and right now, the title of Slytherin’s Heir was up for grabs. And in their eyes, Harry was the prime candidate.

But Harry wasn’t interested in their power plays. He had his own plans.

And if the true Heir of Slytherin was indeed inside Hogwarts, he was going to find them before anyone else did.

Because if there was one thing Harry Weasley hated more than being accused of something he didn't do…

It was not knowing who was truly pulling the strings.


Harry Weasley was no longer just a curiosity; he was a mystery that needed to be solved.

For Adrian Montague and several of the older Slytherins, the rumors weren’t just idle gossip. They were a challenge, a puzzle begging to be unraveled. If the Chamber of Secrets was truly open, then the Heir of Slytherin was walking among them. And if Voldemort had left behind a bloodline, hidden from the world, it would be the most important revelation of their time.

And Harry Weasley was the perfect candidate.

No one knew his birth parents. The Weasleys had adopted him, raised him as one of their own, but the blood that ran through his veins remained a mystery. And if Voldemort, the Dark Lord himself, had ever fathered a child, he would never have left that knowledge open for the world to see.

But there was a way to find out.

Because Parseltongue—the ability to speak to snakes—was the one unmistakable mark of Salazar Slytherin’s bloodline. And Voldemort, as far as history knew, had been the last Parselmouth in Europe.

So if Harry Weasley could speak to snakes…

Then that would mean he was the true Heir of Slytherin.

Montague, Warrington, and a few other upper-year Slytherins gathered in a quiet corner of the common room, speaking in hushed voices as they finalized their plan.

“We need to do this subtly,” Montague murmured, his fingers drumming against the wooden table. “If he is the Heir, then pushing him too hard might make him lash out. If he’s not, then we’ll have wasted our time, and I don’t fancy getting hexed by Snape for harassing his favorite student.”

Cassius Warrington smirked. “Oh, come now, Adrian. Snape doesn’t have favorites—he has investments. Weasley’s been protected because he’s valuable. If he turns out to be Voldemort’s grandson or something, then that would definitely explain why Snape keeps an eye on him.”

Pucey leaned forward. “So, how do we go about this? We can’t just ask him if he’s a Parselmouth.”

Montague nodded. “No, but we can set up a situation where he’ll have no choice but to show us.”

He glanced at the others. “We need a snake. A real one. If he can speak to it, then we’ll know.”

A pause settled over the group as they considered the idea. Then Warrington chuckled. “Well, it just so happens that I know exactly where we can find one.”