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Minerva put her hand across her mouth. She was in such shock that she couldn’t even swallow. She wished she could say that Hagrid had been mistaken.

But, well, Hagrid had heard Parseltongue during the war the way all of them had. And there was the newspaper article. Surely someone would have spoken up by now about it not being Parseltongue if they thought that, if only for the sake of getting in the paper and being famous for contradicting widespread gossip.

“What does it mean, Dumbledore?” Hagrid burst out as he finished his story.

Minerva turned to look at Albus. Her old mentor sighed and rubbed his face. He looked far older at the moment than Minerva had thought him in several years.

“You are sure that Harry had no idea what the Parseltongue was?” he asked. “No indication that he knew he was speaking a different language from English?”

Minerva blinked. She had not thought that would be the question he would ask.

“Sure, Dumbledore.” Hagrid bobbed his head. “Harry couldn’t lie to save his life, bless him.”

“Then we may still reach him,” Dumbledore said quietly. When he saw Minerva looking at him, he smiled a little sadly and said, “If you would leave this in my capable hands, Hagrid? Thank you for your report. It’s just as well that we know the details from an eyewitness, even if the rest of the magical world believes it knows them.”

Hagrid puffed up and nodded. “Glad to be of service, Dumbledore,” he said, and walked out. At least he seemed happy for the praise, Minerva thought.

Minerva faced Albus as soon as they were alone and asked, “How did this happen?”

Albus’s head was cocked, as if he were listening to distant music. “I do have a few theories,” he murmured.

Minerva waited, but heard nothing. “Do you mind telling me what they are?” she asked, with perhaps more acid than she should have used.

Albus gave her a troubled glance, one he tried to soften with a smile. But Minerva knew him too well. Yes, he was troubled, and he did not know exactly what to do. That bothered her, since she had never seen Albus at such a loss.

“Why does it matter whether or not Mr. Potter is speaking Parseltongue, Albus?”

“I was afraid that some Dark wizard had found him, even as isolated as I have kept him, and managed to tutor him in Parseltongue and what it means.” Albus clasped his hands in front of him. Minerva eyed the way they shook. “But he is alive and well, and ignorant in the way I meant him to be.”

“I thought you believed his relatives would tell him of magic?”

“I don’t think I ever said that, Minerva.”

“Albus—”

“Minerva, can you tell me honestly that you think it would be good for a child to know of the fame that awaits him here? To have grown up aware of it? Especially with the twisted view of magic that he would have received from a Muggle like his aunt?”

Minerva grimaced. It was true that she could imagine the fame and attention warping any child. If it had been Draco Malfoy or another Death Eater’s child, now, that would have been far worse.

“But is ignorance what you want from him?”

“Yes. His ignorance. His innocence. Don’t worry, Minerva, I do intend to tell him the truth. From what Hagrid says, he began on that already.”

“Fine. But that doesn’t explain why you need his ignorance from the beginning.”

Albus stroked his beard, staring at the wall with eyes that told Minerva he was seeing far beyond it. “Because he will have an open mind, and make his own decisions,” Albus said softly. “Above all, Minerva, I do not want him influenced. Growing up in the Muggle world kept him away from Death Eaters and their ideas that might have poisoned his young mind, but it also kept him from my influence.”

“Why is that a good thing, Albus?”

“Because,” Albus said, and he smiled in a way that lit his face with sorrow, “I have made my own mistakes in the past.”

He refused to explain more, and sent Minerva on her way with a dismissive gesture that made her stand outside his office, fuming, for a time. But as always, she truly could not think of anything she could say that would make a difference to him, so she stepped onto the moving staircase and let it bear her downwards.

She didn’t know what mistakes Albus was talking about. But after considering it for a time, Minerva put the idea out of her mind.

She would have to get ready for the new term. And she would have to do some reading on Parseltongue so she would be prepared to welcome a Parselmouth into her House.

*

“Did I make the wrong choice, Fawkes?”

Albus’s phoenix crooned and flew over to him. Albus lifted his arm and welcomed that warm, living, wonderful presence he had first felt as he knelt beside Gellert’s unconscious body all those years ago.

It was widely known that phoenixes were creatures of joy and immortality. What was less widely known was their role in someone’s redemption.

Phoenixes came to few mortals because those mortals needed both to have committed a grave mistake and to have endeavored to correct the mistake—and they needed the kind of power that only a phoenix could keep in check and guide. Albus had only met the criteria himself in the wake of his defeat of Gellert.

A mistake, to have loved Gellert. A mistake, to have hesitated so long to confront him when Gellert was rampaging across Europe. But since then, Albus had had Fawkes to cast light down his path.

“Did I make the wrong choice?” Albus repeated, and raised his head for Fawkes’s judgment.

The phoenix crooned softly and continued to hold his eyes. He would glance away or indicate with a motion of his head and wings if he thought Albus had caused this. He would impose a penance if it was particularly bad.

Albus lowered his head with a soft sigh. No. It was not unforgivable. He would have to be careful to show no disapproval of Harry himself.

And truly, what was there to disapprove of? So the boy had Parseltongue. Albus, of all people, should know it was the actions and beliefs that made a Dark wizard or witch, not the magic. Ariana had had what many people would have called Dark magic, were she well, and she had been only a terrified, injured child.

No. He would wait, and see, and keep a connection to Harry alive. He had learned his lesson when Fawkes had imposed his penance for so immediately judging Tom Riddle.

Perhaps he could not have done anything in that case, but perhaps he could have. If nothing else, Tom might have looked up to Albus because of his magical power and aspired to become like him to have his popularity…

Fawkes gave a scolding peck to his cheek, and Albus shook away the thought. Those were old, old regrets. He needed to look to the future.

And making sure that Harry never felt pushed away, into the arms of the Death Eaters who would try to take advantage of him if they could.

*

Molly put down the paper with a little shudder. She would never forget the one time that she had come close enough to You-Know-Who in battle to hear him commanding conjured snakes in that terrible language of his.

Never.

“Does this mean Harry Potter’s evil, Mum?”

Molly sat down next to Ginny and smoothed her hand across her daughter’s hair. Ginny curled into her side. She was so small, so innocent, on the edge of spoiled. Molly could admit that she and Arthur had coddled their younger children, trying to keep them safe from the last vestiges of darkness in the war. Bill and Charlie were old enough to remember some of it, but the others didn’t have to.

“No,” she said quietly. “It only means he has a gift that could be used in terrible ways.”

“Because You-Know-Who was a Parselmouth.”

“And Salazar Slytherin. Yes.”

Ginny’s face screwed up as she thought about the situation. “Well, if that’s the case, why would he want to be a Parselmouth?”

“Oh, Ginny.” Molly deposited a kiss on her daughter’s head. “It’s not something he chose. It’s a gift that manifested whether or not he wanted it to. You might as well try to reject your own talent for flying.”

“But my talent for flying isn’t evil.’

“I’m sure people have used it for evil things,” Molly said, a little weakly. In truth, she barely paid attention to flying and Quidditch, and she would have been happier if Ginny didn’t, either. “But he isn’t evil, Ginny. He just has magic.”

“But he could keep from using it.”

“I suppose he could,” Molly said. It did seem like the kind of thing most children—well, most children who didn’t belong to Death Eaters—would have kept secret and never used. Or at least not in the middle of Diagon Alley.

Ginny’s lip trembled. “I don’t want him to be evil, Mum.”

“He doesn’t have to be,” Molly said, and put her arms around her daughter to rock her. “And even if he is, you don’t have to worry about him, Ginny. I would never let anything happen to you.”

As her girl leaned trustingly against her, Molly’s eyes went back to the front page of the Prophet, and the boy in ragged clothes who had been photographed coming out of the pet shop. The snake on his arm was looking up at him, and the boy was looking down, smiling.

I hope he isn’t evil. The poor thing, if he is. Poor Lily and James.

*

“Dad, why was You-Know-Who a Parselmouth?”

Dad coughed and turned to look at Ron. “Er, what?” he asked. He had grease in his hair. He had been playing around with the car that Ron knew he had, but which he’d never actually told Ron about.

Because I’m not as good at things as Bill and Charlie, or as perfect as Percy, and I don’t make him laugh like the twins, and I’m not the only girl like Ginny—

Ron pushed the thought away and folded his arms. “I just wanted to know why he was a Parselmouth.”

“Er. Well. I don’t know for sure, Ron. There were just rumors, among the Or—among some of the people you mum and I knew.”

Ron might have asked what the Or—something was, but he didn’t really care right now. He wanted the answer to his question. “What were the rumors?”

“Let’s go into the house and sit down, shall we?” Dad asked a bit desperately. “Have something to drink…”

If he thought Ron was going to lose interest in the question in the time it took to get into the house, he was mistaken. Ron just stared at him as he sat down on the other side of the table. Mum never would have cracked in the face of a stare like that—in fact, she would have scolded Ron to keep his glares to himself—but Dad crumbled after only a minute of staring.

“You cannot tell your mother I told you this,” he whispered, darting his eyes back and forth as if Mum might suddenly Apparate into the middle of the kitchen, even though she and Ginny had taken the Floo to the Alley. “All right? She would be upset. She’s already upset enough about—all this.”

Ron nodded immediately. He didn’t want Mum to know he’d even been asking, because then she might get upset about it. “That’s fine, Dad. I promise I won’t tell.”

Dad took a deep breath and blinked his eyes a little. “All right. The rumors were that You-Know-Who was a relative of Salazar Slytherin, and that was why he could speak to snakes.”

Ron knew his eyes were very wide. He swallowed and asked. “That’s the only reason people can be Parselmouths, isn’t it? If they’re related to Slytherin?”

“Well, that’s not strictly true, Ron. There are a few historical wizards and witches who could speak to snakes as well. And you know you can learn the language like any other language? I believe that Professor Dumbledore understands it.”

“Yeah, but what about in Britain?”

Dad hesitated, then swallowed half of his butterbeer at one go. “It does rather seem as if all the ones here who spoke it from birth and didn’t learn it have been relatives of Slytherin,” he mumbled.

I knew it.

Ron sat with his dad a little while longer, but then the Floo lit up and he could almost hear Ginny chattering already. Ron went upstairs and lay down on his bed, staring up at the Chudley Cannons poster.

Until the article about Harry Potter being a Parselmouth had come out, Ron had had a picture of Harry Potter up there, too. It was a copy of the one that had been in the Prophet the day after he’d defeated You-Know-Who. He’d just been a little baby, with a cut on his forehead, staring up at the camera. But he’d defeated the Darkest wizard of all. Ron had looked at it all the time and thought he could be a hero if a little baby could.

But now, what was he going to do?

I’m still going to be a hero, Ron decided, after thinking about it for a while, and letting the pain bounce around the inside of his head and chest. I can’t be a hero next to Harry Potter, but I can still be one.

We’re all going to need more heroes, if he’s not one.

*

“You will need to increase your protection of the boy, Severus.”

Severus just nodded. His face was expressionless, he knew. His whole body was expressionless, as he sat in the chair across from Albus’s desk and simply waited for the speech to be ended.

And yet, Albus was giving him the kind of disappointed look over his glasses that Severus would have expected if Severus had declared an intention to place Harry Potter under the Cruciatus instead.

“Headmaster?” Severus asked, at his blandest.

“You do understand why you need to increase your protection of dear Harry?”

“Of course, Albus. There are those who will not like that the boy is a Parselmouth, and who will attack him when they might have cherished him before.”

“And those will attempt to recruit him to their side.”

Severus sneered. He could not help it. “You cannot believe that people like the Malfoys will overlook the fact that he defeated the Dark Lord and try to—”

“Will they not? Lucius is an opportunist. He might see a perfect chance to try and make the boy trust his word.”

Severus thought about it. It was true that Lucius hadn’t hesitated to turn on the Dark Lord and claim he was under Imperius in order to stay out of Azkaban, while during the war he had given every sign of being a loyal Death Eater. And the Boy-Who-Lived would be a great political weapon for whoever could wield him.

“I see what you mean.”

“So you will watch over the boy closely?”

“Yes. Although he will be Minerva’s problem.”

Albus gave a strange, sad smile. “I do hope so, my boy. I do hope so.”

Severus ignored the way he felt about being called “my boy” by Albus Dumbledore, a form of address the man had also used with the Marauders, and often of Harry Potter. He made all the right noises and escaped the office as soon as he could for the seclusion of the dungeons.

There, he paced back and forth across his office, his mind on Albus and the way that Harry Potter had been revealed as a Parselmouth.

His colleagues seemed stunned but accepting. They spoke of how “the poor boy couldn’t help who his relatives were” and “how awful it must be to share even a language with the man who killed his parents.” Severus had only sneered when they applied to him for his opinions, and they had backed off, because sometimes they had sense.

Severus had rather a different impression of how Potter had acquired Parseltongue than the idea that a bloodline connection with the Slytherin family from what must have been generations in the past had somehow revived.

No, Severus was fairly certain that instead, Potter had acquired Parseltongue the night Lily had died.

(Severus swallowed rage, grief, pain. They were not easy to swallow, but he had been training himself to do it for a long time).

No one understood the magic that Potter had used to defeat the Dark Lord, Albus would have said. Severus was rather of the impression that no one understood the magic Lily had used to defeat the Dark Lord. She had been brilliant, something that people had ignored as they rushed to praise the Potters, both generations of them, and she had loved her son.

Severus might not understand why, but he had accepted the facts as they stood.

So. Where did that leave him?

It meant that he would indeed keep a close eye on Potter when the boy came to school, but not precisely for the reasons Albus had requested. Severus would watch for some sign of the Dark Lord’s survival in the boy’s body. A flash of red eyes. A penchant for loving the Dark Arts. A tendency to spend more time speaking Parseltongue than English.

If he had to, Severus would kill the boy, to avenge Lily and prevent the Dark Lord from rising again.

It would not matter if his Vow killed him when he did it. The satisfaction of knowing that he had killed the tainted creature Lily had sacrificed her life to protect would be enough.

*

“You’re Harry Potter, aren’t you?”

Harry blinked and glanced up. He had finally figured out how to get through the barrier onto Platform 9 ¾ after watching a red-headed family do it, but then he’d got onto the train alone. He had tried not to the feel bad about it, and just sat there talking to Salash, his snake. He had given her the name because it was a Parseltongue word that meant “quick strike.”

“Er,” he said. “Yes.”

The boy who was standing in the doorway of the compartment smiled at him. He was taller than Harry—well, so were most people, but in this case, the boy was taller enough to really make Harry feel short. He had brown skin and striking brown eyes, and he came over and offered his hand to Harry with no confusion or hesitation.

“My name is Blaise Zabini. I’m going to be your classmate.”

“Oh. Nice to meet you.”

Harry shook Zabini’s hand, watching him carefully for any sign of his being upset about Parseltongue or the snake. A few people had turned away from him when he walked onto the platform. But Zabini just sat across from him, and looked at Salash with curiosity.

“Is that your pet? I heard you can talk to her.”

“Yes, I can.”

Harry lifted his chin defiantly as he said it, but Zabini just winked at him. “Don’t worry, Potter. Unlike some people, I don’t get upset about a magical gift.”

“A gift?”

“Of course. Who wouldn’t want to be able to talk to animals? I wish I could talk to my mother’s Kneazle and explain clearly that I have no wish to be buried under mounds of fur when I’m trying to sleep.”

Harry laughed. “What’s a Kneazle?”

“You don’t know?”

“I grew up in the Muggle world.”

That was the thing that made Zabini gape at him. Harry stirred, a little uneasily. He had read enough of his books during the summer to know that there was prejudice against people with Muggle parents, which he thought was the stupidest thing in the world. Why didn’t the purebloods, which they seemed to call themselves, start teaching people with Muggle parents instead of leaving them alone and then sneering at them for not knowing things?

It reminded Harry of the way that the Dursleys had treated him wrongly for not being “normal” when all along they had known he couldn’t be.

“I didn’t expect it, that’s all,” Zabini said a moment later. “A Kneazle is like a cat, I suppose you would say, but larger and smarter. And my mother’s prefers to nap on top of me. I found it endearing when she was a kitten, but now she’s as large as my chest and doesn’t understand that I get too hot too easily.”

Harry smiled, relieved that Zabini wasn’t going to hold his Muggle upbringing against him. “And what else should I know?”

*

Blaise was pleasantly surprised to find out that Harry Potter was so—sociable.

When she had seen the articles that made even the international press about Potter being a Parselmouth, Mother had predicted he would not be. She had shaken her head and said that Potter would be driven into fits of snobbishness by finding himself the possessor of such a rare magical gift, even more than he would already have been by the fame.

“Do not treat him as if he were interested in the same things you are, Blaise. He will not find you interesting.”

But Blaise had decided that he would go and ask Potter about the Parseltongue anyway, because Blaise loved magical creatures, and the thought of being able to talk to them was so brilliant.

Their conversation had gone wonderfully so far, and had progressed so that Potter had let Blaise hold his snake. She was beautiful, and Blaise told her so. Potter laughed and translated for him, and then laughed again when the snake apparently said something back.

“What did she say?” Blaise asked.

“That she thinks you’ll be as beautiful as she is someday, if you work for it.”

Blaise laughed in turn and handed Salash back. He couldn’t quite pronounce her name correctly, but he would work at it, and perhaps Potter would let Blaise hold her and speak with her. Supposedly other people could learn Parseltongue, even if not speak it natively. Blaise would put up with serpentine insults and as horrible an accent as he would probably have if he got to speak with her. Understand her.

“If we’re roommates, then will you let me play with her sometimes?”

“Of course. But do you think that’s likely?”

Blaise paused. He had assumed he would end up discussing Houses with the people he rode the train with, but it was true that he hadn’t anticipated either riding with Potter or Potter turning out to be an interesting person.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “What House do you want to be in?”

“I’ve read about them all, and they all sound good.”

“That’s an unusual opinion. Most of the time, people have one that they prefer. Or they go into the House that their family is traditionally Sorted into.”

“I don’t even know what House my parents were in. None of the books mentioned that.”

“And you didn’t have anyone to tell you?”

“I was raised by Muggles who didn’t even tell me the truth about magic or the way my parents died. No, I don’t know.”

Blaise blinked, and blinked. But now he knew how he could reward Potter for being an unexpectedly interesting person. “Your parents were in Gryffindor,” he said gently. “I’ve heard people talk about how that makes sense because they were so brave to defy the Dark Lord and protect you when they died.”

Potter stared at his hands and his snake for a minute. Then he took a deep breath and raised his head. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.”

“What about you? What House did you want to be in?”

“Well, neither of my parents attended Hogwarts, but I’m of the impression that I would do well in Slytherin. Cleverness and ambition and drive are all qualities I have. And I want to be around people that have them.”

Potter nodded slowly. He was clearly thinking hard. “Do you think—is it ambition if I want to make people stop seeing Parseltongue as evil?”

Blaise couldn’t keep his eyes from widening, but Potter didn’t seem to mind that. He just kept stolidly sitting there and looking at Blaise, despite having asked a question Blaise wouldn’t ever have thought to hear.

“Yes,” Blaise said finally. Faintly. “You’ll have to struggle against centuries of prejudice and, well, reality.”

“You think Parseltongue is evil, too?”

“No. But the two most well-known British wizards who had it, the Dark Lord and Salazar Slytherin, have—bad reputations.” Blaise wasn’t about to get into defining evil and good around someone he had just met an hour before.

Potter nodded, his face set in such stubborn lines that Blaise could imagine a lot of people’s prejudice breaking on it. “Then I’ll just have to try hard.”

Blaise would have said something else, but the door of the compartment slid open, and he looked up. A boy he didn’t know was standing there, pale and dark-haired and with eyes that fastened on Potter in oddly fixed way.

“Hello,” he said. “Are you Harry Potter?”

“Yes, I am.” Potter still looked stubborn. He turned and gestured to Blaise. “And this is my friend Blaise Zabini.”

Blaise hid his discomfort at being called a friend when he’d only known Potter for such a short time, and just nodded to the boy. At least he looked interested for something other than Blaise’s last name. “How do you do?”

*

Theo hadn’t exactly expected to catch Potter alone, but he also hadn’t thought he would find him in the company of the notorious Black Widow’s son.

Zabini seemed calm and pleasant enough, however, and that meant he was better company than Crabbe or Goyle or Malfoy. Theo stepped into the compartment and let the door fall shut behind him. Both Zabini and Potter watched him do that with sharp eyes. Theo watched them back.

“Theodore Nott,” he said, and watched Zabini nod, as familiar with Theo’s last name as Theo was with his. Potter didn’t respond the same way, although a faint furrow did cross his brow.

More important, Potter had his snake openly riding his arm. Theo stared at him. Potter stared back.

The snake hissed softly, her tongue flickering in the air. “I am hungry. When will we eat?”

Potter smiled down at her and replied, making Theo catch his breath with both awe and delight. “I gave you a mouse earlier. I won’t be able to give you any more until after we reach the school.”

“When is that?”

“When the large beast stops moving.”

The snake subsided sulkily along his arm. Theo swallowed. He wanted, so badly, to reveal that he understood Potter and his pet, but Father had given him strict instructions about when and if to reveal his heritage.

A nearly-public train compartment, in front of two people whose allegiances Theo was still uncertain of, was not the place or time.

But at least Theo could sit down and express his fascination with Parseltongue, which made Potter smile at him and Zabini look intrigued. In the meantime, Theo was studying Potter as covertly as he could for signs of serpentine heritage.

He found nothing until Potter turned to say something to Zabini about the snake, whose name was apparently Quick Strike, and Theo saw the flash of his eyes. They were as green as rumor had said they were, so green that the photographs in the Prophet hadn’t been able to do them justice.

Of course. Theo should have thought of that before.

“Are you all right, Nott?”

“Yes, why?”

“Just because you started smiling suddenly, and I wondered if I’d said something to amuse you.”

Theo smiled more widely at Potter and shook his head. “It’s more admiring than anything. That you won’t let anyone intimidate you into pretending you aren’t a Parselmouth.”

“It’s sort of too late for that, isn’t it? Everyone already knows.”

“Right. But there are people who would do their best to play it down anyway. Who would be ashamed of it.”

Theo had said that deliberately, and he got to watch the way Potter’s nostrils flared and the corners of his lips drew back in something like a snarl.

“Well, they might do that. I’m not going to.”

Theo let his smile linger, and he nodded. Then he sat back to enjoy the rest of the train ride, which wasn’t interrupted by any other potential Boy-Who-Lived fans, in large part thanks to the locking charm that Theo had put on the door when he came in.

He had known it. Or rather, hoped and thought it likely. But now he had proof.

Green eyes? A tendency to snarl? Parseltongue?

Potter could only be part lamia.

Like Theo.

This will be beyond interesting, Theo thought, and his heart beat with painful hope.