Chương 137: Parseltongue
Snape stared down at the thin first-year Gryffindor, stepping closer. "You just can't resist the urge to be in the spotlight, can you, Potter? Since you're not doing anything useful here, it's better if you don't bring..." His eyes flicked to Ron and Hermione with a cruel sneer. Ron, standing protectively next to Harry, glared at Snape, who continued, "your little accomplices to wander around. Otherwise, I might have a real mess on my hands."
"Professor Snape, help me, please!" Anthony called out. He had heard from Ron that Snape had an odd grudge against Harry, but seeing Snape terrorize students like the villain in a storybook was something else entirely.
Snape finally turned his attention from Harry to the large snake still wrapped around Roger in Hagrid's hands. He regarded the scene with cold indifference. "What do you want me to do, Anthony? Save the snake? It looks like it's about to be squashed."
"No way," muttered Hagrid. "I've been real gentle."
"Hagrid, why can't you just crush its head?" Ron asked, craning his neck to see Roger.
"No, Mr. Weasley!" Professor Flitwick interjected sharply.
Professor Flitwick explained that Miss Parkinson's custom-made flag likely included some of the defensive magic that protects wizarding manors. When attacked, it would try to ensnare its target, just as this snake was doing to Roger. Thankfully, because Hagrid was handling the snake "gently," it had stopped tightening its coils.
Usually, the owner of a manor could control the magical protections embedded in such a creation, but Pansy Parkinson had admitted, pale-faced, that she had no idea the flag even contained such a snake.
"This isn't the most aggressive construct I've encountered," Professor Flitwick reassured Roger. "In fact, it's quite weak compared to some alchemical creations I've seen. I'd say its most impressive feature is its resistance to damage." He paused thoughtfully. "I wonder if they could craft me a set of soft armor."
Anthony tried to comfort Roger. "That's good news. It's tricky, sure, but we should be able to get you to the hospital wing without much harm—"
"Uh, Professor?" Roger interrupted, his face paling further as the snake slithered closer to his neck. "I'm not a fan of it being around my throat."
Hagrid mumbled an apology as Anthony and Flitwick moved quickly to help, worried that applying too much force could result in Roger becoming the next Hogwarts ghost, strangled by a giant serpent. They preferred a slow and careful process to avoid any broken bones or worse.
Snape sneered, twirling his wand lazily. "Step aside, step aside. Let me handle this."
"No! I don't want you touching him!" Ron shouted, still focused on Roger. "Professor Flitwick is already taking care of it!"
Snape froze, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Oh?"
Hermione quickly tugged on Ron's arm, pulling him back from the edge of his outburst.
"Well, well. It seems some people think they can give orders to me, their professor." Snape's voice was icy. "Gryffindor will lose five points, Weasley, for your utter lack of respect."
Ron clenched his jaw but said nothing, still watching anxiously as Flitwick and Anthony worked on freeing Roger. Harry leaned in and whispered to Ron, trying to calm him down. "Ignore him, Ron. He probably planned to take points from me, but you gave him an opening."
But Snape wasn't finished. "And why didn't you stop him, Potter? Oh dear, another five points from Gryffindor, for your failure to respect your professor."
"But—" Harry stammered, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Anthony turned to Harry, just as confused. "What?" he muttered, barely able to grasp the surreal scene unfolding.
Professor Flitwick, amidst casting spells on the snake, briefly glanced at Anthony. "What's wrong, Professor Anthony?"
Before he could respond, Hagrid's booming voice interrupted, "Professor Snape! Harry didn't do a thing!"
A flurry of shouts from the students drowned out any further discussion, but something else was happening. In his anger, Hagrid had accidentally applied too much pressure, causing the snake to suddenly break free from Professor Flitwick's weakening charm. It violently constricted around Roger Davis's neck, whose face began to turn a deep shade of red as he gasped desperately for air.
Roger writhed helplessly, rolling on the cushion beneath him, his hands scrabbling at the coils around his neck, legs kicking frantically in the air.
Flitwick, alarmed, quickly cast a spell Anthony hadn't heard before. The snake's body began to smoke faintly, giving off an unpleasant, high-pitched squeal. Its metallic scales scraped against Roger's skin like rusty chains. Roger's skin, where it made contact with the snake, turned ashen and cracked under the pressure.
Without hesitation, Snape brandished his wand, shouting, "Sectumsempra!"
At that very moment, Hermione covered her mouth in horror, and both Ron and Tracey cried out, "Davis!" and "Roger!" simultaneously.
Harry's shout was different. His voice sent a chill through the air, low and unearthly, filled with something primal and terrifying. Anthony's head whipped toward Harry as the boy stood, seemingly entranced, staring directly at the snake. His words, barely human, were smooth and commanding, almost as if something ancient had taken hold of his voice.
The snake seemed to notice too. Its grip on Roger slackened, and slowly, it released him entirely. It slid off Roger and slithered beneath the cushions, its head still tightly bound by the rope Anthony had conjured. As it moved away, its tail slowly dragged over Roger's limp body before coming to a stop in front of Harry.
The gears inside the alchemical snake groaned loudly, and with one final, jarring screech, the snake collapsed, black smoke billowing from its nostrils. The magical construct ceased to move entirely.
Professor Flitwick's voice cut through the eerie silence as he rushed to Roger's side, casting a flurry of healing and diagnostic spells. "Mr. Davis!" he said, his voice sharp with concern. He carefully checked Roger's vitals, focusing on the effects of the dark magic that had ravaged his neck and chest.
Harry blinked in confusion, looking around at the now tense and whispering crowd. "What's wrong with you all?" he asked, as if he had no idea why everyone was behaving strangely.
Ron and Hermione quickly grabbed his arms, desperately pulling him away from the scene. "Come on, Harry," Hermione said, her voice filled with urgency. "Just don't ask questions, please."
But Anthony was too curious to let it go. "Mr. Potter," he asked cautiously, "what exactly did you just do?" He noticed Snape standing nearby, scrutinizing Harry with a serious, almost calculating expression.
Several Slytherins stood behind Snape, their faces equally unreadable, but they didn't join in the murmured conversations happening around them. Instead, they simply stared at Harry with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
Harry sighed, his frustration mounting. "You all saw what I did! I didn't do anything unusual!" His tone was defensive, though his annoyance was evident.
At that moment, Madam Hooch arrived, bringing with her Madam Pomfrey, who came rushing over in a rare state of agitation. "Move aside, move aside!" she ordered, her face flushed with concern. Her eyes quickly scanned the pile of spell test results hovering in front of Professor Flitwick. She gasped. "Black magic!" she muttered under her breath.
The students began to scatter, ushered away from the scene. Harry, still confused and resisting, was pulled along by Ron and Hermione, while Snape gave Madam Pomfrey a curt nod and turned back toward the castle, his face expressionless.
With Professor Flitwick's assistance, Roger's stretcher floated toward the castle, headed for the hospital wing. Tracey, her face pale and worried, trailed behind from a distance. Madam Pomfrey noticed and waved her away, sending her back toward the castle as well.
As they made their way to the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey voiced her displeasure, her tone sharp with disapproval. "Quidditch has become absolutely dangerous! Falls, sprains, broken bones, and now—dark magic!"
"I'm sorry, Poppy," Professor Flitwick panted as he hurried beside her. "It was an emergency. I had to use it."
"Is there a counter-curse?" she demanded.
"Not yet," Flitwick replied, his voice quick. "But I've used something to halt its spread."
Madam Pomfrey glanced down at her medical tests and let out a small sigh of relief. "Well, it's under control now. He's not in any life-threatening danger, thank Merlin. It's mostly an issue of appearance at this point." She hesitated, still confused. "Madam Hooch mentioned something about a snake. I've brought antidotes, just in case." She patted her bag, filled with clinking bottles of potions and remedies.
Anthony stepped forward to explain, "It's a bit complicated. It was an alchemical snake—not venomous—but it got wrapped around Roger's neck. Thankfully, Professor Flitwick acted quickly to stop it. Otherwise, Davis might've been strangled."
Madam Pomfrey shook her head but nodded in understanding.
As Madam Pomfrey swiftly took over, she unceremoniously ushered Anthony and Professor Flitwick out of the hospital wing. The door clicked shut behind them as they stood in the corridor, and through the small gap in the curtains, they could see instruments and potion bottles flying into neat arrangements on a tray.
Anthony sighed and straightened his robes. "I suppose we should head back."
Professor Flitwick nodded, taking one last glance at the hospital window. "Indeed, Professor Anthony. What a day it's been."
"Yes, and what a game," Anthony agreed. "Hopefully, Davis makes a full recovery soon."
"There were certainly too many surprises today," Flitwick said, shaking his head. "But the biggest shock? Who would have thought Mr. Potter could speak Parseltongue?"
"Parseltongue?" Anthony repeated, startled. "Isn't that supposed to be an ability unique to Slytherin's descendants?"
Flitwick nodded, then sighed. "It's a rare gift, and yes, often associated with Salazar Slytherin and dark magic. But Harry Potter of all people."
Anthony remained silent, processing the information.
...
By the time they returned to the castle, word had already spread like wildfire. Everywhere Anthony went, students were buzzing with excitement and speculation. Conversations in the corridors, the Great Hall, and even among the professors revolved around the discovery that Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was a Parseltongue.
Anthony found himself at the center of a whirlwind of rumors and questions as more and more people became curious about Harry Potter and the incident during the Quidditch match. The castle was buzzing with speculation—students and professors alike whispering theories, and even the most outlandish rumors seemed to take root.
Some claimed Harry might be a direct descendant of Slytherin, despite the fact that the Potter family had long been known for their strong Gryffindor ties. Others suggested that perhaps he had some distant relation to a dark wizard with the ability of Parseltongue. One group of students even spread the tale that Harry had intentionally used the snake to try and harm Roger, a claim that Anthony found ridiculous. He was confident that Harry's surprise at the situation had been genuine, not malicious.
It wasn't long before Professor McGonagall came to see Anthony, her expression stern but her tone worried. "What did Potter do?" she asked, tapping her quill against her hand. "There are students saying he's going to join forces with You-Know-Who. I'd like to get to the bottom of this before the rumors get even wilder."
"He didn't do anything harmful," Anthony assured her. "Harry spoke a few words in Parseltongue—that's all. He didn't cast a spell or direct the snake to attack. It was more like he was just... talking to it."
McGonagall gave a sharp nod, her face softening slightly. "Thank you, Henry. I'll report this to Albus. We need to dispel these wild theories before they get out of hand." She turned and left, looking determined to quell the growing hysteria.
But the questions didn't stop. Throughout the day, other professors sought Anthony out, wanting more specifics. They asked him to describe in detail what Harry had said, how the Parseltongue sounded, whether it resembled a spell or just a language, and if he noticed any strange behavior during the event. It was as though the castle had become obsessed with the incident.
By the time Professor Quirrell timidly opened his office door and peeked out, asking in a shaky voice, "H-Harry Potter and Parseltongue?" Anthony couldn't help but feel that the situation had spiraled far beyond what it should have been. He had to reassure Quirrell too, though he couldn't shake the strange feeling he got from the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's unease.
"That's right." Anthony opened his office door and let the professor with the notebook in. "Do you want to come in, Professor Quirrell?"
Though his injuries had fully healed, Professor Quirrell's confidence seemed deeply shaken. Despite Anthony's invitation, Quirrell refused to step inside.
"I won't go in," he stammered. "The smell is a bit... strong, isn't it?" He gave a nervous smile at the ginger cat purring by the door, twitching as if on edge.
Quirrell opened the door wider, waiting for Anthony to say more. "It's true," Anthony said simply, confirming whatever Quirrell had been expecting.
"Okay – okay, thank you," Quirrell mumbled, making to leave.
"Wait a minute, Professor Quirrell," Anthony called, stopping him before the door could close. He glanced at Quirrell, then down at the cat near his feet. "Are you really sure my cat scratched you?"
It was only today, standing so close to both his cat and Professor Quirrell, that Anthony noticed something peculiar. The faint aura of dark magic that clung to Quirrell felt oddly similar to the one surrounding his skeletal cat.
Quirrell flinched violently, quickly pulling his face from the doorway. Anthony didn't need an answer now; he already knew.
"I'm sorry. I... I'm really sorry," Anthony said quickly. "I know my cat can be aggressive at times. I'll keep a closer eye on it—if there's anything I can do to make up for it, just let me know."
His gaze flicked to the ginger cat, which was still hunched and glaring at the closed door, its ears flat against its head.
"N-no need," Quirrell stammered, slamming the door.
Back in his office, Anthony went over the events from the Quidditch match, recounting the snake scare to the enthusiastic professor he had just seen off. When he was done, he made his way back to Professor Quirrell's office and knocked on the door again.
"Who is it?" came Quirrell's muffled voice from inside.
"It's me, Anthony. I'm really, really sorry..."
There was no reply. Anthony waited a few moments, listening, but when the silence persisted, he finally turned away and walked back to his own office.
The ginger cat was sprawled across the floor, claws digging playfully into the legs of the couch. The wraith mouse, curled up on the velvet pillow, turned over irritably, disturbed by the cat's antics.
"You," Anthony muttered, glaring at the cat, which now rolled to its feet and began rubbing affectionately against his leg. He sighed and bent down to pat the cat on the head. "Even if Professor Quirrell smells strange, you shouldn't go around hurting people. Haven't I told you not to do that?"
Anthony thought back to his earlier encounters. Aside from Professor McGonagall and Professor Burbage, who had helped him settle his employment details, Quirrell had been the first professor he'd gotten to know outside of work. Quirrell had helped him a lot, and Anthony had once thought they might even become friends.
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