After Harry revealed his Parseltongue ability, the vibe in the Dueling Club started to shift in a subtle, weird way. At first, everyone was hyped about the dueling, but now they were whispering and gossiping, wondering if Harry—showing off that Parseltongue talent—might actually be Slytherin's Heir.
The chatter started quietly among the younger witches and wizards, but as more people joined in, the whole club ground to a halt. Dueling took a backseat as everyone got swept up in heated debates about Harry.
"Slytherin's Heir… a Gryffindor? No way!"
"I thought it'd be Malfoy or something."
"But it kinda makes sense, right? The Slytherin prophecy never said the Heir *had* to come from Slytherin House."
"True, but even if Potter's got Parseltongue, if he's the Heir, why would a Gryffindor open the Chamber and let a monster loose to slaughter Muggle-borns?"
(patreon belamy20)
"Why not? Gryffindors are always slacking off on magic and dreaming up some grand, earth-shaking stunt instead."
"…Okay, fair point."
In the Great Hall, people huddled in small groups, heads close together, arguing excitedly. They were dying to figure out if Harry was the Heir, if he'd opened the Chamber, or if he was controlling that monster.
Lockhart couldn't care less about any of it. In fact, he was thrilled about the Chamber drama. To him, it was a golden opportunity to churn out another legendary adventure book that'd shake the wizarding world! Plus, with it tied to Hogwarts, his fame would skyrocket even higher.
So the Chamber? Not his problem. What he *did* care about was getting everyone's attention back on him—the founder of the Dueling Club! Tonight was supposed to be *his* night!
But no matter how much he darted through the crowd, waving and calling out, trying to refocus everyone, no one paid him any mind—not even his book fans. Slytherin's Heir was tied to the Chamber and a monster that might go on a killing spree at Hogwarts. When your life's on the line, who's got time for a guy prancing around in a kiddie wizard robe?
Harry couldn't handle the buzz anymore. Hermione grabbed him, and with Ron in tow, they bolted.
Dylan figured the night was pretty much over. He headed toward Professor Snape. "Professor, looks like he doesn't need us hanging around anymore. Should we head out too?"
Snape shot him a glance, nodded silently, and strode toward the side door of the hall. Dylan hurried to keep up.
Neither said a word as they left the Great Hall. It wasn't until they hit the corridor that Snape broke the silence.
"Your friend's a Parselmouth. You don't seem surprised."
Dylan blinked. "What's there to be surprised about?"
Snape narrowed his eyes, his voice low and gravelly, like he was swallowing the words. "Almost every known Parselmouth is a Slytherin descendant. That Potter's got this ability—he's in for some serious trouble."
Dylan nodded. "Yeah, probably a pretty big mess."
He knew full well Harry's Parseltongue didn't come from Slytherin blood—it was tied to Voldemort's soul. If Voldemort was truly gone and the soul fragment in Harry got destroyed, the ability would vanish. So Dylan didn't need to yank Harry's soul out or anything. If he could just extract and swallow Voldemort's fragment, he might snag Parseltongue for himself.
But Harry was a Horcrux—his soul was fused with Voldemort's shard, not separate. Pulling it out wasn't exactly simple.
Seeing Dylan so unfazed, Snape raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem too worried about your friend. Aren't you afraid Potter might actually be Slytherin's Heir?"
Dylan's eyes flickered. "Wouldn't that be cool? If he's the Heir, he could control that Chamber monster, right?"
"I'd love for him to lend it to me for some research. I've hit a wall with Transfiguration lately—you know I don't have many creatures to experiment on."
Snape's lip twitched. His sharp tongue parted, then closed again.
He was actually speechless.
"Professor, you're not worried Harry might do something crazy if he's the Heir, are you?" Dylan asked, looking surprised.
"Don't sweat it. When he was sparring with Malfoy—er, I mean, tossing spells back and forth—Harry looked like he couldn't even figure out how to flick a hex properly."
Snape nodded. "Figures. All he's got is a loud name—his skills are as disappointing as his recklessness."
Dylan: *…*
Snape never missed a chance to trash Harry—anytime, anywhere, he'd squeeze in a jab.
Both of them were using Occlumency during the chat, so neither could pick up on the other's emotions or thoughts. After a quick exchange, Snape said, "Curfew's starting soon. Unless you want me docking points, get back to your dorm now."
With a swish of his robes, he added before leaving, "Sleep well tonight. Don't let me catch you wandering."
Dylan blinked, standing there as Snape's cloak billowed off into the distance. He rubbed his chin. "What's that supposed to mean? Did he catch me sneaking into the Forbidden Forest?"
He tilted his head. "No way. I had the Shadow Ring and used Coalball's powers to slip out. There's no way he'd know."
Then his eyes lit up. "Wait—maybe I've got it wrong. He's not hinting he caught me. Maybe he's warning me to stay safe tonight?"
With a monster roaming around, it kinda made sense. The more Dylan thought about it, the more likely it seemed. A grin crept onto his face.
"Man, Snape's so cryptic. Why can't he just say it straight?"
As he headed to the dorm, Dylan started brainstorming Snape's next birthday gift. Christmas was coming up fast, and Snape's birthday wasn't far behind. He needed to get cracking—or when the day rolled around, he'd have nothing decent to give, and Snape would spend weeks glowering at him.
"But what should I get him this time?"
Last time, he'd gifted a robe. Another one this year? Nah. "How about a memory vial with three layered scents?"
For the first layer, he'd mix in some beechwood and sunny soapberry notes. He remembered Lily getting Muggle shampoo for her 14th birthday—beech oil blended with honeysuckle vibes.
The second layer could have a whiff of dungeon moss.
The third? A dash of absinthe.
"The opening notes would hit with beechwood's bittersweet tang and the chill of dungeon moss. It might remind Snape of holding Lily's body—the moldy leaf pile under his nose mixed with her fading shampoo scent."
"The middle absinthe note won't quite pull up that dying moment, staring into Harry's eyes amid blood and potion fumes, picturing Lily's wedding bouquet—Snape's still kicking, after all. But it'd stir *something* in him."
"For the finish, I could snag some phoenix tears from Dumbledore. Their heat would vaporize everything in a flash, leaving just a faint, lingering trace."
"Maybe it'd take Snape back to 11-year-old Severus nailing asphodel root separation in Potions class, with Muggle girl shampoo wafting in through the window."
Dylan mulled over how to craft this memory vial to trigger Snape's past when he smelled it. "Might need a potion boost to pull it off."
He walked briskly, soon reaching the Gryffindor common room. Word of the Dueling Club chaos had already spread. Some witches and wizards who'd gotten back earlier were spilling the tea to their friends.
The room was buzzing. Everyone was yakking about Harry being a Parselmouth, why Slytherin's gift landed in Gryffindor, and whether he was the Heir.
Dylan wasn't tight with these kids, so he didn't join the chatter. He just headed to his dorm.
Inside, Neville, Harry, and the gang were all there, looking kinda grim. Dylan shut the door, blocking out the curious eyes peeking from the hallway.
He glanced at Harry, who was curled up on his bed, hugging his knees, staring blankly like he was lost in thought.
Ron looked rough too. When he saw Dylan, his mouth opened, but no words came out right away.
Harry's gaze drifted up to Dylan, a mix of confusion and helplessness in his eyes. His lips quivered as he stammered, "Dylan, Hermione said… Parseltongue means Slytherin descent? Could I—could I be a Slytherin descendant?"
Dylan tilted his head. Looked like the little Chosen One was spooked by his own bloodline. He smirked at Harry.
But to Harry, that look from the seemingly unstoppable Dylan felt like confirmation. The tiny bubble of hope in his chest popped.
Dylan raised his wand. "*Cheering Charm!*"
A spark of light shot from the tip, hitting Harry. His death-warmed-over expression softened, and he looked a bit more chill.
"Harry, real talk—your parents are gone. Does it even matter if you're a Slytherin descendant?"
Harry: *(∧)*
The slight ease from the charm froze back into a grimace.
"Sorry, man, just keeping it real. Your dad was a Potter heir—no way he's got Slytherin blood, right? And your mom, from what you've said, came from a Muggle family?"
Harry nodded dumbly.
"So, you think Slytherin would let his line turn Muggle? Any of your mom's ancestors popping out of Slytherin's family tree?"
Dylan stepped to Harry's bed, pinched his fingers, and flicked Harry's forehead with a sharp *snap*.
"Ow!" Harry clutched his head. "That hurt!!"
Dylan stood there, quietly sensing the clash of spells—mind-stealing, soul-snatching, necromantic recall, parasitic possession, and spirit banishment—against the Voldemort shard in Harry's soul.
"Yeah, not easy to peel that off."
Harry wobbled, pain knocking him off balance. "Dylan… how's your hand so strong?"
Dylan grinned sheepishly, walked to his own bed, shrugged off his coat, and sat down. Looking at Harry's dazed face, he spoke again.
"Forget that for a sec. Think about this: we both saw those bloody words saying the Chamber's open, and Mrs. Norris got attacked, right? Did *you* open it?"
Harry's attention snapped to Dylan's words. He shook his head.
"There you go! If you didn't open the Chamber, how could you be the Heir?"
Dylan smiled. Seeing Harry look a little woozy, he felt bad—but there wasn't much he could do.
Hitting him with a bunch of spells to test the soul shard probably shook Harry up a bit. Good thing Dylan had maxed out those spells, so Harry's soul wasn't actually hurt. The headache was just from the shard being fused with his own soul.
Still, Dylan knew a good nap would fix Harry right up.
"If you're not the Heir, does it even matter if you're a Slytherin descendant?"
"There's, what, a handful of wizards in Britain? Even counting all of England, it's a tiny group. Wizards are bound to be related somehow. Even if you're a descendant, you're not, like, his direct kid or anything."
Dylan flopped onto his bed.
Ron perked up first. "Dylan's right! And you're Gryffindor, not Slytherin!"
"But…" Harry hesitated, "the Sorting Hat said I'd fit in Slytherin—really well, actually."
Dylan rolled his eyes. "The Hat told me I shouldn't even be at Hogwarts—I belong in Azkaban. You gonna trust a talking hat?"
"Pfft!" Harry cracked a laugh.
"Alright, time to crash," Dylan waved him off.
Ron jumped in. "Stop overthinking, Harry. The day the Chamber opened, we were together the whole time! You're not the Heir. Maybe there's another reason you're a Parselmouth. Even if you're a Slytherin descendant, who cares? We're Gryffindors now—that's what counts!"
Neville and Seamus chimed in too. They'd been shocked about Harry's Parseltongue, but they didn't buy him as the Heir. As roommates, they knew him better than the outsiders and weren't scared off.
With everyone's reassurance, Harry finally relaxed. Yeah, so what if he was a Slytherin descendant? He knew he wasn't the Heir, and he was a Gryffindor now. That was enough.
The dorm's vibe lightened up again.
But while they'd sorted it out, the rest of Hogwarts had other ideas. By Friday's classes, people who'd usually say hi to Harry were steering clear—some even outright avoiding him.
Overnight, Harry almost turned into a lone wolf. Lucky for him, Ron and Hermione stuck by his side, keeping him from looking too isolated.
"So this is what it's like to be avoided… How does Dylan deal with it?" Harry muttered to Ron and Hermione over dinner.
Dylan, buried in his sea of knowledge, had no friends and rolled solo every day. After word got out he'd taken down a troll single-handedly, people admired him but kept their distance, thinking he was tough to get along with. He was in the same boat Harry was now—totally ignored.
"Mind your own business," Hermione said, glancing at Dylan.
(End of Chapter)