The Duelling Club had ended on a note of hysterical silence, but the aftermath was anything but quiet. Professor Snape hadn't chased after Harry; he was bound by the rigid duties of the staff on duty, forced to remain on the platform while the air sizzled with the residue of Parseltongue.
Under his biting commands, the students had eventually resumed their practice, but the heart had gone out of it. The rhythmic clack-clack of wands was replaced by the low, frantic buzzing of hundreds of voices huddled in the corners of the Great Hall. Every time Snape prowled past, the whispers would die down, only to erupt like a disturbed nest of hornets the moment his back was turned.
Snape was in a foul mood, even by his legendary standards. He moved through the hall like a shadow seeking someone to haunt, his dark eyes snapping at any student who dared to pause their training to gossip.
"Is this a Duelling Club or a sewing circle?" Snape's voice curled like a whip around a group of third-year Hufflepuffs. "Perhaps you'd like me to fetch some fine china and lace doilies so you can discuss the evening's 'scandals' over tea and biscuits?"
"Move your feet, Longbottom! If you cast that Shield Charm any slower, the snail in the garden will have time to write its memoirs before the spell takes effect!"
"The lack of focus in this room is physically painful," he sneered at a pair of Ravenclaws. "If you believe this feeble waving of sticks will preserve your life in a real encounter, I suggest you spend your weekend drafting a very detailed will. It will be the only useful thing you contribute to the wizarding world."
For a moment, the older students felt a wave of nostalgia. This was the 'Old Snape'—unfiltered, acidic, and utterly miserable. They didn't realize that his rage was a shield for a much deeper, more complex anxiety. He had seen the look on the students' faces when Harry hissed. He knew exactly what was coming: the isolation, the accusations, the cold shoulder of the 'hero-worshipping' public. And most of all, he knew he wasn't the man to fix it.
The moment the club concluded, Snape bypassed the dungeons and headed straight for the top floor. He burst into Sebastian Swann's office without knocking, his robes swirling like a dark storm.
"He spoke it, Sebastian," Snape said, his voice unusually tight. "In front of everyone. The boy is a Parselmouth."
Sebastian, who had been calmly grading a stack of parchment under the soft glow of a floating candle, didn't look surprised. He merely leaned back in his leather chair and adjusted his glasses. "I assume the reaction was as dramatic as one would expect from a castle full of teenagers?"
"They looked at him like he was the Dark Lord reborn," Snape hissed, pacing the length of the rug. "By tomorrow morning, the 'Savior' will be the 'Slayer' in their eyes. He'll be ostracized. He'll be hunted. And we both know he didn't open that Chamber."
Sebastian smiled, a calm, reassuring expression that seemed to radiate from his very core. "Peace, Severus. I've already anticipated this. The world loves a monster almost as much as it loves a hero, and right now, Harry is playing both roles. Let them have their night of rumors. Tomorrow morning, I'll take the stage."
By breakfast the next day, the verdict was in. The Hogwarts rumor mill had worked overtime, and the consensus was absolute: Harry Potter was the Heir of Slytherin.
It was the only 'logical' explanation. Why else would he be at the scene of the first attack? Why else would he hear voices? The Parseltongue was the smoking gun. The students believed Harry had been playing a long game—pretending to be the innocent hero while secretly commanding the monster of the Chamber to purge the school of the 'undeserving.'
Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, feeling like he was sitting in a bubble of ice. A massive ten-foot radius of empty bench surrounded him. Even his fellow Gryffindors were leaning as far away as possible, their eyes darting toward him with a mixture of fear and betrayal.
Only Ron and Hermione remained. Hermione was defiantly buttering a piece of toast, though her hand was shaking slightly. Ron looked like he wanted to fight the entire hall, but he didn't know who to punch first.
"Look at them," Harry whispered, staring down at his untouched eggs. "They think I'm a murderer."
"They're idiots, Harry," Hermione said firmly, though she lowered her voice as a group of second-year Hufflepuffs hurried past them, clutching their books to their chests. "They see a talent they don't understand and they label it 'dark.' It's medieval."
"It doesn't matter what it is," Harry groaned. "It's over. I'm the Heir. That's my new title."
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall creaked open. The morning chatter died down as Sebastian Swann walked in. He didn't go to the High Table. Instead, he walked straight down the center aisle, his boots clicking rhythmically against the stone.
He stopped at the Gryffindor table and, to the absolute shock of everyone watching, sat down right next to Harry.
"Morning, everyone," Sebastian said brightly. "Hermione, Ron—try the kippers, they're excellent today. Harry, you look like you've been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. Brighten up."
"Professor?" Harry blinked, confused. "What are you doing here? Don't you know... what people are saying?"
"I hear a lot of things, Harry," Sebastian said, reaching for the pumpkin juice. "But I'm not here for gossip. I'm here because I want to discuss a business proposition with you."
"Business?" Ron blurted out, his mouth half-full of toast. "What kind of business?"
The entire Great Hall had gone silent. Students were leaning over their tables, some even standing up on their benches to hear. The word 'business' in relation to the 'Heir of Slytherin' was far more interesting than a boring old investigation.
"I'm interested in your talent," Sebastian said, his voice carrying clearly through the hall. "Your Parseltongue. It's a rare commodity, Harry. I think we could make a significant amount of Galleons together if you're willing to license it."
"Galleons?" Harry's jaw dropped. "Professor, people think I'm evil because I can talk to snakes. They think it's a dark curse."
Sebastian let out a short, melodic laugh. He looked around at the wide-eyed students, his expression one of amused pity. "Evil? My dear boy, that is the most narrow-minded thing I've heard all week. Is a Frenchman evil because he speaks French? Is a bird-watcher evil because he can mimic a thrush?"
He stood up slightly, his voice projecting to the farthest corners of the room. "I think there is a profound misunderstanding in this castle. You see 'Parseltongue' and you think 'Slytherin' or 'Dark Arts.' But in reality, Parseltongue is just an ordinary magical talent. A linguistic anomaly. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Ordinary?" a Ravenclaw girl called out skeptically. "But only Dark Wizards have it!"
"Correlation is not causation, Miss Clearwater," Sebastian replied smoothly. "Parseltongue has been associated with Slytherin's line, yes. But that's a matter of genealogy, not morality. Every one of you sitting here has a magical talent. Most of you just haven't looked for it yet."
He pointed toward the Gryffindor table. "Take Mr. Seamus Finnigan, for example. I've observed his work. Seamus has a remarkable, innate talent for 'Explosive Transmutation.' He can make a feather go 'bang' when others can barely make it float. Is he a Dark Wizard? Or is he simply a specialist in high-energy magical reactions?"
The hall erupted in a small wave of chuckles. Seamus turned bright red but looked secretly pleased.
"Magical talents are gifts, not stains," Sebastian continued. "Some people have an affinity for Herbology—they can hear the 'pulse' of a plant. Some have 'Spatial Intuition'—they make world-class Seekers because they see the pitch differently. Harry simply has a 'Linguistic Affinity' for serpents. It's a biological quirk, like being left-handed or having perfect pitch."
Sebastian turned back to Harry. "The reason I want to talk business is that snake venom and shed skins are some of the most valuable ingredients in high-end Potions and Alchemy. A wizard who can ask a snake to provide its venom without agitating it? That's worth a fortune. You could be the primary supplier for the European Alchemical Society before you even graduate."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was still perfectly audible. "And between us, Harry... anyone can learn Parseltongue if they have a good enough ear. It's just a language. The only difference is that your version is 'built-in' to your soul. Others have to study it like Latin. So, tell me... are you still worried about being 'evil,' or are you ready to talk about your first investment portfolio?"
The atmosphere in the hall shifted instantly. The 'horror' of the night before began to evaporate, replaced by a much more relatable emotion: envy.
If Parseltongue was just a way to get rich and talk to animals, it wasn't scary anymore. It was cool. It was a 'pro skill.' The students looked at Harry differently now—not as a monster hiding in their midst, but as a guy who had accidentally won the genetic lottery and was about to get rich.
Harry felt a weight lift off his chest that he hadn't even realized was there. He looked at Sebastian, his eyes shining with gratitude. "Professor... if it's just a language... would you want to learn it?"