Medusa and Parseltongue
Tom's gaze narrowed slightly as he studied Harry with a sharper intensity, as if seeing him in a different light for the first time. His fingers paused, hovering over the bone as he looked up, his expression thoughtful but full of intrigue.
“Tell me, Harry,” Tom said slowly, his voice deliberate. “You’re not related to the Slytherin bloodline. Not by name, nor by lineage. And yet, you speak Parseltongue.” There was a hint of curiosity now, threading through his words, as though something important had just clicked into place for him. “How is that possible?”
Harry didn’t look up from where he was arranging the bones and leaves, carefully placing them to form a makeshift decoration for their humble space. He had expected this question. He had known it would come, but still, the unease it stirred inside him was unsettling.
“I don’t know,” Harry said quietly, but with a slight edge to his voice. He glanced up at Tom, his expression unreadable. “It’s just something I can do.”
Tom studied him intently, his lips barely curling upward in a small, inscrutable smile. “That’s not an answer, Harry. *How* can you do it? I am the Heir of Slytherin, the only one who should possess that gift. The ability to speak to serpents... it’s a rare and coveted power. I’ve only ever met one other Parseltongue besides myself—my uncle, Marvolo Gaunt. He’s... well, *was* a very different sort of man. But you, Harry…” He trailed off, his thoughts clearly racing.
Harry felt the weight of Tom’s gaze on him, but he didn’t flinch. He had never really questioned his ability to speak Parseltongue. It had always been a part of him, something instinctive, natural. But hearing Tom’s words made it seem like something far more significant.
“I don’t know why I can,” Harry repeated, a bit more firmly this time. “It’s just always been there. Ever since I was a kid.”
Tom leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. “But that doesn’t make sense. You’ve never been part of the Slytherin bloodline, no connection at all. So how do you have *my* gift?”
The question hung in the air, thick with implications. Harry found himself at a loss for an answer. He had no explanation for it. His own abilities—his Parseltongue, his affinity for certain creatures, his connection with the basilisk Medusa—had always felt like an extension of himself. But the more Tom pressed him, the more it felt like something he could never quite grasp.
“You think it’s *my* gift?” Harry’s voice was low, barely a whisper, but there was a quiet challenge in it. “Maybe it’s just mine.”
Tom’s lip curled, a mixture of amusement and intrigue crossing his face. “You *are* a strange one, Harry,” he mused, but there was a trace of something darker lurking beneath the surface. “Something about you is... different.”
Harry didn't respond. His thoughts swirled. The idea that Parseltongue could belong to Slytherin alone felt wrong to him, but there was no denying the way Tom’s words resonated in his mind. Tom had spent his life claiming the power that came with his bloodline, his name. But what if Harry’s connection to it was something else entirely?
For a moment, Harry considered explaining more, but the words stuck in his throat. He didn’t owe Tom any answers, not when Tom’s motives were always wrapped in darkness and curiosity.
Tom broke the silence, his voice softer but still laced with that sharp curiosity. “You’ve never wondered about it? Why you can speak to snakes? Why you were chosen for this?”
Harry’s eyes flickered to the fire, the crackling of the flames filling the space between them. He didn’t look at Tom as he answered. “I never needed to know why. I just… do.”
There was something in Tom’s gaze, something calculating, as though Harry had just become a much more interesting puzzle in his eyes.
“You do have an interesting mind, Harry,” Tom said, almost absentmindedly, as though contemplating something far deeper than he was letting on. He seemed lost in thought, mulling over the possibilities.
Harry didn’t want to stay caught up in it, so he turned the conversation to something else, trying to avoid the weight of Tom’s questioning gaze. “You don’t understand why I’d name Medusa either, do you?”
Tom raised an eyebrow, but there was still a touch of disdain in his expression. “The basilisk? The creature you’ve befriended?” His voice was tinged with disbelief. “You’ve named it *Medusa*? After the *Gorgon*?”
Harry met his eyes finally, the intensity of his gaze steady. “Why not? She’s not just a weapon. She’s my friend. And I don’t see the point in letting her be just some mindless monster. I named her because she’s more than that.”
Tom scoffed lightly, the corner of his lips curling into a sarcastic smile. “You think she can truly be more than a weapon? You speak as though you have control over it. You forget, Harry, she’s *mine*—she was created for my line.”
Harry’s jaw tightened, but his eyes remained unwavering. “She’s *herself*, Tom. I’m just... giving her a choice.”
Tom’s gaze darkened, his expression unreadable as he studied Harry. The conversation was different now. More than just about Medusa, more than just about Parseltongue—it was about the strange, complicated bond Harry seemed to form with creatures that were meant to be feared.
Tom exhaled, his sharp gaze flickering with something Harry couldn’t place. “You truly believe that, don’t you? That creatures like her can have a *choice*? You believe they can be... *tamed* by the likes of you?”
“I don’t tame them,” Harry said simply, voice calm. “I understand them. I show them something else. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
The silence that followed hung heavy in the air, the crackling fire the only sound between them. Tom’s eyes gleamed, but there was something almost reluctant in the way he regarded Harry now.
“You’re an enigma, Harry. And perhaps... perhaps there is more to you than I thought.”