Chapter 23
The classroom was unusually quiet that day, save for the occasional shuffling of parchment and the scratch of quills. Defense Against the Dark Arts wasn’t anyone’s favorite subject—not with Professor Quirrell’s stammering and the faint smell of garlic that clung to the walls.
Harry sat near the back, as he always did, half-listening to Quirrell’s lecture on magical creatures. His thoughts wandered, a habit that was becoming more frequent these days. The weight of everyone’s stares, the unspoken questions, and the memory of his guardian’s looming presence often distracted him.
But something caught his attention: a soft, hissing sound, barely audible beneath Quirrell’s nervous voice.
He glanced up, noticing a small snake coiled inside a glass jar at the front of the room. It appeared to be a typical garden variety, nothing particularly dangerous, but Harry’s attention was immediately drawn to it. He had spent much of his life in the woods, and occasionally, he'd spoken to a few serpents in passing. He had never thought much of it—just a way to pass the time, a harmless exchange with the occasional serpent. No one had ever really commented on it. It was simply a part of his world.
The snake flicked its tongue, as if sensing his gaze, and Harry found himself thinking, What a strange little creature. Without thinking, he whispered, “Hello. Are you comfortable in there?”
The snake’s head turned toward him, its black eyes narrowing as it flicked its tongue again. Harry could’ve sworn it was responding. It's tight in here, but I’ll manage.
His heart skipped. The words had come to him so easily. There was no hesitation, no effort. It was just... speaking. But not in a way that felt strange. Harry had always had the ability, but he hadn’t given it much thought until now. It was just a snake, after all.
He smiled slightly, speaking again, “You’ll be out soon enough, I’m sure.”
Soon enough. Yes, yes... the snake replied softly, the hiss almost melodic.
Professor Quirrell’s stammering voice faltered, but Harry didn’t notice. He was too lost in the quiet conversation with the creature.
“Mr. Potter…” Quirrell finally stammered, his voice shaky. “D-Did you just—?”
Harry blinked, noticing the uneasy silence from Quirrell. His professor's face was slightly pale, and his gaze darted nervously between Harry and the snake. Harry shrugged slightly, still unsure of why Quirrell seemed so rattled.
"Was... that normal?" Harry asked, genuinely curious, as the rest of the class continued working quietly, completely unaware.
“Y-Yes, Mr. Potter,” Quirrell muttered, looking around as if he were trying to find the right words. He looked at the snake, then back at Harry, his voice lowering. "That was Parseltongue. You... you have that ability?"
Harry furrowed his brow, confused. "Parseltongue?" he repeated, the word unfamiliar to him in this context. "Oh... I’ve always been able to talk to them. I didn’t realize it was a big deal.”
Quirrell took a step back, eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear, but quickly composed himself, looking down at his desk, avoiding Harry’s eyes.
“Y-Yes... well, it's very rare,” Quirrell stammered. “Very rare. Some wizards... see it as a sign of... dark magic.” He trailed off, clearly unsure of how to proceed, but Harry didn’t pick up on the concern in his voice.
Harry had always known he could communicate with snakes—it was nothing special to him. He had never seen it as a mark of anything other than a harmless gift. To him, they were just creatures, like any other animal, and he’d often exchanged pleasantries with them while wandering the woods.
The rest of the class seemed oblivious to the exchange, their focus on their work, but Quirrell’s demeanor had shifted, a wary tension in his posture.
“Is that... bad?” Harry asked, still puzzled by Quirrell’s sudden change in behavior. “It’s just talking to them. Doesn’t everyone do it?”
Quirrell’s voice cracked slightly, his words fumbling. “N-No... Mr. Potter, not many wizards can. Only... certain wizards.” He took a shaky breath, his hands wringing at the edge of his robes. “It’s... it’s rare, you see.”
Harry just nodded, his gaze drifting back to the snake. His curiosity about the creature was still strong, but he couldn’t shake the odd tension in the air. There was something unsettling in Quirrell’s reaction, but Harry didn’t know what.
Before Quirrell could say anything more, the class bell rang, signaling the end of the lesson. Harry stood up to leave, but Quirrell stopped him, his voice low and a little tense.
“We’ll... we’ll discuss this more later, Mr. Potter,” he said, his gaze still flicking between Harry and the snake.
Harry gave a small, confused nod, but didn’t press further. He wasn’t sure what the big deal was. He had always been able to talk to snakes, but if it bothered people so much, he’d keep it to himself for now.
As Harry made his way out of the classroom, he could feel Quirrell’s eyes following him, but he didn’t let it bother him. He had a lot more on his mind than Parseltongue. The things he’d learned about magic, about Hogwarts, and about himself were more important right now. But something in Quirrell’s expression had unsettled him—a flicker of something that Harry couldn’t quite place.
In the dim corner of the room, where shadows pooled beneath the ancient stone walls, a voice stirred.
Interesting, Voldemort's voice hissed, soft but laced with an unmistakable intensity. A Parselmouth, so easily...
Quirrell froze, his hand trembling as he watched the door through which Harry had just exited. I hadn’t expected this... so soon.
You never do. Voldemort’s voice was cold, as though savoring the moment. The boy’s potential grows with every passing day. His... connection to me is undeniable.
Quirrell's breath caught in his throat. But he doesn’t know... he doesn’t realize what it means...
No. Not yet. Voldemort's hiss was almost approving. He will. And when he does... I will be ready. For now, we wait.