He Is A Parselmouth
Chapter Seventeen: He Is A Parselmouth
Hogwarts, 1938
It was a lucky thing that he had visited with Lestrange before opening Silver-Tongued, because there would not have been time afterward. The book consumed him, kept him reading deep into the night and during all his spare minutes between lessons the next day. As he'd been warned, with very few exceptions the witches and wizards in The Compendium had been practitioners of the Dark Arts. That, however, was not the detail that really grabbed his attention: every Parselmouth in the book was a person of great significance—inventors, alchemists, politicians conquerors. It was a disproportionate amount of fame for a relatively small group of people, unless one took into account the author's opinion. Whoever had penned the text made no secret of the fact that they considered Speakers to be of superior ancestry—that their success was only natural since, according to him, the ability to speak Parseltongue was purely hereditary and could only come through direct descent from Salazar Slytherin's own bloodline.
This was certainly news to Tom, but it did shed some light on a few lingering questions he'd had—like why the Seneschal had seemed so sure this book would provide him with familial connection, or why the Head of Gryffindor might be uncomfortable in the presence of a Speaker. Or even how, without any sort of proven pedigree, he'd ended up in the bloodline-obsessed House in the first place. The Sorting Hat's words came back to him, less vague now that he understood the context; when it had said that Slytherin was in his blood it had meant the actual Slytherin himself. The Hat had proclaimed the House his destiny, not because other family members had potentially resided there as well, but because in some way or another he was related to its Founder.
The idea filled him with wicked satisfaction. Oh, how the Slytherins would choke on their egos and pride! Not even the purest among them would be able to claim the one bloodtie that they would all kill to have—that honour would be Tom's alone. How many of them would regret their sneering ambivalence, their barely concealed contempt of his presence? How many would be able to swallow down their bilious, arrogant attitudes long enough to acknowledge the Half-Blooded Heir of Slytherin? He longed to find out, to watch them squirm and twist in discomfort as they realised that the little orphan boy they had shunned actually had the most infamous relative of all to invoke. However, the idea gave him pause; while it was true that his notoriety within his own House would increase exponentially, if it got out that he was a Parselmouth it could damage his reputation with the rest of the school. Snake-Speakers weren't exactly regarded fondly, but then again neither were Slytherins in general and he was already breaking a number of boundaries in that regard.
It had never happened to him before, but in this instance Tom actually wished he had an adult figure that he could talk the situation over with. Slughorn was the natural choice, being his Head of House, but his discretion could not be trusted; the man was a voracious gossip. He could always speak to the Seneschal, but her perspective was uniquely alien and he wasn't sure what regard she might have for things like reputation. The only adult that left him with then was Dumbledore—on the one hand, his Professor already knew his secret and had kept it for some weeks now, but on the other hand that knowledge had clearly not sat well with the man. Without being able to trust the authority figures around him, Tom's thoughts inevitably turned to Hermione. Though only eleven, she had always been insightful; the problem, of course, was that she didn't know he could talk to snakes, and he still wasn't entirely certain how she would react to this talent of his. In the end, what could Tom do? He had always kept and prefered his own counsel, but it was getting harder to remain objective when he had so many different plans going on, harder to see the shape of everything and to know what path he should take to achieve his goals. A pair of outside eyes would not have been remiss, and without involving Hermione the closest thing he had to a confidant was Andrus Lestrange.
Finding the older boy was easy; he had secluded himself into a corner of the Common Room, busily working on what looked like a monstrous essay. A few of his more distant cousins hovered nearby—possibly the Rosiers although, to be honest, Tom could scarcely tell them apart from the Carrows; the Pureblood families tended to share far too many features—but Andrus ignored them in favour of his work. He scribbled without pause, not even bothering to look up when his ersatz companion drew close. "You're testing your good fortune, Riddle," he warned, briefly jabbing his quill in the direction of his cousins. "People will begin to talk."
Tom came to a stop beside him and offered the other boy a twisted smile. Had he not already come for an express purpose, he might have found the usual Slytherin attempt at verbal sparring amusing. Today, however, would have to be a more direct confrontation—he was too impatient to waste time navigating their empty flattery and circuitous conversations. "You said I'd earned myself a couple of minutes."
"Two days ago," Lestrange replied with a hollow chuckle. "You've long since spent it. I'd hardly be of any use to you if I fall into disfavour."
Tom idly twirled his wand in one long-fingered hand; the gesture was considered somewhat rude in company, particularly among the Purebloods, but he doubted the Second Year cared much. "Perhaps I could buy myself a little more time?"
Andrus finally looked up, and he must have read something in the younger boy's calm demeanor because he suddenly appeared deeply interested. "With what?"
His smile twisted wider; in the scant minutes it had taken to find the Second Year, he had decided that making his claim wouldn't provide as much of an impact as simply proving it. "I want to show you something," he replied mysteriously. When the older boy reached to gather up his work, Tom waved him off and continued, "No, don't bother; this will only take a few minutes." The fact that Lestrange still warily grabbed his wand almost felt like a mark of respect.
Suspicious eyes watched the two boys slip from the Common Room. No doubt the whispers would begin within moments of their departure. Despite his protests, Lestrange was too well connected to really worry about his reputation, and Tom knew that increased interest would only help his own cause in the end.
They walked together through the confusing labyrinth of the dungeons, further and further from Slytherin and, it felt, further and further from civilisation. The walls in this part of the castle were ancient, likely the foundation of some pre-existing fortress the Founders had decided to build their school on top of. Cobwebs and dust hung heavily around them—the rooms and halls this deep into the dungeon had clearly not been used in generations.
Lestrange started to get nervous after several silent minutes, perhaps keenly feeling the distance between him and any potential allies. There was no one buried this far below the castle, save for the boy who had led him there. "Where the bloody hell are you taking me?" he finally asked, gripping his wand tightly. "There's nothing down in this part of the dungeon."
"Oh Andrus," Tom crooned silkily, "you're not afraid, are you?" He was enjoying his companion's discomfort. The familiar thrill of power shivered through him, reminding him of those beautiful moments he had spent in the Seaside Cave so very long ago. Ever since arriving at Hogwarts, he'd felt like a shadow of his former self, impulses and habits ruthlessly curbed until it scarcely felt like he could even move without meeting some sort of resistance. As much as he'd hated Wool's, he'd always been perversely free to act however he'd liked there. He had no intention of harming his companion, but he was far too greedy for this sip of former glory to put Lestrange's worries to rest.
He needn't have bothered in any case, for they soon reached their destination. In an effort to relieve his boredom he had taken to periodically exploring the castle, seeking out the little nooks and crannies that time had forgotten. This particular stretch of the dungeon was filled with abandoned classrooms—archaic Potion labs standing as a testament to both how much and how little the school had changed over its vast history. The room he led Andrus into was perhaps more cluttered than favourable, but it would serve his purpose. He had found the place only last week and had immediately liked it for its unique, reverse-stadium style architecture.
Lestrange took in the old lab—the vast expanse that could have easily fit at least two year's worth of students, the heavy marble worktops, the almost throne-like podium that bore Slytherin's initials—and shifted from foot to foot apprehensively. "What's this all about?"
Tom smiled once more, walking along the slow spiral of stairs that led up to the centre of the room. "It occurred to me that I have a very easy way to gain the approval of Slytherin House, but I'm not entirely certain what the reaction to my method may be," he replied, stopping when he neared the apex just in front of the podium. "You're here to field test that for me."
The older boy scowled but stayed put, muttering in irritation, "I'm an experiment, you mean."
Tom shrugged the words off and raised his wand questioningly. He had read far enough ahead to have the perfect spell ready for today.
Lestrange fought with himself for a moment, but his curiosity eventually won out. "Fine," he sighed heavily, taking great strides to make his unease look like mere indulgence, "get it over with. At least if you maim me, I won't have to finish that essay for Dumbledore."
His wand cut through the air in a hard arc as he intoned, "Serpensortia." Watching the handsome viper appear from the aether filled Tom with an intense satisfaction. He'd been ambivalent to the idea of wands at first, worrying that it would merely provide a crutch that would impede his magic, but he'd quickly grown to love it. The bone-like stick of yew had opened the door to possibilities he'd never considered—there were so many different types of magic, and each spell came to him faster and stronger than they would have without the wand.
Andrus drew in a sharp breath as the snake approached him, backing up several steps when it came too close. He was doing his best to remain calm, but he'd gone very pale and a nervous sweat had broken out along his hairline. By the time the viper came within arms-reach, it seemed he'd had enough—Lestrange drew his wand just as his back hit one of the ancient workbenches.
It was a bit of an overreaction in Tom's opinion; the snake wasn't even bothering with any threat displays, just serenely gliding forward. Hardly worth getting so worked up over, really. Still, he had prepared for this. Though basic dueling spells weren't on the curriculum until next year, he'd found them interesting enough to pursue in his free time. He hadn't really had the opportunity to practise any of them, but this seemed like the perfect opportunity to test at least one. He quickly cast the Disarming Charm; the spell hit true, although it must not have been cast correctly because Andrus's wand just barely slipped from his fingers to the floor. Tom was so busy contemplating what had gone wrong that he almost missed the small noise of fright the older boy made.
"Riddle, what are you doing?" Lestrange asked, voice high and strained. He could have simply bent down and retrieved his wand, but he'd apparently decided it wasn't worth getting any closer to the serpent for.
"Not a fan of snakes then, Andrus?" he inquired sweetly, facetiously. He was drawing the moment out longer than necessary, but it had been so long since he'd felt this in control. Perhaps he'd been approaching Slytherins all wrong—maybe it was better to simply take power from them rather than to charm his way into their political machinations.
"Not from three inches away, no!" Lestrange's panic interrupted his thoughts. "Banish it already!"
The moment was over, and Tom was already lamenting how quickly it had gone by. For the first time in over two months, he'd really felt like himself again. However, there were other matters at hand—he'd not brought the older boy down here just to torment him. "That's enough, friend," he hissed to the viper. "Come away from him."
The snake was instantly forgotten at the first kiss of the serpent-tongue. Andrus's dark eyes snapped up, and whatever colour was left in his face completely drained away. His careless, foppish attitude lay in tatters around his feet, replaced instead with a sort of dawning horror.
"While I find your obvious astonishment charming in its own way, I must confess that your distress is a disappointment to me," Tom sighed heavily. As empowering as the older boy's shock was, it didn't exactly bode well. "If a Slytherin can barely hold it together in front of a Parselmouth, I very much doubt the rest of the school will fair any better." Perhaps this was why Dumbledore had kept so silent on the matter. Were there really only a precious few that would greet his talent happily?
Lestrange shook his head in disbelief, his throat working convulsively. "You're—" he started, but seemed unable to fully articulate the thought.
"I'd wondered, you see, what it might be like to be honest," the younger boy shrugged, stroking the viper for a brief moment before banishing the thing, "and it certainly couldn't hurt to connect myself to a Founder. I'm in dire need of some social mobility. When I heard that Parseltongue was regarded as Dark Magic, I wasn't sure how recent or strong that opinion was."
"You're a Parselmouth," the words finally burst from Andrus, who seemed to sag under the weight of that truth.
"Yes, Lestrange, that's been established," Tom rolled his eyes. Shock was one thing, stupidity was quite another. "Keep up, or I shall have to re-evaluate your use to me."
A shaking finger rose as the Second Year pointed to the high podium at the centre of the room. "But that means that you're—"
"Related to Slytherin," Tom nodded, sparing a quick glance to the throne-like structure just behind him, "but that's not quite the point right now."
Andrus snapped back to himself at that. "Not the point?" he demanded hotly. "There hasn't been a confirmed Heir to one of the Founders in this school for something like three hundred years—this is historic!"
The younger boy smiled and hummed, "Now that is the point, and rather the crux of my problem." He beckoned the other closer, leaning against the podium as he explained, "I could make that claim, but I only have the one way to prove that I'm related to Slytherin since I don't have the money for that sort of Inheritance Test." His fingers traced carelessly over the ornate SS carved deep into the stone structure behind him, pausing only briefly to consider his nearing companion. "So I am posing this question to you, Andrus: knowing magical society as you do, would coming out as the Heir of Slytherin be worth the general public knowing that I am a Snake-Speaker?"
It took Lestrange a long moment to repair his usual mask of indifference, though try as he might he could not hide the glimmer of fear that lingered in his dark eyes. He kept a slight distance between himself and the younger boy, more so than he might have done just moments prior. However, despite his clear hesitations, he did not allow wariness to stop him from wrapping his thoughts fully around the situation being proposed. "After getting over their shock, Slytherin House would certainly rally around you, but…"
Tom noticed those extra few steps between them and understood. Regardless of the prestige the title offered, being known as a descendant of Slytherin would turn him into an uncertainty in the eyes of others. Assumptions would be made about his temperament and interests—assumptions that might not always work in his favour no matter how accurate they proved to be. Salazar's reputation would make it infinitely harder for Tom to build his own; he would be draped in the opinions of his ancestor, whether he agreed with any of them or not. Slytherin certainly hadn't lived his life free of scandal either, and the idea of having to answer for ancient sins not of his own doing was less than appealing. "There would be backlash," he acknowledged. And yet, he wasn't opposed to the idea of being feared; if anything, he welcomed it, particularly if that fear came with an appropriate amount of respect.
Andrus's quiet unease was a far cry from the Seneschal's patient giddiness. "Not likely from any of the Professors as you've already earned their favour," he replied, ruthlessly holding himself still so as not to give away his agitation—a wasted effort, truly, though admirable nonetheless. "But it's hard to predict what others might think, particularly with a war brewing on the continent."
"Ah, yes." Between repairing his relationship with Hermione and all the research that had come about as a result, Tom had quite forgotten about the rise of Grindelwald. Not that it really mattered—so long as the timeline he'd read in Modern Magical History proved true, the wizarding side of the war would not make it to Great Britain for another five or six years yet. He didn't see the sense in worrying about an event so easily planned around. Although, in fairness, Lestrange did have a point: increased tensions could very well make the ability to speak Parseltongue seem even more suspicious than usual. "So you're in favour of secrecy."
The Second Year was clearly caught between two very different Slytherin ideals. On the one hand was the blatant desire to accrue renown, but on the other hand was the inherent need to remain cautious. What good was being connected to the Heir of Slytherin if the rest of the wizarding world collectively decided that title was a mark of evil? "It's a lot of fame to step into," he replied slowly, trying to organise his thoughts. "Perhaps, at only eleven years old, you're not yet in a position to handle that responsibility. Picking up Slytherin's mantle could be just as much of a curse as a blessing—there's simply no knowing how many will be unable to see past your ability to speak Parseltongue, and right now you don't have enough pull to defend yourself properly against that."
Tom held in a heavy sigh; it wasn't as if he hadn't thought the same thing himself, but hearing the other boy confirm it was a disappointment. For once, he had what was possibly the ultimate bargaining chip, an irrefutable way to earn the respect of his peers, and he couldn't bloody use it. Not one to be deterred, he shifted his focus slightly and asked, "Would there be any way to keep the information contained to Slytherin House?"
"Not indefinitely," Andrus shook his head. "We might be discreet, but we're still human. At best you would have maybe one or two years before the information starts to trickle out, possibly less since the Seventh Years won't have any reason to keep their mouths shut." He shuffled again, not so much moving closer as just expending some energy. "Do you really want my advice?" Andrus asked with a purposefully blank expression. Tom let him sweat for a moment, but eventually nodded his head. "Stay the course with Alphard Black; the results may be slower and less far reaching, but they will be easier to control and cultivate. A few years from now, once you've really started gaining some pull with the Black family, that's when you begin letting it out that you're descended from Slytherin. By then you'll be older, more knowledgeable, have a more solidified reputation, and you will have put the information squarely in the hands of people who will be compelled to protect it and, by extension, you. The Blacks would kill just to claim that the Heir of Slytherin was even so much as their acquaintance, but you still have to get in with them first."
"That's not precisely the answer I wanted," Tom replied in a moment of brutal honesty. "I'm tired of people looking down on me in the Common Room, but I can see the benefits of a slower approach. Clearly, I'll have to give this some more thought." He could feel the fantasy of power slipping from him; very soon he would be back in that whirlwind of disdain, unable to use the one true weapon at his disposal. It was disheartening enough to make him feel reckless. Surely, not all hope was lost?
Thinking quickly, he decided that silence could not be the answer. It was too late for that anyway; the only way for two people to keep a secret was if one of them were dead, and Lestrange was rather a good deal more useful to him alive. No, in all probability the secret would gnaw away at the older boy until it came screaming out of him, particularly if Tom explicitly instructed him to keep his mouth shut. It was just human nature really, and all too easy to manipulate. "I trust you won't tell anyone what happened here today. After all, you are the only student that knows my secret—if word of this gets out, I shall know who to blame, Andrus." It was a pretty little trap, an empty threat he did not expect Lestrange to heed. The Second Year would keep his secret for as long as possible, but eventually he would let it slip—a small, nearly controlled leak in information. Rumours of Tom's ancestry would spread slowly throughout Slytherin, first and foremost among Lestrange's family. It was only a matter of time before the Blacks caught wind, before Alphard Black found the bait and sought Tom out on his own.
The two boys returned to their Common Room—one calm and thoughtful, while the other was visibly shaken. The Rosiers immediately closed ranks around Andrus, and the rumour mill began to turn.