A/N:This chapter is the end of the first section of this fic, and the next part will be set a few years later. Thanks for all your support so far - will try and get the next chapter up soon!

21st April 1992

Harry bit his lip as he watched Draco vanish into a flare of green fire. "Goodbye, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy - thank you again for having me."

Narcissa only nodded at him, but Lucius smiled in his disconcerting, frosty way: "Oh it's no trouble at all, Harry. Farewell. I await our next meeting with anticipation. Draco will owl me when you've sorted out the summer dates."

"I'm looking forward to it, sir." Harry stepped into the fireplace, and scattered the floo powder over his feet: "Hogwarts." Through the haze of smokeless flames, Harry watched as Lucius Malfoy's smirking face twisted, and then disappeared.

22nd April 1992

"Y-you wished t-to see me, He-Headmaster?" Dumbledore looked up as Quirrinius Quirrell popped his anxious face around the door to his office.

"Ah, Quirrinius. Do come in."They young, nervous looking teacher padded in, and perched himself in the chair opposite Dumbledore,surveyed him over the rim of his half-moon glasses. "Tea?"

"N-no, t-thank you, I only d-d-drink w-water actually." The mousy-haired man smiled nervously, his hands quivering.

"You are too careful my friend." Dumbledore smiled, and Quirrell let out a shaky laugh.

"So p-people s-say. P-p-personally, I d-don't think one c-can ever b-be too c-careful!" It was Dumbledore that chuckled this time, pouring tea for himself.

"Can't I at least tempt you to a sherbet lemon?"

"I'm afraid n-not, headmaster." Quirrell's Adam's apple bobbed a little. "W-what was it you wanted to s-speak t-to m-me about?"

"I wanted to discuss Harry Potter."

"P-Potter?"

"Yes." There was a dangerous gravity to the headmaster's gaze as he looked sternly at his employee. "As I understand it, you've been giving him extra lessons of late."

"Y-yes, I t-think the boy has a lot of p-potential." After a short pause, he hastily added "as d-do many of my colleagues—"

"I am aware Harry has been receiving extra tuition in most of his classes. However, Quirrinius, it is the subject of your lessons that are of some interest to me. You have been teaching him to duel, have you not?"

"T-the boy expressed interest in the t-topic, and I h-have humoured him. He is unusually k-keen to learn, I f-find."

"Yes, it would seem so." Dumbledore took a sip from his tea cup, watching the younger man with a stern expression on his face.

"I h-hope, headmaster, that you do n-not disapprove? I k-know that d-duelling is n-not on the official s-s-syllabus."

"I do not generally advocate the teaching of violent magical practise at Hogwarts, no. And more importantly, it would be highly inappropriate for me to allow these private lessons to continue, considering who Harry is."

Quirrell looked dismayed. "I ap-p-pologise headmaster. I didn't k-know you w-w-would object-"

"I'm sure you had only the best intentions, Quirrinius. We will always do our best to let Harry be a normal boy here at Hogwarts, but that will never truly be the case." Quirrell nodded convulsively. "If it emerged that Harry, at just eleven years old, was being privately taught to duel, of all things, it would create all sorts of problems."

"I q-quite understand, headmaster. I q-quite understand. I h-hadn't considered t-that." Quirrell's voice wavered, and broke on the last word.

"Now, my boy, there is no need to be upset. I'm not angry with you. In fact, I have had something of an idea, which would make use of your knowledge of duelling in a different way." Quirrell ran a quivering hand through his hair.

"Oh?"

" I do not see the harm in some basic duelling instruction, conducted in a managed environment, under the supervision of several qualified professors." Quirrell visibly exhaled in relief. "I even think it could be a good way to introduce pupils to the practise, in a controlled and safe manner. It's something I would like to explore, and to cut to the heart of the matter, Quirrinius, I was wondering if perhaps you would be willing to offer some duelling lessons to general student body over the next term as an extracurricular activity."

"L-like a c-club?" The younger man's brow furrowed momentarily.

"Exactly so."

Quirrell's mouth twitched. "C-crowds d-do make me a bit n-nervous, headmaster, but if you r-r-really t-think there would b-be interest, I w-would b-be willing."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Oh, I'm sure there would be, Quirrinius. And such a club would of course allow Harry to learn a little about duelling in a fair and healthy environment." Dumbledore leaned back in his chair with the comfortable air of a man who was in control. "The boy is far too isolated at the moment."

"Y-yes - this business with Slytherin has m-made things q-quite d-difficult for him."

"Indeed. I think that a club just such as this, centred around something which Harry has an interest in, could be a good opportunity for him to get involved with student life a little more, and meet some other children outside of Slytherin. You could even make use of that he knows already and use him to demonstrate - providing, of course, that you don't give away that he's already had some teaching."

Quirrell stuttered: "I s-s-suppose."

"Wonderful. Of course, it will also be a good opportunity for more inter-house interaction across the board. We must labour, Quirrinius, to dissolve the divisions between our students. So, let us decide upon a time."

27th April 1992

"Quirrell's holding a duelling club on Tuesday afternoons," were the first words out of Draco's mouth as he flung open the door.

"What?" Harry shot up off his bed, his charms book sliding off his lap onto his duvet, and stared wide-eyed at his friend. Draco already had his back to him, and was rifling through his case.

"Honestly, you would think they had house-elves to do this sort of thing. It's really quite outrageous we're expected to unpack our own cases—"

"Are you sure?"

"What do you mean, am I sure?" Draco snorted loudly. "Do you really think I'd be doing this if—"

"No, not that, about the duelling club? Are you sure Quirrell's holding one?"

"Well, there's a notice on the Slytherin common room board. Not to mention everyone's talking about it. It looks like the whole school will be attending." Harry could practically hear the sneer in Draco's voice, and thought he was almost definitely thinking about the Gryffindors. "Anyway, why are you so interested?" The blonde boy inspected a piece of his silk underwear. "You're already having extra lessons from Quirrell."

Harry sat back on his bed heavily. For some reason, the news Quirrell was going to hold a duelling club hurt. Learning to duel had been one of the special things he had been doing himself. He didn't like the idea of others now joining in.

"This is ridiculous," Draco threw whatever he was trying to fold back into his trunk, flinging himself onto his duvet moodily. "I'm owling mother – where are you going?" But Harry was already out of the room.

1st May 1992

"Ah. Just the boy I was looking for."

Harry started, and looked up from his essay to see Albus Dumbledore standing in front of him, his hands clasped together, looking benign. Harry was sitting in the library. It had been a favourite haunt of his since the egg incident - as long as he sat under the beady gaze of Madam Pince, he was quite safe from other Slytherins here, and he was able to do things in peace. Or, at least, he was normally able to.

"I had a feeling I might find you here Harry. Madam Pince tells me this is a favourite spot of yours." Harry darted a look at Madam Pince, who was was watching them from behind her desk, her lips pursed and her pen clenched tightly in her hand. "Would you mind taking a turn with me in the grounds, my boy? There is something I would very much like to discuss with you, and I don't think Irma would appreciate my broaching the subject with you here." Indeed, Madam Pince looked like she was about to snap her pen.

"Of course, sir." Harry reluctantly stood up, and packed away his things. As little as he liked being alone with the headmaster, Harry didn't really fancy the other students dotted across the library listening in, who were already watching them curiously. For the week since he had arrived back at school, he had successfully managed to avoid Dumbledore, despite having already received three missives to meet him in his office. Unfortunately, it seemed his luck had finally run out.

They left the library quickly and descended down into the great hall, and out into the late spring sunshine, all without saying a word. It was only when they began to descend the steep steps down to the lake, that Dumbledore began to speak.

"I am sure you have heard by now, Harry, of the duelling club that Professor Quirrell will be holding this term."

Harry nodded, trying not to look or sound sullen: "Yes, headmaster. Everybody is very excited about it."

"Yes, I hear it is the talk of the school. Professor Flitwick tells me that the Ravenclaws are practising already." Dumbledore chuckled, and Harry forced a smile. "Filius, of course, was an international duelling champion himself." Harry perked up at that.

"A champion? There are duelling competitions?"

"There are several. The most renowned, however, is the international T.E.D. - Le Tournoi Exigeant de Duel - held once every three years in Paris."

"Professor Flitwick won that?"

"He won it twice."

"How old was he?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Twenty-four and thirty, respectively. Don't tell me Harry, that you like the idea of becoming a champion duellist?"

Harry puffed his fringe out of his eyes, and shrugged. "Who wouldn't."

"Duelling is a dangerous sport my boy. A dangerous sport indeed. Filius himself lost all sorts of limbs, and has spent many agonising days re-growing various body parts."

"Why have you allowed this club, then?" Harry asked flatly.

Dumbledore chuckled: "I don't think we need to worry about quite the same dangers that attach themselves to the T.E.D. presenting themselves in our little school club." Dumbledore, Harry thought, clearly didn't realise just how vicious the Slytherins could be - he seemed to have forgotten that last term, one of them had broken his leg. "It will be conducted within perfectly safe conditions - I will be setting up various safety wards myself, so that no harm comes to any participants. However, I must confess that I had a vested interest in Professor Quirrell starting a club." Harry bit his lip. Of course Dumbledore was behind the bloody thing - he should have guessed - and of course the man had an agenda. "As you are aware, it was brought to my attention last term that you had been having rather a lot of extra instruction from your teachers, which I do not object to. On the contrary, I think it is admirable that you are taking such an interest in your studies. However, the content of some of that instruction was not made clear to me until just a few weeks ago. Being taught to duel, my boy, rather different to taught second-year charms. It is not included on the school syllabus for a reason."

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Thank for your concern, sir, but Professor Quirrell is always very careful."

"I'm sure he is, my boy. However, I still cannot allow the private instruction of one student in an art which is not a part of our official educational program." Harry felt his stomach churn. "However, if all students were given the opportunity, and the teaching was conducted in a safe environment under the supervision of several teachers, it would be rather more acceptable." Harry did his best not to glower. "Not only will this club it give you the opportunity to pursue your interest in duelling, but it will also allow you to meet some students from other houses. I understand that it is difficult for you to make new friends, with the Slytherins behaving the way they are and the other houses being cautious of yours." Dumbledore sighed. "I have always regretted my failure to resolve the difficult relationships that exist between the houses. I often think they do more harm than good." Harry kicked a stone. "I have told you this, Harry, because I am keen for you to attend the first session next week."

"I don't think I can go headmaster - I'd be an open target."

"I thought that you might be reluctant to attend, due to the way in which they have been treating you. However, there is no need to worry for your well being, my boy. You'll be in the plain sight of several teachers, and, as I have already mentioned, I will be setting up wards myself so that no harm can come to anybody. You will be perfectly safe to join in." Harry's eyes widened, but before he could open his mouth to protest Dumbledore continued: "After all, I'm sure you don't want to give up on learning to duel, not when you've only just started."

There was silence for a moment or two, and Harry watched as a cluster of school owls, letters bound to their feet, flew over their heads. The canny headmaster had well and truly put his back up against a wall, and he had managed to do it in such a way that it seemed as if he was doing Harry a favour. He had not been planning to attend the club, due to the risk of attack from other Slytherins. Yet, if he wanted to continue to learn to duel, he couldn't avoid going. And according to Dumbledore, there would be safety wards. Really, the main reason he still felt reluctant abut it was that Dumbledore wanted him to go so much. Yet, he couldn't stand the thought of others learning something he couldn't. "Thank you, headmaster. I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

Dumbledore clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Now that's settled, I'm afraid I must leave you. It has been refreshing to get some air, but now I must return to my paperwork. Until later, my boy!" The older man chucked, a sound Harry was coming to hate, and with a little wave, walked back up to the school, his purple and gold robes glittering in the sun. Harry glowered after him. What a bastard.

7th May 1992

The next few days had passed quickly, and the day of the duelling club loomed oppressively over Harry as he went about his daily business. He couldn't help feeling that it was a risk, whatever Dumbledore said about safety wards, especially if practically the whole school was going. Not to mention, he hated that he was now having to share his special lessons - the thought that didn't settle well with Harry's sense of pride. He liked getting more and being better than everyone else. His recent excellence in lessons had given him a taste for it. He had more than one fantasy about duelling the fifth years, and mowing them all to the ground in one blow, and then turning on his own year mates. It would be sweet revenge to stun Theo and Blaise, his one-time friends: and hear them thud to the the floor. Unfortunately, now everyone would learn how to duel. Dumbledore had messed it all up.

His mood picked up a little on Monday evening, after he deflected a particularly nasty curse back at a sinewy Slytherin fourth-year, who had tried to ambush him outside the charms classroom. Not only had he had the pleasure of watching the boy's skin break out into plague-like boils, but Professor Flitwick had stuck his head of the classroom just in time to see the attack. Indignant on the part of a favourite student, he had assigned the boy a month's detention with Filch. Sometimes, Harry felt, fate tried to make up for all the hard blows it dealt him. He had even managed to avoid Flint, who had been barraging about asking where he was all day – whatever Flint wanted, Harry was sure, he wouldn't want to know.

However, the day of the duelling club soon dawned, and Harry struggled through his classes with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It didn't help that Draco kept sharing unlikely stories about his own duelling prowess: "—It was just as I knocked him out that Nikolai Radanovich appeared – you know, the internationally renowned combative dueller, and he immediately invited me to Paris to be his apprentice. Unfortunately, I'd already given my word to mother that I'd spend the summer on the Riviera with her, so of course I couldn't go. A Malfoy always honours their commitments—" Often, Harry thought that Draco was in need of a tongue-tying curse.

The last lesson of the day was Potions, and it seemed to fly past at an unnaturally fast pace. It felt like only minutes after they'd arrived that the end of school bell rung, and Snape dismissed them immediately, slinking off to Merlin knows where. He tried to pack up slowly, but unfortunately Draco wouldn't let him: he had barely picked up his things before he was being forcibly dragged by his sleeve through the dungeons to the great hall, and had to shove them into his bag as he was pulled along.

By the time they arrived, the room was already almost full. Draco pushed forward to the front, but Harry freed himself from his grip, slipping off to hide behind a group of third-year Hufflepuffs. He didn't want to attract any attention until it was completely unavoidable. He looked around, taking in the set-up. The tables and benches that normally filled the hall had been removed, and replaced by one, very long platform, that stretched lengthways up the hall. Quirrell and – to Harry's surprise – Snape were standing on it, having some sort of discussion. They were surrounded on all sides by a sea of students. Harry took note, with trepidation, of the fact that anyone standing where they were was very much at risk of attack should the audience so be inclined. He suddenly spotted Pucey and Tugwood, leaning together against the wall on the opposite side of the hall from him, also deep in conversation. He scanned the room for Flint and his usual crew, but they were nowhere to be seen.

"W-w-w-welcome!" Quirrell started at the volume of his own stutter – he must have cast a sonorous charm – and there were several snickers. "This is the f-first session of the d-duelling c-club, which will b-be held at t-this time every week until the s-summer t-term ends. I hope t-the attendance will r-remain t-this high!" There were a couple of titters at the half-hearted attempt at humour, but otherwise silence. "P-professor Snape has k-kindly agreed to assist m-me," Quirrell nodded at Snape, who stared back at him impassively. "F-for some of you, t-this may be the f-first d-duelling lesson you've ever h-had, s-so we will b-begin with the b-basics: D-d-d-disarming. T-the older students w-will p-probably know this spell, b-but for the younger m-members of the audience, the d-disarming incantation is Expelliarmus. I t-think a d-demonstration is in order. If you would b-be so k-kind, P-professor Snape?"

Snape pulled out his wand with a flourish, and the two professors turned to face each other. There was a buzz of excitement in the audience as Snape raised his wand: "Ex-pelliarmus." Snape drawled, the syllables long in his mouth, and Quirrell's wand slid out of his pocket and into Snape's outstretched hand. There were a few disappointed groans – clearly some students had been hoping for something a little more exciting - and Snape returned the wand to Quirrell with a sneer.

"T-that was a p-p-perfect d-demonstration of the spell. N-now, c-could we have some v-volunteers from the audience to g-give it a g-go?" Quirrell asked hopefully. Surprisingly, nobody put their hand up. Harry kept his decidedly by his side. "Ah, P-Potter!" What felt like hundreds of heads whipped around to look at him, and Harry silently cursed. Of all people, why did Quirrell have to pick him? Unfortunately, it was unavoidable. He made his way slowly towards his teachers, and climbed up onto the platform, standing next to Snape. "D-do we have a s-second v-volunteer?" This time, Harry saw several arms up in the air; all of them, he noticed with dread, were older Slytherins.

"Perhaps," Harry almost jumped at the sound of Snape's smooth drawl above his right ear, "it would be best to pick someone P-P-Potter's own age." Harry felt an odd burst of warmth for his head of house. "Perhaps, Draco?" Harry suddenly noticed the white-blonde head of his only friend a few feet from him, his hand stuck up in the air, and felt another wave of relief.

"G-good idea, S-Severus. C-come on up, D-Draco." Draco ascended onto the stage immediately, smirking smugly down at the heads below.

"Alright b-boys, t-turn, back to b-back." They did so, and Quirrell turned to address the audience. "This is the s-standard position to b-begin a d-duel in. Then, the opponents t-take three p-paces forwards and the d-duel begins. I'll c-count you in b-boys. R-remember, the aim is to d-disarm only." Snape and Quirrell both jumped down off the platform. "Three," they stepped forwards, wands braced, "Two-"

"Protego!"

Harry shouted the charm as he whipped around, at precisely the same time Draco shouted "Expelliarmus!" The blonde ducked his head, and dodged Harry's own disarming spell with surprising speed, before raising his wand once more: "Serpensortia!" Harry's eyes widened in shock as a snake, of all things, shot out of Draco's wand like a spear, and landed with a heavy thud on the floor of the platform between them. There was a collective gasp from the audience, and a couple of whoops from one corner of the room – Slytherins, no doubt. Harry felt a sudden burst of resentment bubble up in him.

What he did next was irrational, he knew. If he had been thinking more clearly, he would never have done it. However, the exhibitionist in Harry, the part of him that wanted to prove something, rose to the surface. An opportunity had just presented itself for him to astound everybody here, and he succumbed to the urge to take it.

"Hello." The snake, which had been hissing at him, reared back in apparent shock.

"Serpent speaker?" The snake's spoke softly, its tongue flashing out.

"Yes, I am a speaker." He walked towards it, knowing it would make the spectacle all the more impressive. "What's your name?"

"Serpents do not deal in names." The snake was swaying in front of him, the upper part of its body raised from the floor, and Harry felt the familiar, half-forgotten sensation of empowerment that communicating with snakes had always brought him. It was as if he was a snake charmer.

"Would you like to help me?"

"I could." The answer was ambiguous, but the snake seemed curious, and Harry felt confident. He'd interacted with enough snakes in his life to know that they always obeyed when spoken to. Politeness was an unnecessary - though considerate - courtesy.

"Come onto my shoulders." For a tense moment, he thought the snake hadn't heard. It continued to sway for several seconds, watching him, but suddenly it moved forward. He held out a hand, and the snake wound its way up onto his body to coil around his neck. He suppressed a shiver at the smooth feeling of the scales as the creature moved over the bare skin of his arm. Harry had never actually held a snake, although he'd spoken to many. It's skin felt strange - almost loose, as if it weren't attached to the flesh underneath. It was also unexpectedly heavy, although Harry supposed he shouldn't be surprised: the creature was a good three feet long.

"Thank you." He hissed to it courteously, enjoying the sensation of snake skin smoothing across his collarbone. He raised his wand sharply:

"Expelliarmus!" Draco's wand flew out of his lax hand and into Harry's, the blonde boy barely even registering it: he was gaping at his friend in disbelief. Casting his gaze around the audience, he saw a similar expression mimicked on many faces, and he felt a sense of deep satisfaction. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he would probably regret this at some point. However, in that moment, he felt glorious. He sought out the faces of Adrian Pucey and Winifred Tugwood, who were both looking completely discomposed - and somewhat unsettled.

There was silence for several moments. No one seemed sure what to do. Everyone was staring at him, and the weight of the snake around Harry's shoulders was becoming uncomfortable. He was relieved when Snape slowly pointed his wand at it, and commanded "Finite Incantatum." The snake vanished, presumably back to wherever it had been summoned from, and its disappearance seemed to shake the students from their reverie. Whispers erupted like wildfire across the room, and Quirrell had to clear his throat several times, with the aid of the sonorous charm, to get their attention.

"A-alright, s-settle down, settle d-down. I t-think it's t-time for you all to have a go. You can g-get down n-now boys, and everyone else s-spilt into p-pairs…" Quirrell stuttered on as Harry dismounted the stage, but the large hand that suddenly gripped his shoulder distracted him from listening. He looked around quickly, and saw the sharp face of Professor Snape.

"Come with me." Harry let the hand guide him from the hall.

"You know Potter, I can't decide whether that little exhibition of yours was the sort of brash and idiotic display your father was prone to, or inspired." Harry stared at Snape's empty desk chair as he listened to his deep, smooth intonation, projecting from somewhere behind him. He could hear the clinking of glass, and it was only when the man appeared in front of him, two glasses of a dark brown liquid in hand, that he realised he'd been pouring himself a drink. "Brandy?" A glass was offered to him, and he took it with some surprise – Snape wasn't known as the type to offer his guests drinks.

"Is it alcoholic?" He asked suspiciously, peering down into the pungent liquid.

Snape smirked, not answering as he settled himself into his chair, crossing his legs. Screwing up his face, Harry took a small sip, only to blanch at the taste. He immediately pushed the glass away from himself – the drink was not only alcoholic, but also absolutely disgusting.

"I did think it might be a little sophisticated for your palate, Potter. I could ring for some apple juice if that would be more to your taste? Or perhaps a cup of milk?"

Harry glowered at the man, snatching the glass back, and Snape's smirk widened. "You know sir, I'm pretty sure it's against school rules to give students alcohol."

"You know Potter, I think it is." Snape took a long sip of brandy, his eyes fluttering shut. The motion was surprisingly unguarded. "You'd better report the incident to your head of house." Harry snorted, and forced himself to take another sip of the brandy, repressing a gag. It was almost undrinkable, but Harry was determined to finish the glass, just to spite Snape. "Of course, the whole school will be afraid of you now."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Afraid of me? Why?"

"The ability to speak to snakes, or Parseltongue, as it is commonly known, is a talent attributed to the descendants of Salazar Slytherin."

Harry's eyes widened, and he leaned forward a little. "The Slytherin? As in the founder of our house?"

"Tell me Potter, do you know of any other Salazar Slytherins?" Snape snorted, rubbing his temples. "Obviously. The story goes that he ate the flesh of a Naga, and so gained its powers, including the gift of the serpentine language."

"A Naga?"

"Nagas are, in wizarding legend, the greatest of the serpents. It is said that from them that all other snakes came. Of course, no reliable source has ever actually seen one."

Harry absorbed this knowledge. "So only the descendants of Salazar Slytherin can speak to snakes? Then I'm his descendant?"

Snape swilled the liquid in his glass around, his gaze distant. "That is what people have always said, and that is what people undoubtedly will say about you. However, facts suggest otherwise. There has never been any link made between the Potter family and Slytherin, and your mother was a muggleborn."

"So neither of my parents spoke to snakes?"

Snape snorted. "No. Before you came along Potter, the only person I've ever known to be a parselmouth was the Dark Lord."

Harry suddenly felt breathless. "The Dark Lord? He spoke to snakes?"

"Yes, Potter, that is what I just said." Snape pinched his nose in irritation.

Harry leaned back in his chair, thoughts whirring, then, looking at his professor, he cocked his head, a sly grin on his face. "You know, sir, Lucius Malfoy told me that only the Dark Lord's followers call him the Dark Lord."

Snape stared at him for a few seconds, unmoving, and Harry shifted a little, suddenly feeling he had perhaps gone too far. However, when Snape replied, his voice was even. "With that consideration in mind Potter, it's very interesting that you refer to him in the same way."

They stared at each other. Snape's black eyes felt as if they were burning into Harry's mind, and he remembered, with a horrified jolt, another piece of knowledge Mr. Malfoy had imparted upon him: "You're a legilimens!" The words had escaped his mouth before he could stop them, and he glared furiously at Snape's mouth. "You've been reading my mind!"

Snape hummed darkly, his thin lips stretching into a grin. "Perhaps."

Harry snarled. "My thoughts are private—"

"Not to me."

Harry felt a biting retort on his tongue, an angry insult, but he held it back.

"How long have you been reading my mind?" The older mans grin curved into a smirk, but he still didn't reply. "You have to tell me!"

"I don't think I do Potter. My thoughts, you see, are private."

"You've been doing it ever since you first met me, haven't you?" Snape only smirked in response, and Harry seethed. He had the urge to throw his disgusting brandy in Snape's face, but had enough presence of mind to know that that definitely wouldn't be worth the consequences. Snape wasn't the type of man you messed with, and most definitely not the type of enemy you wanted to have. He settled for glared at his forehead.

"You know, Potter, a true Slytherin would see an opportunity here." Harry refused to rise to the taunt, but Snape continued. "Or are you never going to look anyone in the eye again?" It took Harry a few moments to cotton on to what Snape was saying, but when he did, he felt his rage dim a little. Slowly, he lowered his eyes to meet Snape's own.

"You could teach me Legilimency?" He did his best to keep the grit out of his tone, and met Snape's dark eyes steadily. As Harry had expected, the older man didn't answer immediately. He took a leisurely sip of brandy, all the while holding his student's gaze. It must have been a good minute before he finally replied.

"No, I could teach you Occlumency. However, Potter, seeing as you forgot the magic word—"

"Please?" Snape's eyes narrowed at being cut off, and Harry swallowed. There was another silence before Snape finally replied:

"Very well." Harry felt a genuine grin stretch across his face, and his anger at Snape's poking about in his mind receded. "I will try Potter, if you can keep up." Harry's smile hardened, and he forced himself to take another sip of brandy – it wasn't quite so bad on the third attempt. His mouth and throat had sort of become numb to it.

"I will, sir."

There was silence for a while, and Harry gradually let his eyes wander around the room; across the various jars filled with nefarious substances that lined the walls, to the bookcases behind the desk, to the fish tank filled with floating brains on the floor. He could feel Snape's eyes upon him, and wondered, almost bitterly, what he was thinking. He considered the face of his professor, recalling the little knowledge he had of Legilimency.

"Mr. Malfoy also said that only the most powerful wizards can be Legilimens."

"Lucius says a lot of things. He always has liked the sound of his own voice." Snape swilled his drink around, watching the amber liquid spiral in the glass. "You might do better to listen to him less." Harry bit his lip. "You and Draco better move your things back into the dormitory."

"The dormitory?"

"Please do not parrot my words back at me Potter; yes, the dormitory."

Harry stared at him: "I can't professor – they'll lynch me!"

Snape's lip curled. "After your little display this afternoon, Potter, I can assure you that the attitude of your housemates towards you will have quite changed." Harry stared blankly at him. "Sometimes I do worry about your mental aptitudes Potter. Have you forgotten what I said about Slytherin?"

"They'll all think I'm descended from Slytherin." He said slowly, looking up at Snape, who rolled his eyes. "But I'm not."

"Who knows Potter. Maybe you are."

"But you said—"

"I don't actually know if you are or not. You are descended from thousands of people – there is a possibility one of them was Salazar Slytherin, however unlikely I personally think it is. Either way, in terms of your relationship with your housemates, things have taken a decided turn for the better."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "I don't like any of them after everything they've done."

Snape inhaled sharply, leaning forward. "Don't be ridiculous Potter. It's not about liking them." He topped up his drink. "If you want to get by in Slytherin, you don't take anything personally and you don't take anyone personally. Do you really think that they all like each other? That there aren't tensions between them? This round concerning you might be over, but the game goes on. That's what Slytherins do, more and more so as they grow older. So, if you know what's good for you, you'll get straight back to that common room and play."

Harry bit his lip, then nodded, and Snape exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "I really do question your sorting."

"I'll miss staying in your quarters, sir."

Snape looked as if he felt slightly violated. "Get out."

Biting his lip to contain his smile, Harry stood up and left the room, feeling lighter than he had in months. It seemed things were finally taking a decided turn for the better, after the unpleasantness of the past few months. He revelled in the image of the older Slytherins lying at his feet as he packed away. He knew of course, that they wouldn't literally do that, but it was a nice metaphorical image of what he now knew was to come. He considered sending someone else from the common room to fetch his case - he would like to make Flint do it. On the other hand, it probably wouldn't be very wise to humiliate anyone – the last thing he'd want to do would be to compromise his current position.

It would be better, he thought, to be nice. He'd be friendly to everyone, despite his blatant advantage, and he'd force them to like him even if they didn't want to. Manipulating their emotions would give him more influence than they'd never rationally allow. He wouldn't, however, make the mistake of actually thinking of any of them of friends again. Only Draco. His eyes narrowed as he thought of Theo and Blaise.

The future, he thought as he strolled along the corridor, scattering several terrified Hufflepuffs with his mere presence, was looking good.

9th May 1992

"So, Harry Potter speaks to snakes. How intriguing." Evan Rosier's blue eyes glinted in the candlelight.

"Did you really have no idea, Lucius?" Jack Yaxley leaned back in his chair, his thicks arms folded loosely over his broad chest. His voice was hard, but his face belied his amusement. Lucius, looking vexed, glared into his wine glass.

"You shouldn't sulk Lucius." Mads Mulciber winked at the others, a slight Dutch accent colouring his words. "You'll wrinkle that beautiful forehead." Smoothing out his expression, the Malfoy lord shot him a frosty look.

"I'm not sulking, Mulciber, I'm thinking." The others exchanged amused looks, and Lucius continued: "I confess, I was surprised by Skeeter's article. Potter had not told Draco, and though he wrote to me after the incident, his letter only reached me after Tuesday's Prophet."

Yaxley shook his head almost disbelievingly. "This is something else. We knew the boy has a feel for dark magic, but parseltongue." He took a deep drink of wine. "Parseltongue, of all things."

"The language of our lord." Rosier murmured, and Mulciber licked his lips, and grinned. Before anything else was said, there was a loud knock on the door to the study.

"Do come in," Lucius called, and the large doors swung open, revealing a tall, dark, cloaked figure.

"Sorry I'm late." Walden Macnair didn't sound very sorry, as he pushed back his hood with bloody hands,his expression grim. "I was dealing with a messy execution."

Lucius looked at him with disgust. "These chairs, Macnair, are Chinese silk-"

"Spare me the provenance, Malfoy. I'll tidy up before I sit down." He pulled off his cloak and wiped his hands on it, before dropping it on a nearby house elf, who disappeared immediately with a pop. Macnair eyed the bottle of red wine on the desk with disdain.

"I want firewhiskey."

"Tippy, fetch the Montrose." Another elf popped away, and almost immediately returned, with a bottle of dark liquid and several tumblers balanced on a tray. As Tippy served Macnair, he dropped into an empty chair.

"What are you talking about?"

"Potter speaking parseltongue," said Yaxley, exchanging his wine glass for a tumbler of firewhiskey. Macnair grunted.

"No one will shut up about that."

Mulciber raised his eyebrows. "It doesn't interest you?" Macnair shrugged, taking a swig from his tumbler.

"Children are children." Macnair said dismissively, holding out his glass for more alcohol.

Mulciber stared at him disbelievingly. "It's not at all interesting to you that Potter, of all people, is the only known parseltongue since our lord?"

"It fascinates me." Rosier rested his chin on his hand. "That boy is full of surprises." Macnair looked nonplussed.

"Perhaps in a few years he'll be interesting. Perhaps not."

Lucius sneered, picking an invisible hair off his robe. "That 'perhaps', Macnair, is controllable. We can make Potter interesting."

Mulciber grinned at the haughty blonde. "Ah, Lucius. He never doubts." His grin died a little. "I can't be quite so sure." Yaxley hummed his agreement.

"The extent to which Potter can be steered remains to be seen."

Rosier stroked his jaw, and spoke softly: "Yet, it's worth trying. Because, if he does finally fall our way, as his talents suggest he would be inclined to do, it would change the game."

Mulciber cocked his head. "Still not interested, Macnair?"

The executioner ground his teeth, and shot them all dark looks. "My loyalty is to the dark lord alone." A tension filled the dark room. "The only event I anticipate, with every bone in my body, is his return and accession. Then, his judgement of Potter, will be mine." Macnair slammed his glass down on the table with unnecessary force, and pulled out his wand. "Now, are we going to sit here gossiping like old fishwives all night, or are we going to go upstairs and have some fun?"

The others took a last drink, and stood. Lucius looked at Tippy, and gestured lazily at the glasses, bottles and chairs: "Clear this up." They left the room.

11th May 1992

"Were you aware, Albus, that Potter was a parselmouth?" Minerva McGonagall watched the headmaster from across the table, her eyebrows raised as she stirred her coffee. That morning Dumbledore had called the weekly meeting between the four heads of house, and they were sitting around around his office desk, nursing hot beverages.

He sighed as he leaned back in his chair, resting his bearded chin on his steepled fingers. "Yes. I learned of it from Hagrid and Severus," he nodded at the Potions master, "Harry mentioned it when they delivered him his letter last summer."

Professor McGonagall's lips tightened. "And you didn't see fit to inform the rest of the staff?"

"I confess, Minerva, that I saw no reason too. It is a harmless enough talent in itself—"

"But think of the implications, Albus." McGonagall exhaled sharply.

"And what exactly," Snape cut in, "are those implications?"

"You know as well as I do Severus, that the last known Parselmouth was You-know-who himself."

"And what exactly," he sneered, " do you think that signifies?"

"Parseltongue is a talent associated with dark magic, Severus, as you well know."

"All that I will say on the matter," Flitwick chipped in, setting his cup of tea down on his coaster, "Is that Potter is an excellent student. Moreover, I've always found him very agreeable. I think it would very wrong of us to condemn him for having been born with an uncommon talent."

"I'm not condemning him, Filius – Merlin knows Potter is just a boy. However, this ability to speak parseltongue suggests that the boy may be, should he encounter it, unusually susceptible to the temptations of dark magic. And such a correlation with He-who-must-not-be-named is undeniably significant. Potter is connected to him in ways none of us understand. This revelation of a further link has made me deeply uncomfortable. I wish, Albus, that I had been informed before."

"Perhaps, Minerva, you would feel differently if Potter were in Gryffindor." Snape looked coldly at McGonagall, who pursed her lips, before lowering her piercing gaze to the left sleeve of the Potion Master's robe.

"I might feel differently, Severus, if the only company he kept wasn't with one of the most notoriously dark families in the country-"

"Come, come," Professor Sprout said soothingly, tutting at them, "Let's have none any of this animosity. There's no point in making a big song and dance about such a thing. It is what it is."

"Sensible as always, Pomona," Dumbledore smiled at her benignly, looking distant. "In time, things will make themselves clear. Until then, I'm afraid that we must wait, and give young Harry the benefit of the doubt-"

"It is not a question of criticising the boy, Albus." McGonagall bristled. "It is a question of assessing his current position, and recognising that perhaps we have been negligent. We have a responsibility for the boy, who is an orphan, and we need to ensure that, rather than being isolated - virtually friendless - under the influence of men such as Lucius Malfoy, he is exposed to wider society."

"By which you mean exposed to your students, instead of mine," Snape's glare was furious. "You would do well to remember, Minerva, that Potter was sorted into my house, and he is under my care, not yours, however painful you might find it."

"Excuse my doubt about your care of the boy, Severus, when it not only involves allowing the boy to spend school holidays with the Malfoys, but also endorses such draconian practises as house exclusion. Under your care, Potter has been ostracised and attacked by his own house members - one of your students broke his leg, a student, I might add, whom you have neither attempted to catch nor punish!"

"You've never expressed a problem with the traditions my house has been observing for centuries before."

"I've never heard of anything like what's been happening to Potter!"

"Then it is very strange that you have only raised these concerns today, three months after Potter's difficulty with Slytherin began, and moreover after it has ended."

"You hated his father, Severus, and I worry that you allowed that frankly deplorable behaviour because you dislike the boy." This was followed by an uncomfortable silence. Snape's face was dark, and when he spoke, it was with grit.

"Say what you will. Your fear of the boy's ability to speak parseltongue, rather than any concern for him, is leading these ad hominem accusations. They reveal more about your own prejudices than mine. Your seem to be suggesting that the fact Potter is a parselmouth is a symptom of a detrimental Slytherin influence trying somehow to bind him to the dark, when you know very well that it is an inherited ability he was practising long before he knew the wizarding world existed. It is not a sign of something 'gone wrong', as you put it, but a genetic inheritance. Likewise, he himself chose to be friends with Draco Malfoy. Why shouldn't I have allowed the boy to spend his holidays with his best friend, when the alternative would have been a lonely sojourn either here, when he was fighting with his housemates, or at a muggle orphanage he hates? I myself have treated Potter, and will continue to treat him, like any other Slytherin, because that is what he is."

"Potter is not just any other child." McGonagall said emphatically, her forehead furrowed, but she could feel the tide of opinion in the room now moving against her.

"Severus is responsible for Harry, Minerva." Dumbledore said quietly, but firmly. "I trust him with Harry's care. Fortunately this conflict within Slytherin seems to have come to an end, and Harry has moved back into his dormitory with the other students. I agree that it would be best for him to socialise more widely, with children from other houses - indeed, to increase inter-house friendships in general. However, that is something we should all work on cooperatively, not by arguing between ourselves." McGonagall looked conflicted, but nodded stiffly, and Dumbledore's voice softened. "I am sorry that you have been disturbed by the discovery of Harry's ability to speak parseltongue, and I can understand why you feel the way you do. I cannot deny that I myself have been concerned about the boy. However, Severus is right. It might put your mind at peace to know that I myself have begun to build a relationship with him over the past few months, during this period of tension between Harry and his house. Rest assured that I have no intention of leaving him alone to the influences of Lucius Malfoy, though it would be wrong of me to interfere in any relationship he may have with him. Harry is not a normal boy," he raised his voice a little, "but we must do our best to let him be one. We must allow him some freedoms, but also counsel him, especially considering that he is an orphan. Most importantly, we must show him kindness. Both Severus and I," he exchanged a meaningful look with the Potions master, "will be doing our best, during his time at Hogwarts, to direct him along the right path."