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Harry Potter
The stone wall slid open, revealing the entrance to the Slytherin common room. Harry stepped through casually and didn't even try to hide one new addition. Sylvia had draped herself across him like a living scarf.
Conversation died away as if someone had just pressed the off switch button. Thirty-odd students scattered throughout the common room turned as one, their attention snapping to Harry. The silence stretched for three heartbeats, thick enough to cut with a knife.
Then the whispers began.
"Is that...?"
"Merlin's beard, that's Mulciber's snake!"
"How did Potter get—"
"What happened to—"
Harry ignored the murmurs, moving toward his usual seating area near the fireplace. Sylvia shifted slightly against his neck, her scales cool and smooth against his skin. To any observer, he appeared utterly unconcerned by the minor miracle of possessing another student's pet.
A third-year girl, Harry vaguely recognized from meals, blocked his path, her eyes wide with curiosity. "Potter," she said, her voice pitched to carry despite its apparent casualness. "That's Mulciber's snake. Everyone knows it. Why do you have it?"
Harry glanced down at Sylvia, then back at the girl, his expression one of mild puzzlement—as though he couldn't quite understand why this warranted such attention.
"Found her outside the greenhouses this afternoon," he said with a slight shrug. "She looked hungry, so I fed her a rat from Hagrid's stash. Guess we became friends after that." He stroked Sylvia's head gently, and she responded by nuzzling against his palm. "Animals tend to be straightforward like that—treat them well, and they remember."
The explanation was simple. Almost disappointingly mundane. And yet...
"Just like that?" another student asked from his position on one of the leather sofas. Marcus Belby, a second-year with perpetually skeptical features. "You fed it once and it just... decided to switch owners?"
Harry's lips curved into a small smile. "I don't own Sylvia. She's not property. She goes where she wants." He resumed his path toward the fireplace. "If she prefers my company to Mulciber's, well, that says more about him than it does about me, doesn't it?"
The logic was sound enough that several students nodded, accepting the surface explanation even as their eyes remained troubled. Harry could practically see their minds working, trying to reconcile the innocent explanation with the glaring impossibility of it all.
Daphne Greengrass occupied her usual chair near the fire, a book open in her lap though Harry doubted she'd read a word since he entered. Her ice-blue eyes tracked his movement like a hawk.
"Potter," she said as he claimed the chair opposite her. "How fortuitous that you should find Mulciber's snake exactly when you needed... companionship."
Harry met her gaze directly, his expression open and guileless. "I know, right? Lucky timing. Though I suppose it makes sense—Sylvia probably spends a lot of time near the greenhouses. Warm stones, plenty of mice..." He settled more comfortably into the chair. "She's really quite sweet once you get to know her."
"Sweet," Daphne repeated, her tone suggesting she'd just heard someone describe a blast-ended skrewt as 'cuddly.' "Mulciber's snake. Sweet."
"Former snake, apparently," Theodore Nott interjected from where he'd materialized at Harry's elbow, his grey eyes sharp with interest. "Though I'm curious—doesn't Mulciber usually keep rather tight control of his... pets?"
Harry simply smiled.
"You'd have to ask him about that," he said mildly. "I can only speak to my own experience. I found a hungry snake, I fed it, and now we're friends. Not exactly a complex narrative."
"No," Daphne said softly, her eyes never leaving his face. "Not complex at all. Almost suspiciously simple, really."
Harry held her gaze for a long moment, letting her see nothing but earnest innocence in his expression. Then he broke eye contact to stroke Sylvia's scales again, the gesture both casual and pointed—a reminder that whatever Daphne suspected, the snake itself seemed perfectly content with the arrangement.
"Suspicion is healthy in Slytherin," Harry acknowledged. "But sometimes a rat is just a rat, and a hungry snake is just a hungry snake."
Before Daphne could respond, a clump of younger students—first and second years mostly—descended on Harry's position.
"Is it true you just walked up and took Mulciber's snake?"
"Did you use magic? What spell?"
"Aren't you afraid it'll bite you?"
Harry gave the same answers. Yes, he'd found the snake. No, he hadn't used magic—just offered food. No, he wasn't worried about being bitten because Sylvia was well-fed and content.
Across the common room, older students watched with varying degrees of interest and skepticism. A cluster of fourth-years near the entrance to the boys' dormitories whispered among themselves, shooting glances at Harry that ranged from confused to calculating. None of them were Mulciber's usual group—those conspicuously absent from the common room.
"The real question," said Tracey Davis, appearing at Daphne's side with her own book tucked under her arm, "is what Mulciber's going to do when he sees you with his snake."
"I imagine," Harry said, "that Mulciber will handle the situation however he sees fit. Though I should note that Sylvia seems quite happy with her current arrangement. Forcing an unwilling snake back to an owner it doesn't like..." He let the sentence trail off meaningfully. "Well, that rarely ends well for anyone involved."
Tracey's eyebrows rose. "You sound awfully confident that the snake prefers you."
"I am," Harry confirmed simply. He lifted his hand, and Sylvia immediately wound herself around his arm in a display of obvious affection. "See? She could leave anytime she wanted. She chooses to stay."
The demonstration was effective, if only because it was undeniably true. Sylvia showed no signs of distress or coercion—quite the opposite. Right now, she was acting more like a cat than a snake. Let's just hope this snake does not bite like a cat for shits and giggles, Harry thought with a smile, knowing from his days with Miss Figg that cats sometimes just loved to start biting for some reason.
"Remarkable," Blaise Zabini commented, joining their growing group, looking amused. "I've seen Mulciber's snake. It was never this... docile. Always hissing, always aggressive. Either you've discovered some revolutionary training method, Potter, or..."
"Or?" Harry prompted when Blaise trailed off.
"Or something rather significant happened that you're not sharing." Blaise's smile was sharp. "Not that I'm complaining—Mulciber was a pain in the ass. I'm simply... curious about the methodology."
Harry returned the smile. "I understand curiosity, but sometimes the explanation is rather very simple and there is no hidden power involved."
"That you fed the snakes, it decided to join you," Daphne said with a tone that made it clear that she thought this explanation was bullshit.
Twenty minutes later, the stone door ground open.
Harrison Mulciber entered first, his tall frame silhouetted against the corridor's torchlight. Behind him came his usual entourage—Rosier, Jugson, Aeran, and Nott's older brother—moving in the tight formation of boys who'd learned to operate as a pack.
They looked... wrong. Not injured, precisely, but diminished somehow. Mulciber's shoulders hunched slightly forward, a posture Harry recognized from Dudley after particularly humiliating encounters at school. Rosier kept glancing sideways at his leader, uncertain. The others simply looked uncomfortable, like they wanted to be anywhere but here.
Harry didn't move from his position by the fire. He turned a page in his Transfiguration textbook. Sylvia, raised her head slightly from where she'd been dozing against his neck.
Mulciber's eyes found Harry almost immediately.
For three seconds, Mulciber stared at the first-year boy with his former pet draped contentedly across his shoulders.
Then Mulciber's gaze dropped. Actually dropped, like a dog acknowledging a more dominant member of the pack.
"Come on," he muttered to his friends, his voice carrying in the unnatural silence. "We've got that Astronomy essay to finish."
He turned toward the fourth-year dormitory without another word.
His friends exchanged bewildered glances but followed, their footsteps somehow both too loud and too quiet against the stone floor. Not one of them looked at Harry. Not one of them acknowledged his existence.
They simply walked past as though he were furniture.
The door to the upper dormitories closed behind them with a soft click that sounded like a thunderclap in the silence.
For five full seconds, nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
Then Blaise Zabini let out a low whistle.
"Well," he said conversationally, "that was unexpected."
The spell broke. Whispers exploded through the common room like dragon fire, multiple conversations erupting simultaneously in a cacophony of speculation and shock.
"Did you see—"
"Mulciber just walked away—"
"He didn't even try to—"
"What in Merlin's name—"
"That was Harrison Mulciber! He hexed a second-year last year for looking at him wrong!"
"Potter's had his snake for less than an hour and Mulciber's just... what, given up?"
A gaggle of third-year girls near the windows leaned together, their whispers sharp with disbelief. "Something happened," one of them hissed. "Something big. You don't just walk away from that kind of challenge unless—"
"Unless you've already lost," her friend finished, eyes wide.
Near the entrance, a sixth-year boy named Montague shook his head slowly. "I've known Mulciber for two years. That boy doesn't back down from anything. His father would skin him alive for showing that kind of weakness."
"Maybe that's why he's not making a scene," his companion suggested. "Better to lose quietly than lose spectacularly in front of witnesses."
"But lose what?" Montague demanded. "What could Potter possibly have done? He's eleven!"
Across the room, Marcus Flint stood from his position near the bookcases, he looked a little troubled by what had just happened.
"Gemma," he said quietly, "what do you make of that?"
Gemma Farley was a beautiful sixth-year girl with long dark hair with a waterfall braid. "I make nothing of it, because it makes no sense. Mulciber's been riding high on intimidation for three years. He doesn't just surrender his primary tool of terror to a first-year without—" She stopped, her gaze drifting to where Sylvia rested peacefully on Harry's shoulders. "Without significant motivation."
"Or significant threat," Flint murmured.
"From an eleven-year-old."
"From Harry Potter," Flint corrected. "There's a difference."
Meanwhile, Daphne Greengrass had set her book aside entirely. She leaned toward Tracey Davis, who'd moved closer to whisper furiously.
"That wasn't just surrender," Tracey hissed. "That was fear. Did you see his face?"
"I saw," Daphne confirmed. "The question is what exactly he's afraid of."
"Potter did something," Tracey said with absolute certainty. "Had to. Mulciber wouldn't just—"
"No," Daphne agreed. "He wouldn't. Which means Potter is significantly more dangerous than he appears." She glanced at Harry, who had returned his attention to his textbook as though nothing remarkable had occurred. "Or more cunning. Possibly both."
At the center of all this speculation, Harry continued reading about the molecular transmutation principles of transfiguration, one hand absently stroking Sylvia's scales. He appeared utterly oblivious to the chaos his mere presence had created.
In reality, he was cataloging every whisper, every theory, every shocked expression. Information was currency, and right now the common room was paying him in gold.
A second-year boy Harry didn't recognize pushed through the crowd toward Harry's chair, his face flushed with excitement and nervousness. "Potter," he said breathlessly, "what did you do to him? Everyone wants to know—did you curse him? Threaten his family? What?"
Harry looked up from his book with an expression of mild surprise, as though he couldn't quite understand the fuss. "I fed his snake," he said simply. "We've been over this."
"Nobody believes that!"
"Then that's their choice," Harry replied with a slight shrug. "I can only tell you what happened. Whether you believe it is entirely up to you."
The boy opened his mouth to press further, but Blaise gripped his shoulder firmly. "That's enough, Montague Junior. The man's given his answer. No need to be rude about it."
As the boy reluctantly retreated, Blaise turned to look at Harry. "You're enjoying this," he observed quietly.
"Am I?" Harry asked innocently.
"Immensely. You've just established yourself as someone even fourth-years won't cross, and you did it without throwing a single hex or saying a word against Mulciber. Everyone's speculating, everyone's reassessing their estimation of you." Blaise's smile widened. "It's actually rather brilliant."
"You're giving me far too much credit," Harry demurred. "I simply acquired a pet snake."
"Right. And I simply happen to have a mother who's been widowed five times. These things just... happen."
Harry's lips twitched. "Precisely."
The common room continued its fervent speculation, students clustering in groups to dissect what they'd witnessed. Theories ranged from the plausible to the absurd, but all shared one common thread: Harry Potter had somehow, impossibly, defeated a fourth-year bully without a single spell being cast in public.
As he walked toward the first-year dormitory, Sylvia still wrapped comfortably around his shoulders, Daphne's voice carried after him.
"Potter."
He paused, turning slightly. "Yes?"
"Whatever actually happened," she said carefully, "it was well played."
Harry's smile was enigmatic. "I have no idea what you mean. I just fed a hungry snake."
"Of course you did," Daphne replied, her tone suggesting she believed no such thing. "And I'm sure that's all anyone needs to know."
"Exactly," Harry agreed.
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The first-year Slytherins had claimed their usual corner near the enchanted windows, where the occasional grindylow or school of silver fish provided distraction from the increasingly wild theories being thrown around.
"I'm just saying," Flora Carrow insisted, her dark eyes wide, "maybe Potter knows some kind of ancient family magic. You know, from being the Boy Who Lived and all. Maybe defeating You-Know-Who left him with special powers that work on snakes specifically!"
"That's ridiculous," Daphne Greengrass said flatly. She'd positioned herself slightly apart from the main group, maintaining her characteristic composure even as the speculation devolved into increasingly absurd territory. "Magic doesn't work that way. You don't absorb powers from near-death experiences like some kind of... magical sponge."
"But how do you know?" Flora pressed, leaning forward eagerly. "Maybe it does for really powerful curses! Maybe the Killing Curse rebounds gave him special abilities that—"
"That conveniently manifested when he needed to intimidate a fourth-year?" Tracey Davis interrupted, her skepticism evident. "That's awfully specific."
Draco Malfoy sprawled in his chair. "I still think there's a simpler explanation. Potter probably just... I don't know, fed the snake better food than Mulciber did. Snakes aren't that complicated. They go where the food is."
"Except Mulciber's snake was notoriously aggressive," Blaise Zabini pointed out from his position near the window. "My cousin saw it strike at a second-year just for walking too close. That kind of behavior doesn't change because of a single meal."
"Unless it wasn't just one meal," suggested Cassius Greengrass, Daphne's distant cousin. The bookish boy pushed his glasses up his nose in a gesture that reminded Harry—observing from slightly outside the group—of himself. "Maybe Potter's been feeding the snake for days. Building trust gradually. That would explain why it switched allegiance so readily."
"But that doesn't explain Mulciber's reaction," Millicent Bulstrode rumbled from where she'd been listening silently. "He looked scared. Actually scared. You don't get scared because someone fed your pet."
"Maybe Potter threatened to report him," suggested a small first-year boy named Harper. "For using the snake to intimidate students. That's probably against school rules."
Theodore Nott finally spoke up. "And you think Mulciber—who's been using that snake to terrorize younger students for at least two years based on what I've heard—suddenly developed a conscience because Potter threatened to tell a teacher?" His tone made it clear what he thought of that theory.
"Well, what's your explanation then?" Flora demanded.
Theodore shrugged elegant shoulders. "I don't have one. Which is precisely why I'm not making something up."
"What if Professor Snape intervened?" Lucinda Zabini suggested suddenly. Blaise's cousin was sharp-featured and sharp-minded. "He's Head of House. If Potter complained about being threatened, Professor Snape would have to do something about it. And Mulciber would definitely back down if Professor Snape ordered him to."
"No," Daphne said immediately. Several students turned to stare at her. "Professor Snape clearly dislikes Potter. Haven't you noticed? He took points from his own house because Harry answered questions correctly in Potions. He's not going to suddenly become Harry's champion against fourth-year bullies."
"Maybe Dumbledore then," Flora tried. "He's supposed to be super powerful and—"
"The Headmaster isn't going to get involved in student disputes over pets," Daphne cut her off, her patience visibly thinning. "Use your head, Flora. Dumbledore has an entire school to run. He's not personally mediating snake custody battles."
"Then what?" Millicent asked, her heavy features creased with frustration. "Because something happened. We all saw Mulciber's face. He was terrified."
A contemplative silence fell over the group as they each tried to puzzle out the impossible.
"Maybe," Cassius said slowly, "Potter does know something. Not ancient family magic necessarily, but... spells beyond first-year level. He duplicated Draco's schedule perfectly on the first day—that's a second-year charm. And he was the only one who got the transfiguration spell right on the first try. What if he's been studying advanced magic?"
"He is in first year, just like the rest of us," Daphne said, though her tone had shifted from dismissive to thoughtful. "And he was raised by Muggles. How much advanced magic could he possibly have learned in the few weeks since he got his letter?"
"Unless he's some kind of prodigy," Lucinda suggested. "They exist. My mother told me about a witch in her year who was performing N.E.W.T.-level charms by third year."
"But even prodigies need time to learn," Daphne countered logically. "Potter's talented, yes. Possibly brilliant. But he's still in first year, and Mulciber's been studying magic for four years. The experience gap alone..." She shook her head. "No, there's something else. Something we're missing."
Theodore, who'd been watching this exchange with hooded eyes, spoke up again. "Maybe we're thinking about this wrong. Maybe it wasn't about magic at all."
Every first-year turned to stare at him.
"What do you mean?" Draco asked.
"I mean," Theodore said carefully, "that there are ways to win conflicts that don't involve hexes or curses. Information, for instance. Leverage. What if Potter knows something about Mulciber? Something bad enough that Mulciber would rather lose his snake than have it revealed?"
"Blackmail?" Flora breathed, her eyes lighting up with delight at this new angle. "Do you think Potter's blackmailing him?"
"I think," Theodore said dryly, "that I just offered a possibility. Not a certainty. Unlike everyone else here, who seem to have confused speculation with fact."
"But it makes sense!" Flora insisted. "Maybe he found out some secret about Mulciber's family, or caught him doing something against school rules, or—"
"Or maybe," Daphne interrupted sharply, "we should stop creating elaborate fantasies and accept that we simply don't know what happened." She straightened in her chair, her posture radiating aristocratic disdain for wild theorizing. "The fact is, Potter fed a snake and somehow convinced it to stay with him. Mulciber, for reasons of his own, decided not to contest this. Anything beyond those bare facts is pure speculation."
"But speculation is fun," Millicent pointed out with a rare smile.
"Speculation is also dangerous when it's substituted for actual knowledge," Daphne retorted. "We're Slytherins. We're supposed to be cunning and careful, not spreading rumors like useless Hufflepuffs."
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In the far corner of the common room, away from the excitable first-years and their increasingly absurd theories, a different conversation was taking place. The sixth and seventh-year students had claimed the alcove near the ancient tapestry depicting Salazar Slytherin's departure from Hogwarts—a choice location that communicated status and granted privacy from the younger students' chaos.
Marcus Flint leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, his typically severe expression even more pronounced than usual. "So," he said without preamble, "anyone want to explain what we just witnessed?"
"A first-year putting Mulciber in his place," Gemma Farley replied, her prefect badge glinting in the firelight. She'd positioned herself with a clear view of both Harry's location and the dormitory stairs. "Which is more amusing than shocking, considering Mulciber's always been more bark than bite."
Adrian Pucey, one of the Slytherin Chasers and generally regarded as the team's strategic genius, snorted. "Remember when he tried intimidating Davies in his year? Ended up with a broken nose for his trouble. Mulciber only picks on younger students because anyone his own age would hex him into next week."
"Still," Lucian Bole said, the seventh-year's observant eyes tracking across the room, "it's unusual for a first-year to handle someone three years older, even if that someone is Mulciber. The boy's an idiot, but he's still had three years and one month of magical education."
"True enough," Flint conceded. "Though I'll admit, it's satisfying watching him get taken down a peg. Been waiting for someone to deal with his little intimidation games."
Gemma nodded. "He and his friends have been terrorizing first and second-years since his own second year. Only works because younger students don't know any better—think fourth-years are more powerful than they actually are."
"Which they learn quickly enough once they reach third year and realize Mulciber's magical ability is about as impressive as his personality," Adrian added dryly. "Still, Potter's what, eleven? And he somehow convinced Mulciber's snake to switch owners. That takes either significant skill or significant cunning."
"Possibly both," Lucian observed. "I've been watching Potter since the Sorting. Boy's got a quality about him—calm, observant. Doesn't react like most first-years."
Flint drummed his fingers on the armrest. "So how did he do it? The snake actually switching loyalty like that—it's not normal animal behavior."
"Could be simple enough," Adrian suggested. "Mulciber's never treated that snake well. I've seen him use it to scare second-years, keeps it coiled around him like some kind of threat display. Animal probably hated him."
"Snakes aren't dogs though," Gemma pointed out. "They don't just switch allegiance because someone's nicer to them once."
"Unless Potter's been working on this for a while," Lucian said thoughtfully. "Building trust with the snake over several days. That would explain both why it left Mulciber and why Mulciber didn't put up a fight—knew the bond was already established."
Flint considered this. "Possible. Would require Potter to have access to the snake multiple times without Mulciber noticing, but given Mulciber's general lack of awareness about anything that doesn't involve intimidating smaller children, that's not exactly difficult."
"Could also be natural affinity," Adrian offered. "Some wizards have a gift with animals like Newt Scamander. It's rare, but it exists. Would explain the snake's immediate comfort with Potter."
"That would be impressive," Gemma acknowledged. "Though even with natural affinity, convincing another person's pet to abandon them entirely takes significant effort. Potter must have been planning this."
"Obviously," Flint said. "Question is whether he planned it from the start or adapted after Mulciber's first attempt at intimidation."
Lucian smiled slightly. "My money's on adapted. Potter strikes me as the type who always has multiple strategies ready. Mulciber threatened him, he assessed the situation, identified Mulciber's primary tool, and systematically undermined it."
"That's fairly sophisticated thinking for eleven," Gemma noted, though she sounded more impressed than skeptical.
"Potter's demonstrated unusual capability in other areas," Adrian pointed out. "McGonagall praised his Transfiguration work publicly—first perfect transformation on the first try. Answered all of Snape's advanced questions without hesitation. And Rolanda practically dragged him to the Headmaster trying to get him on a broom."
Flint's expression soured. "Which Professor Snape shut down immediately. Won't even consider Potter for Seeker despite obvious talent. Professor Rolanda told me that a few hours ago, saying Potter has talent, and Professor Snape didn't even want to hear her."
"Why did she tell you that?" Adrian asked, looking a little puzzled.
"Obviusly she wants me to try and convince Professor Snape to allow Potter to be part of the Quidditch team," Flint explained with a shrug, and from his tone, it was clear he was not going to risk himself for Potter.
The group talked about Quidditch for a while, eventually one brought up a theory they had never thought of.
Flint was quiet for a moment, studying the first-year. "What about Parseltongue?" he asked suddenly.
The others looked at him.
"What about it?" Gemma asked, not understanding what Parseltongue had to do with Quidditch.
"The Snake switched sides because Potter is a Parselmouth." Flint added and saw the look of shocked expression, but most of them quickly chuckled or shook their heads in denial.
"Parseltongue?" Adrian repeated. "Bit of a leap, isn't it?"
"Would explain the snake situation completely," Flint argued. "Ability to actually communicate with it, understand what it wanted, convince it to leave Mulciber."
"Parseltongue's incredibly rare," Gemma said. "And Potter's a half-blood with no Slytherin lineage that anyone knows about. Where would he have gotten it?"
"Plus," Lucian added, "his parents were killed by You-Know-Who. The last known Parselmouth. Seems unlikely the Boy Who Lived would share an ability with the wizard who murdered his family."
"Genetics don't care about irony," Flint muttered, but even he sounded unconvinced.
"Even if he had it," Adrian said, "that's not exactly something you can hide. Someone would have noticed by now. Parseltongue is distinctive—sounds completely different from normal speech."
Flint conceded with a shrug. "Fair enough. Just would've been tidy."
"Reality's rarely tidy," Gemma said. "More likely Potter just used good strategy, patience, and took advantage of Mulciber being an incompetent bully."
"Which," Lucian added with a slight smile, "makes the whole thing more impressive, not less. Anyone can win with rare magical gifts. Winning with just intelligence and planning? That's actual skill."
Adrian nodded. "And it sends a useful message to the rest of the house. Mulciber and his friends have been a minor irritation for years. If Potter's dealt with them this early, might discourage others from trying similar intimidation tactics."
"Assuming they're actually dealt with," Gemma cautioned. "Mulciber walked past tonight, but that doesn't mean he won't try something later when there are fewer witnesses."
"If he does," Flint said, "I'd put money on Potter being ready for it. The boy doesn't strike me as someone who wins once and then stops preparing for the next move."
They fell silent, watching the common room's evening activities. Finally, Gemma spoke up again.
"So do we need to do anything about this?"
Flint raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"We're prefects. Technically responsible for house harmony. Should we be concerned about potential retaliation? Future conflicts?"
"Potter hasn't broken any rules," Lucian pointed out. "Acquiring a pet isn't against policy. And Mulciber clearly isn't filing any complaints."
"Exactly," Adrian agreed. "From a practical standpoint, this is beneficial. One less bully targeting younger students. House harmony actually improved."
Flint nodded slowly. "I agree. Though we should keep an eye on Potter—not because he's a problem, but because he's clearly more capable than the average first-year. Good to know who the competent ones are."
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