(Harry's POV*)
By mid November, Hogwarts was buzzing with Lockhart's latest disaster of an idea—
a Dueling Club.
"Because apparently," Ron said dryly as we headed toward the Great Hall, "what this school really needed was supervised violence."
I snorted. "To be fair, it's still less dangerous than his last idea. Remember the pixies?"
"Barely," Ron muttered. "I'm still finding blue hair in my robes."
Hermione sighed like she was already regretting associating with us. "Honestly, you two— this could actually be useful. It's a chance to learn self-defense, proper spellwork, discipline—"
"Discipline?" I said. "He once signed a fan letter to himself."
When we entered the Great Hall, I nearly laughed aloud.
The long tables had been pushed aside, candles floating in dramatic formation, and the air smelled faintly of cologne and overconfidence.
Lockhart was standing on a platform beside Snape, one looking like a walking Valentine's card, the other like he was plotting a bloody homicide.
"If I die," I muttered, "bury me under Snape's patience."
Hermione smirked. "You think he has any left?"
Snape's eyes swept the crowd like he was searching for someone to hex just for breathing too loudly.
Lockhart, meanwhile, was practically glowing, both literally and metaphorically, his lilac robes glimmering under the enchanted light.
"Gather round, young duelists!" he trilled, twirling his wand like a parade baton. "Now, to demonstrate the proper form of a duel, I shall be assisted by my esteemed colleague, Professor Snape, who has graciously volunteered—"
"Under protest," Snape said, voice colder than a Dementor's exhale.
Lockhart gave a breezy laugh. "Oh, Severus! Always so modest."
Snape raised one eyebrow, a clear promise that modesty was not the reason for his silence.
"Wands at the ready!" Lockhart called dramatically. "We'll begin with a simple disarming charm. Nothing to worry about, students!"
I leaned toward Ron. "That's what he said before the pixies."
Ron grinned. "Maybe this time he's the one getting disarmed."
"Three—two—one—"
"Expelliarmus!"
Snape didn't wait for the word one.
A streak of red light burst from his wand and hit Lockhart square in the chest.
Lockhart's wand shot into the air, followed closely by Lockhart himself, before both landed in a glittery heap against the far wall.
His robes puffed up like a deflating balloon as he slid down, leaving a faint sparkle trail on the stone.
The silence that followed was broken only by the soft tink of glitter drifting to the floor.
I clapped, slow and polite. "I learned so much."
Ron leaned closer, whispering, "Fastest lesson I've ever seen."
Hermione tried not to laugh, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. "You two are impossible."
"Maybe," I said, grinning at Lockhart as he struggled to stand, hair full of sparkles and pride full of holes. "But we're surviving Hogwarts, so I call that advanced magic."
Pairs were being called out, and of course, of course, I ended up facing Malfoy.
"Try not to embarrass yourself this time, Potter," he drawled, wand twirling between his fingers like he thought he was in a play.
I gave him a calm smile. "No promises. I like keeping expectations low."
We stepped onto the platform, bowed, well, I bowed with exaggerated grace, nearly tripping just to see his expression, and raised our wands.
Lockhart shouted from the sidelines, "On my count—three, two—"
Malfoy didn't even wait for one.
"Serpensortia!"
His wand spat out a green serpent that hit the floor with a wet thud before uncoiling with a furious hiss.
The thing was long, sleek, and entirely too pleased with itself.
Gasps echoed through the Great Hall. Some kids climbed onto tables.
Lockhart, predictably, panicked forward, waving his wand.
"I'll just—"
I raised my hand. "Don't."
He froze mid step, looking at me like I'd just forbidden him from brushing his own teeth.
I ignored him.
The snake hissed again, coiling tighter. It was about to strike at Justin Finch-Fletchley, who looked like he'd just realized he didn't want to learn dueling after all.
I took a slow breath, focusing.
I didn't decide to speak Parseltongue, it just slipped out, quiet and natural, like sighing.
"Stop," I said.
The sound wasn't English. It was low and sharp, like words made of water and teeth.
The snake froze mid lunge, eyes flicking to me, not hostile, just… listening.
The hall went dead silent.
I could hear someone whisper, "He's speaking—what is that?"
Malfoy blinked, genuinely confused. "You—you can talk to snakes?"
I looked back at him, completely straight faced. "Can't everyone?"
That earned me nothing but horrified stares. Hermione looked torn between scientific fascination and mild panic, while Ron looked like I'd just told him I was secretly a garden hose.
Justin stumbled backward, pale as Nearly Headless Nick.
The snake, still motionless, swayed slightly as if waiting for my next order.
I sighed. "Alright then."
"Finite Incantatem."
Green smoke curled, and the snake dissolved into nothing.
The tension cracked like glass, people whispering, others still frozen in place.
I turned to Justin. "You alright?"
He hesitated, glancing between me and the spot where the snake had been. "Yeah… I—I think so."
I nodded, offering a faint grin. "Good. Next time, duck first, panic later."
A few nervous laughs rippled through the crowd. Even some Slytherins cracked smiles.
I swear Snape's eyebrow twitched, which, by his standards, was the equivalent of a standing ovation.
Lockhart finally recovered enough to clap his hands together. "Marvelous control! Just marvelous!"
I muttered under my breath, "You're welcome for not dying."
Ron leaned over as we left the platform. "Mate, that was—bloody hell. You spoke snake!"
Hermione whispered, "Harry, that wasn't just any magic— that was Parseltongue."
okay, act like I didn't know anything.
I shrugged, still feeling the echo of the hiss in my throat. "Guess I'm more bilingual than I thought."
Ron stared at me like I'd grown fangs. "Yeah, well… next time, warn us before you go full serpent whisperer, alright?"
"Deal," I said, smirking. "Though, to be fair, it did make for a great exit."
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But after the club ended, I didn't even make it halfway up the stairs before—
"Potter."
That voice could freeze lava.
Smooth, cold, and somehow always made me feel like I'd just been caught stealing ingredients from his private stores.
I turned, trying for casual. "Professor."
"Follow me."
No room for argument, no emotion, just quiet authority that somehow made my spine straighten on instinct.
The walk to his office was silent except for the echo of our footsteps on the stone. Every turn, every corridor, felt like a slow descent into judgment.
When the door closed behind me, the faint shimmer of wards sealed us in.
The greasy bat didn't even look at me at first; he just circled, robes whispering, his presence thick like smoke.
"You enjoyed that attention, didn't you?" he said finally. "A grand display in front of the entire school. A Parselmouth, flaunting his… power."
I tilted my head, half smiling. "I didn't flaunt anything. I stopped a snake from biting a kid. Thought that was in the 'Good Samaritan' column."
His eyes flashed. "You spoke the language of a Dark wizard, Potter."
I couldn't help it, I smirked. "You mean you did, once."
That landed like a silent spell. His face went still, all sharp lines and unreadable eyes.
For a second, I thought he might hex me on instinct.
Then, very quietly, he said, "You know."
I nodded, meeting his gaze evenly. "I've known for a while. Your reaction told the rest."
Can't sell dumbledore trust for this shi.
Snape froze. Completely. His breathing changed, just slightly, the kind of reaction you'd miss if you weren't looking for it.
I took a small step forward, not out of defiance, but honesty. "I know what you did. The prophecy. The regret. The reason you switched sides. You think I don't understand, but I do."
His eyes flicked to mine, black and searching. "And what, precisely, do you understand?"
"That you're trying to atone for something you can't undo," I said quietly. "That you hate yourself more than you ever hated my father. And that, underneath all the bitterness and sarcasm, you're… the bravest man I've ever met."
Bravest man? my ass.
He is a man-child who shouldn't even be close to children.
Heck he hates children and teaching to the core.
He is stubborn, rude, and pathetic racist who calls his best friend a racist slur.
A war criminal, A death eater who sold his respect the second he get that dark mark.
but, he is not evil.
He was abused by his alcoholic father, his neglecting mother, his Slytherin classmates being the biggest assholes.
He is a survivor, who survived being a half-blood in Slytherin with no support or money.
And he broke down when he saw his best friend smiling on his most embarrassing day on the hands of his bullies.
Then why did I say those words? because he swore to protect me. He is useful.
And I don't want a person to have hostility with me for the next 5 years for no reason.
Snape didn't move for a long time. The silence was heavy, stretching out like a held breath.
His jaw worked slightly, his expression unreadable, but his eyes… weren't cruel.
Not anymore.
Good Talk-No-Jutsu worked.
When he finally spoke, his voice wasn't cold. It was low, tired, human.
"You shouldn't know these things."
I shrugged faintly. "Too late."
For a heartbeat, something passed between us, not forgiveness, not even understanding, but maybe recognition.
Two people who'd seen too much, carrying ghosts they didn't ask for.
Snape turned away first, his back rigid. "Go, Potter. Before I start thinking you have a redeeming quality."
I smiled a little. "Wouldn't want to ruin your reputation, sir."
As I left, I swear I caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
It might've been a smirk. Or maybe I imagined it.
Either way, it felt like progress.
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Back in the Gryffindor common room, the fire crackled softly, that perfect, low, steady hum that made the whole tower feel like it was breathing.
The place smelled faintly of smoke and buttered biscuits, which was probably because Ron had a plate of them balanced on his knees.
Hermione was curled up on the sofa, a book half open in her lap, her expression somewhere between concern and mild exasperation.
When I sank into the armchair beside them, she immediately looked up. "You all right? Snape didn't—?"
I grinned. "Didn't what? Hex me? Emotionally scar me? Monologue about the sanctity of potion brewing?" I waved a hand. "Nah. He just glared, insulted, and emotionally imploded. So, yeah— productive night."
Ron nearly choked on his biscuit. "You've got a death wish, mate."
I smirked. "Or good timing. Depends on how you frame it."
Hermione sighed, snapping her book shut. "Honestly, Harry, you keep talking to him like that, one day he'll actually curse you into next week."
"Please," I said, leaning back, stretching my legs toward the fire. "If he wanted to curse me, he'd have done it already. I think he's starting to enjoy our little chats. Therapeutic, even."
Ron snorted. "Therapeutic? For him or you?"
"Both," I said easily. "He gets to vent his lifelong frustration, and I get a crash course in advanced snark. It's practically mutual growth."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose but she was smiling, the kind of tired, fond smile that said 'you're insane, but I'm used to it.'
"You're impossible," she muttered.
I grinned at the fire, the orange glow flickering across the common room walls. "Nah," I said quietly, "just inevitable."
For a moment, none of us spoke.
Ron broke the silence by reaching for another biscuit. "Well, inevitable or not," he said, "if you keep poking Snape like that, at least let me know first. I'll bring popcorn."
I laughed. "Deal."
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(Dumbledore POV*)
Up in my tower office, I stood before the Pensieve, the silvery surface rippling like thought made liquid.
It reflected me in fragments, lines of age, worry, and something dangerously close to admiration.
I had seen what the boy could do. What I could once only dream of doing and, more importantly, what he chose not to do.
Harry Potter.
He walked a knife's edge, that one. Power that defied all known structure, yet wielded with the restraint of someone far older, or perhaps far more wounded.
Wisdom beyond his years, power beyond reason, and still… tethered by conscience. Still human.
But I could feel it, that faint, electric tension beneath the surface of reality itself.
His magic moved like a storm waiting for permission to break.
I traced the Pensieve's rim, watching memories swirl, flashes of green light, a serpent, a broken boy with his mother's eyes and his father's defiance.
He was no longer just a student.
He was becoming something else.
And yet… I could not decide whether the world should be afraid of that, or grateful.
The storm is coming, I thought, and when it breaks, may we all have the sense to stand in its shadow, not against it.
-----------------------------------------
The next morning, breakfast at the High Table was its usual chaos of clinking cutlery, floating owls, and the faint sound of Weasleys trying to weaponize marmalade.
I was halfway through buttering a scone when a regal tawny owl swept down the length of the Great Hall.
Its feathers shining like molten bronze, its wings beating with aristocratic grace. Not a school owl, no, this one carried the air of old authority.
The envelope it dropped before me was sealed in dark green wax, bound with a golden thread.
"Interesting," I murmured, setting down my knife. "One does not often receive mail that looks like it might hex you for reading it too slowly."
To my left, Professor McGonagall arched an eyebrow. "Albus, that owl isn't from the Ministry, is it?"
"In a manner of speaking," I said, carefully breaking the seal. "An older branch… the kind that likes to think it still controls the roots."
At the Gryffindor table, Harry was blissfully unaware arguing with Ron, spoon in hand, face animated.
"I'm just saying," he was telling him, "if you used a time-turner as an alarm clock, it'd wake you up before you went to bed. Technically, you'd never be late again."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "That's… not how it works, Harry."
Ron grinned. "No, no, I think he's onto something. Infinite naps!"
I smiled faintly even apocalypse correspondence couldn't quite ruin the absurd warmth of breakfast at Hogwarts.
Then my gaze fell back to the parchment.
The wax bore an ancient insignia: two serpents entwined around an eye of emerald. My heart stilled. It had been decades since I'd seen that mark.
The Serpent Council.
A name whispered, not spoken, in wizarding politics old bloodlines and secret orders, the kind that preferred influence to visibility.
They rarely surfaced unless something truly… unnatural occurred.
And if they were contacting me now, it meant they had noticed something, someone, they could not explain.
Harry Potter.
I refolded the letter carefully, the scone forgotten. "Well," I murmured to myself, "it appears the world has started watching again."
McGonagall gave me a questioning look.
"Nothing urgent," I said lightly, rising from my seat. "Just… old acquaintances seeking conversation. I suspect it won't be pleasant."
As I left the hall, the chatter of breakfast faded behind me. I could still hear Harry laughing about paradoxes and missed alarms and, for a moment, I envied that innocence.
The letter felt heavier with each step.
The Serpent Council wanted to talk.
And they never called without reason.
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Boom!!
The serpent council here here hehhehe.
-Nine11P2