Better Be Slytherin!

'How am I supposed to know? I never heard of this Parsel-thingy.'

'Parseltongue,' Severus said very slowly, as if speaking to a dimwitted dog. 'It is considered a power directly linked to the line of Salazar Slytherin. There are—'

'The Salazar Slytherin?'

'Enough! No more interruptions! Sit still and be quiet and I will tell you what I can. Understood?'

Potter fell back in his chair, eyes wide and not quite so angry. 'Yes, sir.'

'Very well.' With some effort, Severus reined in his temper again. 'In the last thousand years, there have been very few known Parselmouths—' he held up a hand to shield himself from the inevitable interruption – 'which is to say, those who can speak Parseltongue. Amongst those was the Dark Lord, whom you vanquished as a mere infant.' He paused, letting that sink in.

'After he killed my parents,' the boy muttered, looking away.

'Yes,' Severus said heavily, his chest tight. God, Lily! 'After that.'

'And so you think he's back then. That he's the one who attacked me.'

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I do not know. I believed it was inevitable that he would return . . . but I do not know how he could have come within the walls of Hogwarts already.'

'Maybe someone let him in.'

'Of course they did, you silly child. The question is who.'

'Someone who knows a lot of hexes and counter curses, I'd think.'

Severus glared at the boy. 'Why?'

'Because the one speaking Parseltongue wasn't the same person who cast some of the other spells. Didn't you . . .' Potter shrugged. 'No, I guess you couldn't tell. Their voices were totally different.'

Wasn't the same person . . . ? Possession, perhaps? Was one of the staff members possessed? The height of irony, if so, a Baron-possessed Potter fighting off a Dark Lord-possessed somebody. For a little while, he thought about the memory, dissecting it piece by piece, and realized he did not recognize the voice of the non-Parselmouth. Damnit!

His gaze went back to the Bloody Baron, who was now regarding him, in turn. Severus drew a long breath. Though he was loathe to ask any boon from the ghost, he had to admit the Baron was simply swimming in knowledge of the kind Severus had little understanding of. 'What do you think?'

The Baron favored him with a grim smile. 'I think you should walk the child back to his dorm, as it is late, and he is tired. Then you should let me see his memory. I may pick up something you and the Headmaster miss.'

'I am not done with him, as I said.'

'And yet he is done with you.' The Baron gestured to the boy, who was resting his head on his arms on a desk, eyes closed. The tension lines in his forehead were less pronounced in sleep, but still there. And his hands were clenched tight into fists, as if he were fighting some sort of inner battle. He did not appear to be dreaming, however.

Severus watched him for a few minutes, and felt suddenly very old, and very tired. This eleven-year-old boy had already faced down the Dark Lord twice – if it were him, indeed, who had attacked on Friday night – and lived to tell the tale. No one else in the world could boast as much. And yet . . . the boy did not boast. He was full of bravado, to be sure, but Severus saw through that tactic all too well – his own form of defense was often sarcastic vitriol, but he occasionally used the other when necessary. He knew it for the front it was, a mask the boy pulled over his face in order to stand up to threats, so he would not be seen as weak. Severus was sure of it, as sure as he was that the boy's relatives were abusing him.

And wasn't that a fine kettle of murtlap. The icon of the Wizarding World, starved, beaten and locked in a closet. It disgusted him, and enraged him, and he was going to have to make sure someone went with him before he visited the Dursleys, or he would not be responsible for his behavior.

'Very well,' he said at last, and the Baron gave a grunt of acknowledgement. 'But only because he is in no shape to make rational observations or remember things properly. Tomorrow I shall require him to tell me more of this damnable ability he has to manipulate his mind away from mine.'

'Got your knickers in a twist, did he?'

Severus glared at the smiling ghost, then sighed and woke the boy – gently! He was turning into a bloody nursemaid. The boy roused with a jerk, and an instinctual hunch of his shoulders, and Severus gnashed his teeth. 'Time for bed, Potter,' he said quietly.

Potter sat up all the way and wiped drool from his cheek with the edge of his robe. His posture was still tense as he said, 'Sorry, sir.'

'Don't be. I will walk you back to the dorms; it's after curfew already.'

'Yes, sir.' The boy straightened his robes, and didn't meet his eyes on the trip back.

At the portrait, he said, 'Tomorrow, Potter. Seven o'clock sharp.'

Potter sighed, but nodded with a, 'Yes, sir. Good night.'

Once more, Severus waited till the portrait door was closed before he responded. 'Sleep well, Harry.'

The next day, Severus made time to meet with Potter's relatives, at least in part because otherwise he would have to wait until the weekend, and he didn't want to wait that long. Unfortunately for them, no one was available to watch his . . . back. The Dursleys would just have to live – or not – with the consequences, if they antagonized him further.

Shortly after his last class, he walked down to Hogsmeade then Apparated to Privet Drive, in Little Whinging, where his reports had that Potter lived. The neighborhood was one of those with perfect lawns and perfectly matched window boxes and identical vehicles in every drive. The monotony gave him a headache. Number Four