Laocoon's Children: Secret Tongues
Chapter 11
By copperbadge
AU. When Sirius and Remus go looking for Peter Pettigrew, they make a wrong turn and someone else finds him first. Eight years later, Sirius owns a book store and Remus manages it for him. When Harry stumbles into the store and they find out the truth, they decide it's time to be Stealing Harry. (SB/RL slash relationship in later chapters.)
Only after Dumbledore had left him at the entrance to the dormitory did Harry remember the voice he'd heard, the snake-voice demanding to be free and interrupted by Ginny's scream. He ran to his
room, where the other boys, and a few of the girls, were sitting on Theo Nott's bed, deep in discussion. He scooped up a trembling, loudly complaining Snake into his breast pocket even as he dropped
his cloak into the trunk at the foot of his bed.
"Potter might know," said Blaise Zabini, who moved over to make room for him between himself and Crabbe.
"Know what?" Harry asked, glad enough to be in the company of other people.
"Who the Heir is."
Harry shook his head. "I just asked Dumbledore. He wouldn't tell me anything."
"Bet you it was just Bole, doing it to scare Montague," Theo said contemptuously. "Bet you anything tomorrow Bole's going to be strutting around saying he's the Heir."
"What Heir, anyway?" Harry asked, realising suddenly that they knew more than he did.
"You don't know?" Blaise asked.
"Didn't I just say I didn't?"
"All right, you don't need to jump on me about it," Blaise said. "The Heir of Slytherin. The hundred-times great grandson -- "
" -- or daughter -- " put in Pansy Parkinson.
"Or daughter," Blaise rolled his eyes, "of Salazar Slytherin."
"My mum says there aren't any," Crabbe said.
"How does your mum know that?" Theo asked, contemptuous.
"She says." Crabbe stuck stubbornly to his story.
"Well, I heard about there was a Headmaster at Hogwarts who was a Slytherin and a Parselmouth and he was the last Heir of Slytherin," Blaise ventured.
"What's being a Parselmouth got to do with it?" Harry asked, very conscious of Snake in his pocket.
"Who put you in such a snit? Didn't you know Salazar Slytherin was a Parselmouth? It's hereditary," Theo answered.
Harry opened his mouth to say that it wasn't, since he was one and neither of his parents were, but his first thought was that he didn't know his parents weren't Parselmouths, and his second thought
was that he'd almost given himself away.
"Which headmaster?" he asked, instead.
"Don't recall," Blaise said, furrowing his brow. "Philip or something."
"Phineas?"
"Might've been."
"Who's he, then?" Theo demanded.
"Phineas Nigellus. He's in Hogwarts, A History," Harry replied. "It doesn't say anything about him being an Heir of Anyone or a Parselmouth. He just wasn't very popular. And he can't have been the
last, because I think he had children."
"He's related to the Blacks, isn't he?" Pansy asked.
"Yeah," Harry replied, remembering the Black family tree he'd seen once, with Sirius and Andromeda burnt off of it and names stretching back almost to the Founders.
"They're famous for being Slytherins, the Blacks," Blaise said. "All but your godfather and Professor Tonks' mum. Malfoy's mum was, though, and her other sister -- "
"Bellatrix," Harry said, the hatred in his own voice surprising him. Blaise and Pansy, who caught on a little quicker than the others, raised their eyebrows.
"My aunt used to be friends with Mrs Malfoy," said Goyle. "She says they were all ashamed of your godfather, being a Gryffindor."
"If you say one word against my godfather I'll knock you flat," Harry said warningly, and Goyle subsided. "Anyway, I don't think there is any such thing. I bet it was Bole," he said, trying to
reassure himself. If the Heir of Slytherin was a Parselmouth, then that might have been what he'd heard...
After all, Harry himself couldn't be the Heir. He didn't know anything about painting things in blood on walls, and he'd already been at Hogwarts a year, anyway.
"I hope so," Blaise answered. "If the Heir of Slytherin really is at the school..."
"Then what?" Harry prompted.
"Well, he might actually open the Chamber like he said he would, mightn't he?"
"What Chamber, anyhow?"
"What, isn't that in Hogwarts, A History?" Pansy asked snidely.
"The Chamber of Secrets," Blaise replied. They all leaned in closer, as if they were telling ghost stories around a campfire. "Before Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts, he built an underground lair and
hid a monster there. He left it all behind when he went away. Anyone who could find and open the doors to the lair could send the monster out into the school to eat all the Muggle-born
students."
"That's why they were shouting about mudbloods," Harry said, understanding dawning. Every eye was on him, and he realised of all the students in the room, he was the only one with a Muggleborn parent
-- with a Muggle of any kind in the family, closer than three or four generations back. Little Creevey in first year was Muggleborn, but he was one of only two with Muggle parents. Of the rest of the
Slytherin students, barely a handful had any significant amount of Muggle blood.
"We should be back in the girls' dormitory," Pansy said. The girls slid off Theo's bed and talked quietly as they left; the boys, one by one, went to their own beds to put on their pyjamas. Soon the
candles were doused and Harry was curled up under the blankets, whispering soothing reassurances to Snake on his pillow, wondering if even now the primal snake-voice that had demanded its freedom
could hear him.
***
Snape returned from delivering the students to their rooms to find Dora Tonks on the landing, arms crossed, staring at the red words painted on the wall.
"Disturbing," he said, finally. She glanced up, as if just noticing him, and stepped aside a little, to allow him to join her.
"How's Ginny?" she asked.
"Hysterical child. One of the Gryffindor Prefects is seeing to her," he said shortly.
"No going easy on account of age," she murmured.
"It wasn't her blood," Snape replied. There was another pause. "Have you tried -- "
"Everything from Scourgify to dissolving spells," she said. "I think we'll have to strip a layer of stone to get it off."
Snape tilted his head slightly, as if a new perspective on the wall might give him new ideas. "Have you tried transfiguring the blood into something which -- "
"No, but the blood's been absorbed into the wall. The stone's porous. I'm not good enough to separate the two out," she said. It was a dare, but he didn't rise to the bait.
"Few would be," he agreed, instead.
"Speaking objectively, as an Auror, it's a good place to put something like that. Hundreds of children go up and down these stairs every day. Any physical evidence is all tangled up in..." she
sighed. "Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrappers and crumpled parchment."
Snape looked around, and realised she was right; as good as the house-elves were at keeping the place clean, the main staircase always ended up slightly dingy at the close of the school day. He
tended to forget that Tonks was an Auror, with skills and ways of thinking that he didn't have. It caught him by surprise.
"What I wonder now," she continued, in that oddly detached voice, "is where all this blood came from. It would have had to be very fresh to be painted on so easily."
Snape knew from horrifying personal experience how quickly blood clotted. It was one of the primal elements of magic; working with blood was tricky, and there were few charms that affected it. Only
the Muggles had ways to keep blood from clotting, by adding other things to it. He supposed those could be detected, but he had little experience with the Muggle alchemy known as chemistry.
As if she, and not he, were the master of Legilimency, she said, "Our alchemists have ways of detecting what sort of blood's been used, but I don't think Dumbledore wants this handled by outside
help. You're Potions Master; could you find out?"
"Are you asking me for help?" he inquired, haughtily.
"As you're so fond of pointing out, we're supposed to be professionals. I'm furious with you, but you're useful. You don't like me, but you don't like obscenity scrawled in blood on the walls of our
school, either." She shrugged. "If you can't do it -- "
"I can," he said.
"I thought as much."
He took a small folding knife from his pocket, a gift from Minerva after he'd made her nervous by summoning a knife from the kitchen once too often. He found an empty glass vial in another pocket; he
always had a few, and they seemed to multiply when he wasn't looking, like clothes-hangers in a wardrobe. She watched as he knelt and tested the blood at the bottom of the wall. When he found it not
entirely dried yet, he slipped the blade into the blood and lifted it up, scraping the half-dried residue off on the lip of the vial.
"I doubt it's human," he said.
"Chicken is traditional, in the thriller novels," she replied. She was about to say something else, when Dumbledore appeared, carrying a small jar of powder.
"I see I am anticipated," he said, eyes falling on the vial Snape held. "Shall we, then?"
"Now?" Tonks asked.
"Can you think of a better time?" he inquired. "Severus, I had thought that perhaps you would be short of powdered unicorn dung," he said, shaking the jar slightly. Greyish dust swirled inside
it.
"I have sufficient amounts for this," Snape replied, and led the way down into the dungeons, past the Potions classroom and into his private office. He cleared a stack of half-marked papers away,
neatly, and took down a glass tray. He emptied the blood onto the tray, where it made a small, ragged-edged puddle, and put both bloody knife and vial into an empty porcelain wash-basin to be cleaned
later. His hands found the ingredients he was looking for almost automatically in the supplies case, and Dumbledore and Tonks watched in silence, Dumbledore seating himself on the chair normally
reserved for troublesome students, on the opposite side of the desk.
He mixed aconite -- the base of so many potions and the reason Remus Lupin had always had sneezing fits in class -- with a bat's heart for protein, adding a pinch of centaur's hair when the mixture
formed a smooth paste. With a muttered incantation, he sprinkled the powdered unicorn dung over the coagulating blood, and spread the paste smoothly across it. He looked at Dumbledore as he picked up
a hollow black tube, about the size of a pencil.
"Would you prefer...?" he asked, but Dumbledore shook his head. He didn't bother offering it to Tonks, but instead pressed the tube to his right ring finger, and jerked it slightly. The thin needle
inside the tube drew blood, and he dripped three dots onto the mixture on the glass tray.
A puff of smoke spiraled upwards, and Snape seemed to cup it into his hands as if it were clay. In the bowl of his palms, it began to take shape, forming an elongated ball. Legs began to drift out
from it, a head and tail; the small creature turned its head, and Dumbledore and Tonks both looked mildly surprised.
"Cow's blood?" Dumbledore inquired.
"The nearest cattle herd has to be miles from here. There's a butcher's shop in Hogsmeade, but they'd notice that much blood being bought," Tonks said. "I can look into it."
"I'm not sure there's need," Dumbledore said softly. "We have our own coldhouse and butchery in the kitchens; I would suggest, Professors, that you begin your search there."
"That means it's a professor, or a student," Tonks said, looking alarmed.
"Or," Dumbledore replied, "a house-elf."
***
The next day was Saturday, and by almost silent agreement, Tonks and Snape met on the steps to the kitchens at eight; they tried bickering about who ought to do the questions-asking, but it was
half-hearted in the face of the bigger crime. They got no further than Tonks declaring herself a trained investigator and Snape demanding to know who had spent seven years training her, and who was
the senior professor, before they reached the kitchen doors.
Questioning the house-elves proved to be fruitless, however. Since they were indentured to the school, and not any single individual in it, they could not be compelled to answer any question which
would mean injuring any student or professor at Hogwarts. When asked if a house-elf could have done it, they merely dithered at the idea. They offered to iron their fingers, apologetically, but
Dumbledore had a strict policy against such things, and in the end the questioning resulted in nothing more than the admission that the blood had come from the Hogwarts butchery, a lot of miserable
house-elves, and two frustrated professors.
Denbigh, the head of the kitchen-elves, shared this information with Harry when he stopped by the kitchen to get some breakfast after oversleeping.
"But it wasn't a house-elf, was it?" Harry asked, worriedly. Denbigh's ears drooped.
"All the house-elves are busy with the washing up after the feast -- " Denbigh said anxiously.
"Oh, well, don't get too upset about it," Harry said hurriedly. "Can I have another apple?"
"Is Harry Potter seeing Mister Malfoy and Miss Padma Patil and Mister Neville Longbottom?" Denbigh asked. "Is he seeing them in the library, Harry Potter?"
Harry grinned. "We're falling into a rut, is that what you're saying?"
"No sir! Denbigh does not wish to -- "
"It's okay, Denbigh. Yes, I'm going to study group. Then I have practice this afternoon."
"Dobby the house-elf has insisted that we say to Mister Malfoy that he should come home, sir! The Heir, Harry Potter, the Heir!"
The rest of the house-elves took up the cry in their high, squeaky voices, and Denbigh shouted to be heard over the din.
"Mister Harry Potter should go too! He is in danger!"
"Quiet!" Harry shouted desperately. They all fell eerily silent, immediately. "Now listen, nobody's going home. It's probably just a dumb prank."
Denbigh stared at him, enormous eyes unblinking, until finally Harry sighed.
"We'll be all right. If every person with a Muggle relative went home, the school would be almost empty, anyway," he said. "Now listen, I have a game against Gryffindor next Saturday at eleven. Will
you make some popcorn for the others to take to the game?"
"Of course, Harry Potter. One sweet, one salted, one sweet with extra butter," Denbigh said, recounting the way the other three liked their popcorn. "And Harry Potter will come to see us
afterwards?"
"Sure, Denbigh. We'll have a late lunch in the kitchen." Harry accepted the small sack of food that the house-elves pressed into his hands, put it in his bag, and was just turning to leave when
something occurred to him.
"Denbigh," he asked, turning around. "When was Dobby here?"
Denbigh looked frightened. "Dobby and Mendy are coming to help us do the washing up after the feast," he said, in a very quiet voice. "Harry Potter will not tell Mistress Malfoy? She is un -- unki --
" He hesitated, elf-fashion, unwilling to speak ill even of those humans who didn't employ him.
"Unkind to them, I know. It's all right; I won't even tell Draco."
Denbigh sighed with relief, and soon the rest of the kitchen was filled once more with clattering and clanking as the lunch preparations began. Harry shouldered his bag and headed for the library. By
the time he reached it, most of the students who had studying to do were there; it was too cold to enjoy being outside, but not quite cold enough to snow, and students in the library were very rarely
harassed so long as they kept quiet. Harry waved at Padma, who had staked out and viciously defended a table for their use, and stopped to drop off two books he'd taken out a week before.
"Harry!" someone whispered urgently, and Harry looked up from the returns box to see a cadre of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs gathered at a table near one of the magical fireplaces that heated the
library without actually being on fire. A curly-haired boy in Hufflepuff yellow was gesturing madly for him to come over.
"What is it, Justin?" Harry whispered, wondering if he had something in his hair, or if his bag flap was unlatched.
"Is it true you know who the Heir is?" Justin Finch-Fletchley asked. The rest of the table was watching eagerly. "Blaise Zabini said all the Slytherins knew, but nobody's willing to tell us except
Colin Creevey, and nobody tells him anything anyway."
Justin glanced to his left, and Harry followed his gaze; Colin was sitting wretchedly at a table with a handful of other Slytherin first-years, and being completely ignored by his fellows.
"He's supposed to be the great-great-whatever-great grandson of Salazar Slytherin, and he can talk to snakes, and if he gets into the Chamber of Secrets which nobody knows where it is, he'll let a
monster out and it'll eat all the Muggle-born students."
Justin turned pale.
"But it's just a story, I'm sure it's a prank," Harry said hurriedly.
"I'm Muggleborn," Justin said, then winced when he realised he'd announced it to the world.
"If I were you, I wouldn't tell the monster that -- I'm kidding, Finch," Harry said, when Justin blanched. "Look, it's just a story. Pass it on if you want to, but don't forget to tell people that,
all right?"
Padma was waving for Harry to come over, but he held up a finger and walked over to the table where the Slytherin first-years were studiously ignoring Creevey.
"Hey, Cricket," Harry said. Colin didn't look up. "Creevey. Cricket. I'm talking to you."
Colin met his eyes slowly. He looked like he was about to wet himself. Harry wondered if the second-years, or even the other first-years, had been bullying him.
Harry had never himself been a bully beyond the usual cuffing and wrestling between village boys in Betwys Beddau. He supposed if he had to, he could, but he found it distasteful; and besides, if you
had to bully, you ought to have a point to it, and you jolly well ought to bully someone your own size.
"Come on, Cricket," he said. The first-years were pointedly not looking at him; they were exchanging anxious glances. This was Harry Potter. What did Harry Potter want with a little Mudblood?
"Um?" Colin asked.
"Come on, Cricket, you'll never get anywhere studying all alone like that. Padma's brilliant at Charms; come study with us," Harry said. Colin glanced at the others, as if asking if this was some
kind of joke. When Harry looked impatient, he scrambled to gather up his books, and followed the taller boy back to where Padma was sitting.
"Neville and Draco are in the stacks. Neville's booby-trapping books with some of George Weasley's exploding bookmarks," Padma said. "Who's he?"
"Exploding bookmarks?" Harry asked.
"Yeah, he found out how Exploding Snap works and reversed the polarities so now it goes bang when you open the book," Padma replied. "Who're you?" she asked Colin directly this time.
"Colin Creevey," he said, shyly.
"This is Cricket," Harry said. "He gets a nickname, because it makes the other students jealous, and they all hate him already. Sit," he said to Colin, who obeyed.
"Oh, you're the Muggleborn who got in with the Slytherins," Padma said. "The one with the camera always around his neck."
"Yeah," Colin said glumly, as Neville and Draco emerged from the stacks and sat down with absolutely straight faces.
"This is Cricket, he's studying with us today," Harry said. Neville and Draco nodded and opened their bookbags. There was an explosion from the stacks. Draco fought down a grin, bravely. "He's going
to keep his mouth shut about what we're talking about, too, aren't you, Cricket?"
Colin nodded. Padma was reading his book, half-over his shoulder.
"The Slytherins know who the Heir is," Harry said, and the others listened as he recounted the previous night's conversation. "Professor Snape and Dor -- Professor Tonks talked to the house-elves
this morning, but they didn't say anything. They're all really upset about it. They said to tell you Dobby says you should go home," he said to Draco, who grinned a little.
"Ginny says she didn't see anyone," Neville said helpfully. "And Dora's not exactly likely to tell me much. I mean, she might if I could get her to, but I'm not that sneaky."
"So if the students and the professors don't know anything and the house-elves don't know anything -- or if they do they aren't telling..."
"Do you think there really is an Heir?" Neville asked. They were all silent.
"I think there's something," Harry said quietly. "I don't know if it's the Heir. It might be the monster."
"We're scaring Cricket," Padma said softly.
"I'm not scared," Colin said hastily. "I just thought..." he paused. "I mean...could you ask the ghosts?"
"The ghosts?" Draco asked.
"They're...always floating around. You can't go to the bathroom but there's a ghost putting his head in to say hello," Colin said. "It takes a bit of getting used to...the others made fun because
I...I don't...really like ghosts..."
Draco and Harry exchanged a look. "We could ask Nick to ask around," Draco said. "He isn't much fond of the Baron, but -- "
"I'll deal with the Baron," Harry said. Colin stared at him admiringly. "Let's finish studying and we can go find Nick. Padma, do you want to help Cricket out?"
"I have to finish, too," Padma said, slightly crossly. She shoved a few books into her bag, and took out a roll of parchment. "You keep reading and if you have questions you can ask your benefactor
there," she said, to Colin.
"I do all right," Colin said in a small voice.
Harry, unrolling his half-finished Potions essay, glanced at Padma; it was unusual for her to even have any work to do on a Saturday, especially by this late in the morning. She was always done
first. She looked tired, though; maybe she'd been doing extra work, and their prank had taken up quite a bit of time in the planning and execution.
They studied in silence, punctuated only by the occasional exploding bookmark in the stacks; Neville and Draco were working together, their heads bent over a Herbology exercise, and Padma was taking
notes for the same essay Harry was working on, which was an enormous help as he could glance over at her book and see what she was writing. It wasn't cheating; it was just...getting hints.
When noon tolled, most of the other students rose to get lunch; Harry passed Padma the bag of snacks that the house-elves had given him, and gestured for Colin to pack up his things.
"You should go eat," he said, standing and steering Colin towards the door. "Listen, they don't like you, and they're going to like you even less because I like you. You understand?"
Colin nodded.
"So ignore them. I'll make sure the Gryffindor first-years are nice to you, and if anyone tries to pick on you..." he paused for thought. "Well, let 'em, and tell me after, okay?"
"Why are you doing this?" Colin asked.
Harry had to stop, in the doorway of the library, and think about this.
"Because it's stupid to think someone's not worth knowing just because their parents couldn't do magic," he said finally. "You ought to dislike a person because that person is horrible. How'd you get
into Slytherin, anyway?"
Colin mumbled.
"What?"
"I asked," he said.
"To be put in Slytherin?"
"I think Slytherin is brilliant," Colin said. "It's historical, and wizards who're in Slytherin really become something. That's what I heard on the Hogwarts Express."
Harry thought about Bellatrix Lestrange and Phineas Nigellus. And Severus Snape.
"Sometimes, we do," he said thoughtfully, and sent Colin out into the hallway with a gentle shove.
***
Sirius was reading in the kitchen when Remus came in, shrugging out of his coat. The walk from Madam Schaeffer's wasn't far, but it was chilly, and he went immediately to the stove, where hot water
was waiting in the kettle.
"Do you ever look at Harry," Sirius said, by way of greeting, "And think just how much he's James' son?"
Remus put a strainer on top of a large white mug and added a spoonful of tea. "Not really."
"No?" Sirius asked. "How was work?"
"Fine. It's bloody cold out. Tea?"
"Just had some. You don't ever look at Harry and see James?"
"No," Remus said, pouring the hot water over the strainer. "I look at him and see Lily."
Sirius glanced up from the letter. Remus smiled faintly. "It's the eyes," he said.
"Yes, well, the disposition is James all over," Sirius replied. He passed the letter to Remus, who removed the strainer and added honey while he read. The corners of his mouth twitched.
"Caught outside after hours, having stuck a dormitory bed to the ceiling as a prank...sounds more like you, if you ask me," he said, handing it back to Sirius. "Dumbledore's not going to punish him
for the prank?"
"They can't prove he did anything," Sirius said. "He wants me to have a word with the boy."
"Can't think why, all you're likely to tell him is how not to get caught," Remus said, grinning over his tea. "And you can bet that if he was there, his cohort was too."
"I could send him a Howler," Sirius said. "I used to get those on a regular basis. Went over very well with the girls."
Remus scowled.
"Yes, you never were impressed, I recall," Sirius grinned. "Don't you think it might be fun? I've never sent a Howler. I wouldn't even know where to go to get one."
"Post office down near Gringotts, I think."
"You never got Howlers at school."
"Lupins are genetically disinclined towards shouting," Remus said. "If you could invent a piece of paper that glared like my mum glared, then I'd have had lots."
He sat down at the table, while Sirius folded the letter up and set it aside.
"Do you think Howlers are a good idea?" Sirius asked. "In all honesty."
"No. I never did. It's barbarous to publicly embarrass your children in front of their friends."
"I was never embarrassed."
"Yes you were. You were more embarrassed than most. You smiled and strutted whenever you got one to hide how mortified you were," Remus said. "Even James only looked embarrassed and sat it out, but
you made a production out of it. I don't blame you. Your dad had a set of lungs on him."
Sirius was staring down at the table. Remus put a hand on the back of his neck, fingers twining up through his short black hair.
"You," he said, "made trouble to annoy your parents. Harry makes trouble because he has troublemaking in his soul, like James did. He's always going to make trouble."
"I used to wonder how my father reacted to letters like this," Sirius said. "I used to take gleeful delight in wondering, in fact."
"And now?"
"Well, I hope he got more upset than I am. If I went through years of Howlers and detentions and all he got was....was amused, I have failed deeply."
"I think the Howlers themselves are proof of success," Remus said, shaking him gently and letting him go.
"He really shouldn't be wandering around the castle at night." Sirius worried his lip with his teeth, thinking. "He's not an ordinary child. It's dangerous."
"Tell him that and see if you can stop him," Remus said.
"I know, he's young still. It's just...do you ever wonder where Peter is?"
Remus nodded, gravely. "All the time. Where he is, why he hasn't come back to try to kill the lot of us...I trust Severus, though."
"Trust him to do what?"
"To look after Harry. To be...aware enough that if Peter is near, he'll know. He's tied to Peter, somehow. He knows. And he loves Harry, Sirius. I trust Severus to give his own life for Harry, just
like you or I would." Remus grinned. "And I know that gets under your skin in a way very little else does."
Sirius opened his mouth to reply, but Remus had leaned forward and kissed him before he could say anything.
"I'm still cold," Remus complained. "Want to try warming me up?"
Sirius smiled back. "You're good at changing the subject."
"If I weren't, you'd worry everything to death like a dog with a rag doll."
Sirius laughed, and let himself be pulled up out of his chair, towards the bedroom and a certain amount of pleasant oblivion.