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"One more thing," Harry said, his voice quiet as the last of the students hurried away, leaving the three of them—and Luna—alone in the vast, empty hall. "Why… why were they all looking at me like that? Like I was…" He trailed off, unable to say the word. A monster.
Hermione just looked at him. "You really don't know?"
Harry shook his head, a look of genuine, painful confusion on his face.
Ron, for once, was the one who had to explain. He stepped closer to his friend, his own expression a mixture of awe and deep-seated unease. "It was when you spoke to the snake, mate," he said, his voice a low whisper. "You weren't… you weren't speaking English."
"What are you talking about?"
"You were hissing," Hermione clarified, her voice clinical and precise. "You spoke Parseltongue. The language of serpents." She let the words sink in. "It's an exceedingly rare magical ability, Harry. And it has always, always, been considered a mark of a Dark Wizard."
She let the final, devastating piece of the puzzle fall into place. "The most famous Parselmouth in all of history was Salazar Slytherin himself."
Harry stood there, the color draining from his face as the horrifying implications crashed down on him. The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware. A Parselmouth. The heir of Slytherin. It all fit. The entire school didn't just think he was strange; they thought he was the one attacking students. They thought he was the monster.
"No," he breathed, shaking his head as he looked at Hermione, his eyes wide with a panicked, pleading light. "No, I'm not. I swear, I'm not!"
"I know," she said simply, and the unwavering certainty in her voice was a lifeline.
Harry's relief was so profound it almost buckled his knees. But it was immediately replaced by a new, more immediate terror. "But if it's not me…" he began, his voice trembling, "then the real heir is still out there. In the school. Which means… we're all in danger."
Hermione let out a long, suffering sigh. "Harry, think for a moment. Use that excellent reasoning Dumbledore is so fond of. The heir is targeting Muggle-borns. Who is the most famous, most powerful, and by a very wide margin, the most theatrically brilliant Muggle-born student in this entire castle?" She gestured to herself. "I am the logical primary target. Therefore, my continued existence is, in effect, a shield for everyone else. So long as I am walking these halls, you have nothing to worry about. So please, stop panicking. It's inefficient."
The sheer, breathtaking arrogance of her statement was so absolute that it was, in its own weird way, comforting.
"We'll protect you, Hermione!" Ron declared, a look of fierce, if completely outmatched, loyalty on his face.
If the day ever comes that I need you to protect me, Ron, she thought, we are all well and truly doomed. She just gave a dismissive wave and walked away, leaving her two loyal, terrified followers standing in the quiet corridor.
The Headmaster's Office.
"She is a danger, Albus! I will not have it!"
Severus Snape burst into the Headmaster's office, his black robes sweeping behind him like a storm cloud, his face a mask of controlled, furious panic.
"Good evening, Severus," Dumbledore said calmly from behind his desk, not looking up from the letter he was reading. "To what, or to whom, are you referring?"
"You know perfectly well who I am talking about!" Snape hissed, leaning over the desk, his hands planted firmly on the polished wood. "That… Granger girl! We cannot allow her to remain so close to Potter!"
Dumbledore finally looked up, his expression one of mild, grandfatherly curiosity. "I seem to recall you being quite an admirer of Miss Granger's talents, Severus. Your praise for her potion-making was, I believe, unprecedented."
"That's because—" Snape began, then stopped, a flicker of a deep and ancient pain flashing in his eyes.
"Because she reminds you of Lily," Dumbledore finished for him, his voice gentle.
The name hung in the air between them. The anger seemed to drain out of Snape, replaced by a profound, hollow weariness. "She is nothing like Lily," he finally said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "Lily was kind. She was good. This girl… this girl is a monster. She is everything Lily was not. She is reckless, ruthless, and she has a thirst for the Dark Arts that I have only ever seen in one other student." His meaning was clear. "She is a young Tom Riddle, Albus. And you are letting her wrap herself around the last vestige of the woman we both loved."
"Oh?" Dumbledore asked, a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes. "What has she done now to earn such a comparison?"
Snape recounted the entire, horrifying lesson from the Dueling Club. The public demonstration of all three Unforgivable Curses. The cold, merciless advice to "strike first." The utter, chilling lack of remorse. He expected Dumbledore to be horrified, to finally see the danger he saw.
Instead, Dumbledore just nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting," he murmured to himself. "I would have thought her more like Gellert than Tom…"
Snape stared at him, his mouth agape. "Gellert?! Albus, have you gone mad? She taught children the Killing Curse!"
"And did she not also teach them what it looks like?" Dumbledore countered, his voice losing its gentle edge, replaced by a quiet, hard authority. "Did she not force them to confront the reality of the evil that is out there? Lockhart is a fool, incapable of teaching them anything of value. Voldemort has returned. The world is not a safe place, Severus. A gentle, Ministry-approved curriculum is a death sentence. Miss Granger, for all her… unorthodox methods, is the only person in this castle, myself included, who is actually preparing these children for the war to come."
"You are turning Hogwarts into Durmstrang!" Snape accused, his voice rising. "And her proficiency with those curses… she has clearly been studying them, practicing them!"
"And you, my dear boy?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling with a dangerous light. "Did you not dabble in the Dark Arts in your youth? Do I not, myself, possess a knowledge of them that would make the Minister of Magic blush?"
Snape was silenced.
"Do not worry so, Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle again. "You do not understand her. But I am beginning to." He leaned back in his chair, a look of absolute, unshakeable confidence on his face. "The girl is not the danger. She is the weapon we shall use against it."
Snape stared at the old man, at the calm, confident smile, and he felt a horror colder and deeper than anything he had felt in the dueling club. Dumbledore wasn't just tolerating this new, dangerous player. He was actively cultivating her. And he was enjoying it.