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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 16: The Serpent's Den
The feast ended as abruptly as it had begun. Dumbledore rose from his throne, spread his arms once more, and announced that it was time for students to retire to their common rooms.
Prefects stood at the ends of each table, calling out for their respective houses.
"Slytherin! First-years, follow me!"
A tall, dark-haired girl with a silver prefect badge led the way.
Harry rose from the bench. His stomach was full, but his mind felt empty. Draco fell into step beside him, with Pansy and Crabbe close behind.
Another boy, named Blaise Zabini, walked silently on Harry's other side, his clear eyes observing everything.
They exited the Great Hall through a side door and descended into the cold stone corridors of the castle. The torches grew sparser, and the shadows grew longer as they walked. The air turned damp and cool, carrying the faint smell of lake water and ancient stone.
"Are we… really going into the dungeons?" Harry whispered to Draco. For some reason, he had hoped that the location of the dorm had been different.
"Of course," Draco replied, keeping his voice low. "The Slytherin common room is under the Black Lake, deep in the dungeons. I heard that you can see the water through the windows."
Harry had read about this, but reading was nothing like experiencing it.
The corridors became narrower, and the ceilings were now lower. The torches were replaced by lamps that burned with a soft green flame.
As they rounded a corner, Harry caught a glimpse of a figure standing in a shadowed alcove.
Professor Snape.
He was leaning against the wall, his dark robes blending into the darkness. His long black hair framed a pale, angular face, and his dark eyes watched the passing students with an expression of gentle curiosity.
The students greeted him, and he responded: "Welcome to Slytherin, everyone. If you ever need anything...advice, assistance, or simply someone to talk to, my office is always open."
The first-year students thanked him and walked by.
"He looks so kind, right?" Draco commented.
"He really does…" Harry felt there was something in his tone that seemed genuine, almost tender. After everything he had seen...the cold auror, the cruel Weasleys, the calculating McGonagall. Snape seemed almost nice in comparison.
'But this world is twisted,' Harry reminded himself. 'Nothing is what it seems.'
He did not see the way Snape's smile tightened after they passed, or the way his dark eyes glittered with something other than warmth.
The prefect led them down another corridor and stopped before a blank stretch of stone wall.
"Password?" A mysterious voice with no clear source was then heard by everyone present.
"Boomslang," the prefect said, glancing at the students for a moment. "Make sure to remember it, and don't share it with anyone outside of our house. We change it every month, and you will be notified by one of the other prefects."
The wall slid aside, revealing a passageway. The Slytherin common room lay beyond.
Harry stepped inside and became shocked when he saw the interior of the room.
It was a massive chamber carved from rough black stone. Green lamps hung from chains, casting a soft glow.
Through tall arched windows, Harry could see the dark water of the Black Lake pressing against the glass, with an occasional flash of silver as a fish swam by. The floor was covered in thick dark green carpets, and comfortable black leather sofas were arranged in clusters around low tables. A large fireplace dominated one wall; it was empty now, but ready for the colder nights ahead.
It was beautiful, elegant, and cosy.
"This is incredible," Harry murmured. "This is where we are going to be living?"
Draco nodded. "My father told me that the common room has not changed in nearly a thousand years. That is kind of the point… Slytherin values tradition."
As they walked further into the room, Harry noticed a large portrait hanging above the fireplace. It depicted a man with long grey hair and a short beard, dressed in robes of deep green. His eyes were kind but tired, and in his hands he held a staff with a carved snake entwined. A small brass plaque beneath the painting read: Salazar Slytherin, Founder of the House of Slytherin, Healer of the Great Plague of 1047.
Harry stopped. "That's Salazar Slytherin?"
Draco followed his gaze. "Yes. We have a painting of him in my house as well, but much smaller. My mother became a healer because she was inspired by him."
"He looks kind," Harry said carefully. "Not how I imagined him."
"Of course, he looks kind. Salazar Slytherin was a legendary healer," Draco said, his voice filled with pride. "He dedicated his life to saving others, Muggle and wizard alike. During the Great Plague of the eleventh century, he travelled from village to village, healing the sick when even the most skilled mediwizards had given up hope. He asked for nothing in return."
Harry glanced back at the portrait. The painted Slytherin seemed to be watching them with a gentle, knowing expression.
"Then why is the house symbol a snake?" Harry asked. "Snakes are… well, they have a reputation."
"I believe it's because of Asclepius," Draco explained. "The ancient Greek god of healing. His symbol was a staff with a serpent wrapped around it, like the one being carried by the founder in that painting. Snakes were sacred to him...they represented rebirth and renewal, and he also found many healing uses for their venom. Salazar chose the serpent as our emblem to honour them." He paused. "The current house of Slytherin is dedicated to those who are kind, who wish to use their magic to help others. Healers, teachers, protectors. That is what we are supposed to be."
Harry looked at the portrait in a new way now. He was a healer, a saviour. The complete opposite of the dark wizard he had read about in the books.
Of course, he thought. In this world, the villains are the heroes, and the heroes have been twisted into villains.
"Thank you for telling me," Harry said quietly.
Draco nodded. "There is a lot you don't know about our world, Harry. But you'll learn. I can help you with that."
The prefect led the students around the common room and down a corridor lined with doors. Each door had a small brass plaque engraved with names.
"First-year boys," she announced, stopping before one of the doors. "Your belongings have already been brought up. Find the room with your name, go inside, and settle in. Get some rest, because tomorrow you will start your classes."
She then left.
Harry found his room and pushed the door open.
"Whoa!" The bedroom was circular, with four-poster beds arranged around a central fireplace. The bed hangings were dark green velvet, and the blankets were silver. Each bed had a small nightstand and a trunk at the foot. Through a narrow window, Harry could see the murky green glow of the lake water.
Crabbe immediately claimed the bed nearest the window. He sat down heavily, pulled a thick book from his trunk, something titled A History of Magical Cuisine Through the Ages, and began to read.
Draco took the bed next to Harry's. Blaise Zabini chose the one by the door, moving with quiet grace as he unpacked his belongings.
Harry sat on his bed, running his hand over the soft blanket. For the first time all day, he felt something like peace.
"So," Draco said, breaking the silence, "we're roommates. That's… good."
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Good."
"I was worried," Draco admitted, his voice low. "When you stood up to Weasley on the train. I thought he might… I don't know. Do something during the sorting."
"He's a bully," Harry said. "Bullies back down when you stand up to them." He had learned that in a different life.
"Not Weasley," Blaise spoke for the first time. "Weasley doesn't back down. He waits, and then he strikes when you least expect it. You need to be careful around that one."
Harry looked at him. Blaise's light blue eyes were a deep contrast against his dark skin. His expression was unreadable, but he had an elegant presence in an aristocratic way. He carried himself with an air of quiet confidence.
"You know him?" Harry asked.
"I know of him," Blaise replied. "Everyone does. The Weasleys are the second most powerful wizard family in Britain, after Dumbledore's own. They don't forgive slights. And they don't forget."
"Great," Harry muttered.
Draco shifted uncomfortably. "Maybe we should talk about something else. Like… classes. What are you looking forward to, Harry?"
Harry thought about it. "Defence Against the Dark Arts, I think. Or Transfiguration. I want to learn how to defend myself."
"Charms for me," Draco said. "My father says Professor Flitwick is the number one expert in charms. If you impress him, many doors will open."
"Potions," Crabbe said, not looking up from his book. "Snape is a genius. And he's fair. He doesn't play favourites like the other professors."
Harry filed that information away. A fair Snape...that was certainly different.
"What about you, Blaise?" Harry asked.
Blaise shrugged. "I'm good at everything."
Draco snorted. "Modest, too."
"Modesty is for people who have something to hide," Blaise replied, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.
The conversation drifted to lighter topics, to their favourite subjects, the food at the feast, and the strange moving staircases. Harry found himself relaxing, laughing at Draco's dry jokes and Crabbe's rare, grunted observations.
But when the lights dimmed, and the others drifted off to sleep, Harry lay awake, staring at the dark water pressing against the window.
His mind would not stop spinning.
He thought about Dumbledore's cold disappointment. It was obvious that he wanted Harry in Gryffindor.
The most likely reason was that Dumbledore wanted to control him, to shape him into a loyal soldier, as his parents had been.
He may have escaped that fate, at least for now. But Dumbledore was not the kind of man who accepted defeat.
Another thing that concerned him was the scar.
Harry touched his forehead, tracing the faint lightning bolt shape with his fingertip. In the books, the scar was a curse mark, one containing a fragment of Voldemort's soul.
But in this world, that didn't seem like a possibility.
He lay there in the dim green glow, turning questions over in his mind like stones in a river.
The scar did not hurt...it did not burn or throb or give him visions. It was just a scar, a pale line of raised tissue on his skin. But it had to mean something. It had to come from somewhere.
If Voldemort did not exist in this world...or if he existed as something else entirely, then who had given him the scar? And why?. According to what his aunt Petunia said when he asked, Harry already had the scar when they found him at the door as a baby.
Harry thought about his parents. In the books, they had been murdered by Voldemort. But here, Petunia had said they died in "mysterious circumstances" while working for Dumbledore. Had they been killed in battle? Or had something else happened...something darker?.
And then there was the question of the "Boy Who Lived". In the original story, that title belonged to Harry because he survived the Killing Curse.
But if there was no Killing Curse, if Voldemort was not a Dark Lord, then what made Harry special? Was he even special at all?. So far, the only reason some people had taken note of him was because of his father, James Potter.
'Is there a prophecy?' he wondered. Is there a Dark Lord to defeat? Or is Dumbledore himself the true villain of this world?
He thought about Tom Riddle. Was he alive? Was he the same brilliant, tortured boy from the books...or something else entirely?.
Harry had so many questions, and so few answers.
He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and stared at the dark water pressing against the window.
'Tomorrow,' he told himself. 'Tomorrow, I start looking for answers.'
He closed his eyes.
Sleep came slowly, but it came. And when it did, his dreams were filled with cold eyes and silver badges, with red hair and green flames, with a scar that throbbed like a second heartbeat.
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