# ZSL London Zoo – The Secret Life of Reptiles and Amphibians – 2:30 PM
The reptile house at London Zoo possessed that particular quality of controlled wildness that made civilized people remember they were merely clever apes who'd learned to wear clothes and pay taxes. Thick glass barriers separated visitors from creatures that had perfected the art of patient violence over millions of years, while carefully controlled lighting created an atmosphere that was equal parts educational facility and gothic nightmare.
Harry Potter pressed his face against the glass of the Boa Constrictor exhibit with the sort of focused fascination that suggested he'd found something infinitely more interesting than the educational placard describing feeding habits and natural habitat. The snake—a magnificent specimen nearly twelve feet long and thick as Harry's torso—lay coiled in perfect geometric spirals beneath a heat lamp, its scales catching the artificial sunlight like polished leather armor.
Behind him, the familiar voices of his extended family provided a comfortable backdrop of domestic normalcy. Sirius was explaining something to Susan about the difference between venomous and poisonous creatures with the sort of pedantic enthusiasm that suggested he'd been waiting years for someone to ask that specific question. Amelia was reading exhibit information with the methodical thoroughness of someone whose professional life required attention to detail, while Susan peppered both adults with the sort of pointed questions that made museum visits educational rather than merely entertaining.
But Harry's attention was entirely focused on the snake, which had begun to show signs of awareness that extended beyond simple reptilian interest in potential prey or predators.
The snake's head turned toward him with deliberate precision, dark eyes fixing on his face with unmistakable intelligence. For a moment, they simply regarded each other through the glass barrier—boy and serpent, separated by species and evolution but somehow connected by something Harry couldn't quite identify.
Then, without conscious thought or deliberate decision, Harry found himself speaking.
"Hello," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're beautiful."
What happened next would have sent most rational people screaming toward the nearest exit or possibly directly to the nearest psychiatric facility for immediate evaluation.
The snake responded.
Not with movement or gesture or the sort of anthropomorphized behavior that allowed humans to pretend animals were communicating when they were simply being animals. The snake actually, genuinely, undeniably spoke back—not in English, not in any human language, but in something that Harry understood as clearly as if it had been his mother tongue.
*"Young human speaks the old tongue,"* came the voice—not heard with his ears, but understood directly in his mind, carrying inflections of surprise and ancient recognition. *"Rare gift. Dangerous gift. Why do you possess what you should not possess?"*
Harry's entire world tilted sideways as he processed what was happening. The rational part of his mind—the part that had been trained by years of scientific methodology and systematic observation—insisted that he was experiencing some sort of psychological break or elaborate hallucination brought on by stress and too much exposure to consulting detective methodology.
The rest of him, however, found himself responding with startling naturalness.
*"I don't know,"* he replied, the strange language flowing from him with the sort of unconscious ease that suggested muscle memory rather than conscious effort. *"I didn't know I could do this until just now. Is it... is it normal? This talking?"*
The snake's response carried unmistakable amusement, tinged with something that might have been concern or possibly warning.
*"Normal for the descendants of the ancient bloodlines. Normal for those who carry the mark of the serpent lord. Not normal for young humans with green eyes and innocence that tastes like sunshine. You should not possess this gift, small speaker. Your essence carries no trace of the darkness required."*
*"Darkness?"* Harry leaned closer to the glass, unconsciously lowering his voice even though the conversation was taking place entirely within his mind. *"What sort of darkness?"*
*"The kind that turns love into weapon, loyalty into chains, protection into prison. The kind that speaks to serpents because it recognizes kinship with creatures that kill without conscience or regret. You taste of neither shadow nor poison, young speaker. Yet you speak the old tongue as if born to it."*
Harry felt something cold settle in his stomach, a creeping unease that had nothing to do with the reptile house's carefully controlled temperature. *"Who else can do this? Who else speaks... what you call the old tongue?"*
*"Few, in these modern times. The bloodline weakened, scattered, nearly extinct. The last great speaker died by his own reflected curse, they say, though serpents remember longer than humans. He who commanded our cousins, who bent our will to his purpose. He who spoke to us not with respect but with dominion."*
The snake's mental voice grew darker, carrying undertones of ancient memory and instinctive revulsion.
*"Dark Lord, the humans called him. We knew him by different names, older names. Names that tasted of death and winter and the kind of hunger that devours everything it touches."*
Harry's blood turned to ice water in his veins. Even without context, even without full understanding, the implication was clear enough to terrify him.
*"Voldemort,"* he whispered, the name emerging in both English and the strange serpent language simultaneously.
The snake recoiled as if struck, its entire body contracting into defensive coils.
*"You know that name. You speak that name in both tongues. How do you know that name, small speaker? How do you carry knowledge of the serpent lord while maintaining innocence that burns like clean flame?"*
Before Harry could form a response to this increasingly disturbing line of inquiry, he became aware that the general ambient noise of the reptile house had grown significantly quieter around him. The sort of quiet that suggested people had stopped their normal activities to pay attention to something unexpected.
He turned slowly, dreading what he might find.
Sirius, Amelia, and Susan stood in a loose semicircle behind him, their faces carrying identical expressions of shock so profound it bordered on horror. They had clearly positioned themselves to shield his conversation from casual observation by other museum visitors, but their own expressions suggested they'd witnessed something that had fundamentally altered their understanding of reality.
The silence stretched between them like a taut wire, heavy with implications that none of them were quite ready to address.
Finally, Sirius cleared his throat with the sort of careful precision that suggested he was trying very hard to maintain normal vocal function despite circumstances that were anything but normal.
"Harry," he said quietly, his voice carrying the particular quality of someone asking questions they desperately hoped would receive reassuring answers, "how long have you been able to talk to snakes?"
Harry looked between them, taking in their expressions of shock and growing concern, and realized that whatever he'd just experienced was significantly more serious than a simple childhood discovery of an unusual talent.
"I... I haven't been," he managed, his voice sounding strange and distant to his own ears. "I mean, I didn't know I could. This is the first time. I just... I just started talking to it, and it talked back, and I could understand what it was saying."
Susan stepped closer, her young face carrying the sort of analytical intensity that suggested she was applying every piece of information she'd ever absorbed about unusual circumstances to this particular situation.
"What did it tell you?" she asked with clinical directness that would have made her aunt proud.
Harry hesitated, unsure how much of the conversation he should share, particularly the parts about darkness and serpent lords and the deeply unsettling connection to Voldemort that the snake had seemed to recognize immediately.
"It... it said that speaking to snakes was normal for certain bloodlines. Old bloodlines. And that I shouldn't be able to do it because I don't... because I don't carry the right kind of darkness."
Amelia's expression grew sharp with professional concern, her training in intelligence analysis clearly engaged with whatever implications she was drawing from this information.
"Parseltongue," she said with quiet authority. "The ability is called Parseltongue. It's extraordinarily rare, and historically associated with..." She paused, clearly weighing how much information was appropriate to share in present circumstances.
"Associated with what?" Harry asked, though part of him already suspected the answer would be deeply unpleasant.
Sirius ran a hand through his dark hair, a gesture that suggested he was grappling with information he'd hoped never to have to explain to his godson.
"Harry," he said carefully, "Parseltongue is an ability that's been traced almost exclusively to descendants of Salazar Slytherin. One of the four founders of Hogwarts, but also... well, let's just say his views on blood purity and magical supremacy weren't particularly enlightened, even by medieval standards."
"The Potter family has no connection to the Slytherin line," Amelia added with the sort of definitiveness that suggested extensive genealogical research. "James's family tree has been thoroughly documented for centuries. No trace of Slytherin blood anywhere in the lineage."
Susan looked between them with growing understanding and alarm. "So if Harry can speak Parseltongue, but he's not descended from Slytherin, then how...?"
"The last known Parselmouth," Sirius said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of terrible revelation, "was Voldemort himself. He used the ability as proof of his connection to Slytherin, as justification for his claims to magical superiority."
The implications of this statement hit Harry like a physical blow. He staggered slightly, his back pressing against the snake exhibit's glass barrier as his mind struggled to process what he was being told.
"You're saying that I have an ability that only Voldemort's bloodline should possess," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "An ability that I shouldn't have, that I can't have, unless..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. The possibilities were too terrible to voice.
Amelia stepped forward with the sort of calm authority that suggested years of experience managing crisis situations that required both immediate action and careful consideration of long-term implications.
"Harry, listen to me carefully," she said with gentle firmness. "There could be any number of explanations for this. Magical abilities sometimes manifest in unexpected ways, particularly in children who've survived traumatic magical experiences. Your encounter with Voldemort when you were fifteen months old was unprecedented—no one fully understands all the potential consequences."
"But it's not normal," Harry said with devastating clarity. "Whatever this is, whatever's happening to me, it's not normal. And if it's connected to Voldemort somehow..."
Sirius moved closer, his expression growing fierce with protective determination.
"Whatever it is, whatever's causing this, we're going to figure it out," he said with absolute conviction. "And we're going to make sure you're safe while we do it."
"Who would know?" Susan asked with practical directness. "Who would understand enough about Parseltongue and magical bloodlines and... and whatever happened to Harry when he was a baby to actually help us figure this out?"
Sirius and Amelia exchanged a look that carried layers of silent communication, clearly weighing options and probabilities with the sort of rapid efficiency that came from years of professional collaboration.
"Andromeda," they said simultaneously.
"My cousin," Sirius explained to Harry, his voice growing warmer with familial affection despite the gravity of their situation. "She's a Healer at St. Mungo's—one of the best diagnosticians in magical medicine. If anyone can determine what's causing your Parseltongue ability and whether it represents any sort of danger to your health or wellbeing, it's her."
"We need to see her immediately," Amelia said with the sort of crisp authority that suggested the situation had just been classified as requiring emergency response protocols. "This isn't something we can investigate at leisure or treat as merely curious family trivia."
Harry looked back at the snake exhibit, where the boa constrictor was still watching him with obvious intelligence and what might have been concern.
*"Dangerous gift, small speaker,"* came the serpent's voice in his mind, carrying undertones of ancient warning. *"Seek wise counsel. The old tongues carry old curses, old debts, old shadows that follow their speakers into places where sunlight fails."*
Harry nodded slightly, acknowledging the warning even as he realized that the casual family outing to the zoo had just transformed into something approaching a medical emergency with potentially magical implications that none of them fully understood.
"Right then," he said quietly, straightening his shoulders with the sort of determined resolution that would have made his parents proud. "Let's go see Aunt Andromeda."
As they began moving toward the exit, Susan fell into step beside him with the sort of quiet companionship that suggested she understood the gravity of what they were dealing with even if she couldn't fully comprehend all the implications.
"Harry?" she said softly.
"Yeah?"
"Whatever this is, whatever it means—you're still you. You're still our Harry. And we're not going to let anything bad happen to you."
Harry managed a smile that was only slightly forced. "Thanks, Susan. Though I have to admit, discovering you can talk to snakes doesn't exactly rank among my top ten hopes for weekend family activities."
"Could be worse," she pointed out with the sort of practical optimism that ran in her family. "You could have discovered you can only communicate with pigeons. Much less useful in emergency situations, and significantly more embarrassing in social contexts."
Despite everything, Harry found himself laughing—a genuine sound that helped dispel some of the creeping dread that had been building since his conversation with the boa constrictor.
Behind them, as they left the reptile house, the snake watched their departure with ancient eyes that had seen the rise and fall of civilizations, the birth and death of magical bloodlines, and the terrible weight of gifts that came with prices their bearers were never prepared to pay.
*"Safe travels, small speaker,"* it whispered to the empty air. *"May your innocence prove stronger than the shadows that follow in your wake."*
The reptile house returned to its normal complement of school children and weekend tourists, none of whom realized they had just witnessed the first manifestation of an ability that would either save or doom the boy who bore it.
---
# St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries – Emergency Diagnostic Wing – 4:45 PM
The emergency Floo arrival area at St. Mungo's possessed the sort of controlled chaos that characterized all major medical facilities, with the added complexity of accommodating patients whose conditions might involve temporary transformation into animals, unexpected levitation, or spontaneous combustion. Healers in lime-green robes moved with practiced efficiency between treatment areas, their movements suggesting years of experience dealing with magical ailments that would have sent ordinary doctors screaming into early retirement.
Andromeda Tonks emerged from Consultation Room Seven with the brisk professionalism of someone who'd just finished explaining to a family of wizards why their teenager's attempt to brew a love potion had resulted in him developing a temporary beak and feathers instead of enhanced romantic appeal. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun that emphasized the aristocratic bone structure she shared with Sirius, though her expression carried the practical warmth of someone who'd chosen healing over the Black family's traditional pursuits of political manipulation and casual cruelty.
At forty-one, she possessed the sort of understated competence that made both patients and colleagues trust her judgment implicitly. Her Healer's robes were perfectly pressed despite having been worn through a twelve-hour shift, and her movements carried the controlled energy of someone who understood that medical emergencies didn't improve with delayed response times.
"Mrs. Tonks," came a voice from the reception area, carrying that particular note of barely controlled panic that suggested family members dealing with circumstances well outside their normal experience, "we've brought Harry Potter for emergency consultation. Sirius Black sent a message ahead—you should be expecting us."
Andromeda looked up to see her brother approaching with obvious urgency, flanked by a woman whose bearing suggested either military training or law enforcement experience, and two children—one clearly her niece Susan, the other a dark-haired boy whose emerald eyes and lightning-shaped scar immediately identified him despite the years since she'd last seen him.
"Harry," she said with immediate warmth, though her professional instincts were already cataloguing his appearance for signs of obvious distress or physical symptoms. "You've grown enormously since the last time I saw you. Though I have to say, I'd rather be seeing you under more pleasant circumstances."
Harry managed a wan smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Hello, Aunt Andromeda. Sorry to barge in on your work day with whatever this is."
"Nonsense. Family medical emergencies take priority over routine appointments, and Sirius wouldn't have requested emergency consultation unless the situation warranted immediate professional attention."
She gestured them toward a private consultation room with the sort of efficient authority that made compliance seem both natural and urgent. "Now, what exactly has happened that requires my immediate expertise in magical diagnostics?"
As they settled into the comfortable chairs arranged around a desk that managed to look both professional and welcoming, Sirius took a deep breath and launched into an explanation that would have sounded completely insane to anyone unfamiliar with the peculiarities of magical medical practice.
"Harry's developed Parseltongue," he said without preamble, clearly preferring directness over diplomatic circumvention. "This afternoon, at the zoo. First time it's ever manifested, as far as we know. Complete conversation with a boa constrictor, full comprehension of responses, the works."
Andromeda's eyebrows rose sharply, her expression shifting from routine professional concern to focused alarm. "Parseltongue? Are you absolutely certain? Not just imaginative play or coincidental animal behavior that seemed responsive?"
"Completely certain," Amelia confirmed with the sort of definitiveness that came from years of evaluating evidence and testimony. "Susan and I both witnessed the entire interaction. Harry was clearly communicating with the snake in a language none of us recognized, and the snake was responding with obvious intelligence and purpose."
"The conversation lasted several minutes," Susan added with clinical precision. "Harry was asking questions and receiving answers that seemed to surprise him, so it wasn't just him projecting meaning onto normal animal behavior."
Andromeda leaned forward, her professional attention fully engaged by information that clearly fell well outside the range of normal pediatric magical medicine.
"Harry, I need you to tell me exactly what you remember about the conversation. Every detail, no matter how strange or potentially meaningless it might seem. Parseltongue manifestation in someone with no known Slytherin ancestry could indicate several different underlying conditions, some of which require immediate intervention."
Harry took a careful breath, clearly organizing his thoughts before beginning what he suspected would be a deeply unsettling recitation.
"The snake said that speaking to serpents was normal for descendants of ancient bloodlines, but that I shouldn't be able to do it because I don't carry the right kind of darkness. It asked me why I possessed what I shouldn't possess."
Andromeda's expression grew increasingly grave as she listened, her fingers moving across parchment with practiced efficiency as she took notes in the sort of medical shorthand that allowed Healers to document complex symptoms without losing crucial details.
"It also said that the last great speaker died by his own reflected curse," Harry continued, his voice growing quieter as he reached the more disturbing portions of the conversation. "It referred to someone called the Dark Lord, someone who commanded snakes and spoke to them with dominion rather than respect."
"Voldemort," Andromeda said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of terrible understanding.
"When I said that name, the snake recoiled like I'd struck it. It asked how I could know that name while still carrying what it called innocence that burns like clean flame."
The silence that followed was heavy with implications that none of them wanted to examine too closely.
Finally, Andromeda set down her quill and fixed Harry with the sort of direct gaze that suggested she was about to deliver information he probably didn't want to hear but absolutely needed to understand.
"Harry, under normal circumstances, Parseltongue is an inherited ability that's been traced almost exclusively to descendants of Salazar Slytherin's bloodline. It's extraordinarily rare, and in the past several centuries, it's been associated primarily with Dark wizards who used the ability as justification for claims of magical superiority."
"But Harry's not descended from Slytherin," Sirius interjected with protective urgency. "The Potter genealogy has been thoroughly documented. There's no trace of that bloodline anywhere in James's family history."
"Which means," Andromeda continued with clinical precision, "that Harry's Parseltongue ability is being caused by something other than genetic inheritance. Given his unique magical history, there are several possibilities we need to investigate immediately."
She turned to a cabinet behind her desk, withdrawing what appeared to be a collection of specialized diagnostic instruments that looked like they'd been designed by someone who understood that magical medicine required equipment capable of detecting things that normal medical science couldn't begin to comprehend.
"The most likely explanation," she said as she began arranging the instruments with practiced efficiency, "is that Harry's encounter with Voldemort when he was fifteen months old created some sort of magical connection between them. A connection that might have transferred certain abilities or characteristics that wouldn't normally be present in his magical signature."
Harry felt his stomach drop toward his shoes. "You're saying that I have part of Voldemort inside me somehow?"
"I'm saying that we need to conduct a thorough magical diagnostic to determine exactly what's causing your Parseltongue ability and whether it represents any danger to your health or wellbeing," Andromeda replied with the sort of gentle firmness that suggested she understood how terrifying this possibility was but couldn't afford to sugar-coat the medical reality they were dealing with.
She lifted what appeared to be a crystal pendant suspended on a delicate chain, its surface refracting light in patterns that seemed to move with their own internal logic.
"This is a soul resonance detector," she explained as she approached Harry's chair. "It can identify foreign magical signatures or displaced magical energy that shouldn't be present in a person's natural magical aura. It's completely painless, but it will tell us definitively whether your Parseltongue ability is being caused by external magical influence."
Harry looked toward Sirius, who nodded encouragingly despite the obvious worry in his gray eyes.
"Will it hurt?" Harry asked, hating that his voice sounded younger and more frightened than he'd intended.
"Not at all," Andromeda assured him with maternal gentleness. "You'll feel a slight warming sensation, possibly some tingling, but nothing more than that. Think of it as having your magical temperature taken."
She suspended the crystal pendant over Harry's chest, holding it approximately six inches away from his body. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the crystal began to emit a soft blue light that pulsed in rhythm with Harry's heartbeat.
The light grew brighter, shifting from blue to violet to a deep, rich purple that seemed to carry its own weight and substance. But as they watched, something else began to appear within the crystal's glow—threads of sickly green light that moved with predatory purpose, writhing through the purple illumination like parasites swimming through healthy tissue.
Andromeda's sharp intake of breath was audible throughout the room.
"Dear God," she whispered, her voice carrying the sort of horror that came from witnessing something that existed well outside the normal parameters of magical medicine.
The green threads pulsed with malevolent energy, forming patterns that seemed almost serpentine in their movement. As they watched in growing alarm, the parasitic light began to coalesce near Harry's forehead, concentrating around the area where his lightning-shaped scar was visible beneath his dark hair.
"What is it?" Sirius demanded, his voice sharp with protective fury and barely controlled panic. "What's that green light? What's wrong with him?"
Andromeda lowered the crystal with hands that were not entirely steady, her professional composure warring with obvious horror at what she'd just witnessed.
"There's a soul fragment," she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of a diagnosis that would fundamentally alter everything they thought they understood about Harry's magical nature. "A piece of someone else's soul, attached to Harry's magical core. Parasitic. Malevolent. Actively drawing energy from his natural magical signature."
"Whose soul?" Amelia asked, though her tone suggested she already suspected the answer.
"Based on the magical signature patterns and the connection to Parseltongue ability..." Andromeda paused, clearly struggling with the implications of what she was about to reveal. "Voldemort. There's a fragment of Voldemort's soul lodged in Harry's scar, probably since the night he survived the Killing Curse."
The silence that followed was so complete that even the background sounds of the busy hospital seemed to fade into insignificance.
Harry stared at his aunt with an expression of dawning horror, his young mind struggling to process the full implications of what he'd just learned.
"I have part of Voldemort's soul inside my head," he said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's why I can talk to snakes. That's why the boa constrictor said I carried something I shouldn't possess. I'm carrying part of the most evil wizard who ever lived."
"Harry—" Sirius began, reaching toward him with obvious protective intent.
"No," Harry said sharply, pulling away from physical contact with something approaching panic. "Don't touch me. If I have part of his soul inside me, if I'm connected to him somehow, then I'm dangerous. I'm contaminated. I could hurt people without meaning to, I could—"
"Harry James Potter," Andromeda interrupted with the sort of maternal authority that cut through panic like a blade through silk, "you listen to me right now. Yes, there's a soul fragment attached to your magical signature. Yes, it's causing your Parseltongue ability and possibly other magical effects we haven't yet identified. But that foreign presence doesn't define you, doesn't control you, and most importantly, doesn't make you evil or dangerous to the people who love you."
She moved closer, her healer's instincts engaged with the sort of crisis that required both medical expertise and psychological support.
"You're still Harry Potter," she continued with gentle firmness. "You're still the brave, intelligent, fundamentally decent boy who's been raised by people who love him and who's learned to distinguish between right and wrong through his own moral development. A parasitic magical fragment can't change that, no matter how malevolent its source."
"But what if it influences my behavior?" Harry asked desperately. "What if it makes me want to hurt people, or makes me enjoy violence, or turns me into something like him?"
"Then we'll deal with that if and when it happens," Sirius said firmly, moving to crouch beside Harry's chair so they were at eye level. "But Harry, you've been living with this thing for ten years without becoming evil or dangerous. You've been making moral choices based on your own character, not on whatever poison that fragment might be whispering. That suggests your own soul is strong enough to resist whatever influence it might be exerting."
"Is there a way to remove it?" Susan asked with practical directness, looking between the adults with obvious concern for her friend's wellbeing.
Andromeda was quiet for a long moment, clearly weighing medical possibilities against the realities of what they were dealing with.
"Soul magic is extraordinarily complex and dangerous," she said finally. "Attempting to remove a soul fragment that's been integrated with someone's magical core for ten years could cause irreparable damage to the host's own soul, particularly if the removal is handled improperly."
"But it's possible?" Amelia pressed.
"Theoretically, yes. But it would require consultation with specialists in soul magic, extensive research into the specific type of attachment we're dealing with, and careful consideration of all the potential consequences. This isn't the sort of procedure that can be attempted lightly or without comprehensive understanding of exactly what we're trying to accomplish."
Harry leaned back in his chair, his mind reeling with the implications of what he'd learned. Part of him—the part that had been trained by Sherlock Holmes to approach complex problems with systematic analysis—was already beginning to catalogue questions and potential solutions. But the larger part of him, the part that was still ten years old despite his precocious intellectual development, was simply trying to process the terrifying reality that he'd been carrying part of his parents' murderer inside his own head for his entire conscious life.
"What do we do now?" he asked quietly.
"Now," Andromeda said with the sort of determined professionalism that suggested she was already formulating treatment plans and consulting schedules, "we arrange for comprehensive consultation with St. Mungo's specialists in curse damage and soul magic. We document everything we've discovered today, and we begin developing a long-term plan for monitoring your condition and exploring options for eventual removal of the fragment."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, you continue living your life exactly as you have been," she said with gentle authority. "You go home, you do your schoolwork, you spend time with your family, and you remember that discovering you have this condition doesn't change who you are or how much you're loved by the people who care about you."
She stood and moved toward her desk, already beginning to organize the paperwork that would be required for what was undoubtedly going to be a complex and ongoing medical case.
"I'll contact Professor Dumbledore and arrange for a consultation with the specialists at the hospital who deal with curse damage and dark magic contamination. I'll also speak with the researchers who've been studying the long-term effects of Dark Arts exposure, particularly in children."
"How long will that take?" Sirius asked.
"Several days to arrange the initial consultations, possibly weeks or months to develop a comprehensive treatment plan. Soul magic doesn't follow the same timelines as normal medical procedures."
Harry nodded, feeling oddly relieved despite the gravity of what they'd discovered. At least now they knew what was wrong with him, and they had a path forward that didn't involve ignoring the problem or hoping it would resolve itself.
"Aunt Andromeda?" he said as they prepared to leave.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Thank you. For taking this seriously, and for not treating me like I'm dangerous or contaminated or something to be frightened of."
Andromeda's expression softened into genuine maternal warmth. "Harry, you're family. You're also one of the bravest, most fundamentally decent children I've ever met. A parasitic soul fragment can't change that, no matter what sort of abilities it might give you or what sort of unpleasant associations those abilities might carry."
As they gathered themselves to leave St. Mungo's, Harry found himself thinking about the boa constrictor's warning about dangerous gifts and old shadows that followed their speakers into places where sunlight failed.
He was beginning to understand that some gifts came with prices their bearers never chose to pay, and that sometimes the most important battles were fought not against external enemies but against the darker possibilities that lived within oneself.
But for now, surrounded by people who loved him and supported by medical professionals who understood the complexities of what he was dealing with, he felt something approaching hope that this revelation wouldn't destroy everything good in his carefully constructed life.
After all, he'd been Harry Potter—consulting detective in training, beloved godson, cherished family member—for ten years while carrying this burden without knowing it existed.
Perhaps he could continue being exactly who he'd always been, regardless of what unwelcome passenger his soul was carrying along for the journey.
---
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