Snape's gaze was dark, unsettled. As he stared at Marcus Flint hanging ignominiously from the rafters, it was as if he were staring into a twisted mirror of his own youth.
"Who taught you that magic, Ginny Weasley!"
He strode toward Elijah, his black robes billowing like the wings of a giant bat, looming over the girl with a predatory intensity.
The spell Elijah had used—the Levicorpus—was Snape's own invention. Though it had leaked years ago and briefly become a school-wide fad before fading into obscurity, Snape had never forgotten the humiliation of being hoisted by his own petard.
He had suspected a possession, perhaps a shadow of Voldemort acting through the girl, but the Dark Lord had never been one for such schoolyard tricks.
"Bill taught me," Elijah said immediately.
When in doubt, blame the eldest, most talented, Weasley. Bill was currently safely tucked away in an Egyptian pyramid, and his time at Hogwarts overlapped perfectly with the period when Snape's "leaked" spells were still circulating the corridors.
"Bill didn't teach me anything that useful!" Ron grumbled, his sense of fairness deeply offended. "I'm writing him a letter to complain."
Snape's eyes narrowed. He knew of William Weasley—the overachiever with twelve O.W.L.s. It was a plausible, if irritating, explanation. With no way to prove otherwise, he turned his venom elsewhere.
"Shut up!" Snape barked at Flint, who was still trying to regain his dignity. The boy had become the laughingstock of Slytherin in a single night.
Seeing Harry's stifled grin, Snape pivoted, his lip curling. "It seems some people believe that luck is a substitute for talent. Potter! Why aren't you facing your own opponent? Or do you think you can simply coast on the coattails of others?"
"Malfoy!" Snape snapped, gesturing forward.
Draco stepped out, casting a disdainful look at the fallen Flint before sneering at Harry. "I'll take you on, Potter."
The Hall dissolved into chaos as the rest of the students resumed their duels. While the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws maintained a modicum of civility, the Gryffindor-Slytherin matches quickly devolved into a riot of old grudges.
Fred and George went after the Slytherin Beaters; Wood was playing dirty; and several Slytherins attempted to ambush Elijah to avenge their House's honor.
Elijah was not feeling merciful. Ten minutes later, when Lockhart's shrill voice finally called for order, the ceiling of the Great Hall was decorated with a long row of dangling Slytherins, looking like green-clad sausages hung up to dry.
Snape was visibly trembling—whether from the cold draft or pure, unadulterated fury was unclear.
He wordlessly cast a wide-range counter-spell.
Malfoy (who was nursing a face full of pimples) sighed, Harry (whose feet were still twitching in a Dancing Feet Spell), and the batch of air-dried 'snake strips' from the roof.
"Oh dear, oh dear," Lockhart chirped, hopping through the wreckage of his club. "Watch out there, McMillan... squeeze the bridge of your nose, Boot, the blood will stop..."
Lockhart looked as though he had seen a ghost. His eyes were unfocused, his mind clearly racing through a litany of regrets. He had agreed to Dumbledore's request for the fame, not the reality of managing a room full of armed, angry teenagers.
Finally, Lockhart stood in the center of the hall, avoiding Snape's cold, black stare. "I think... perhaps I should teach you how to block unfriendly magic. Volunteers, please? Longbottom and Finch-Fletchley?"
"A poor choice, Professor Lockhart," Snape said, gliding onto the stage. "Longbottom causes devastation with the simplest charms. We'd be sending Finch-Fletchley back to the dormitory in a matchbox."
Neville turned a vibrant scarlet. Snape's gaze swept over the crowd, lingering on Elijah with a look of profound suspicion before settling on Harry. He clearly wanted Harry to fail publicly, but a directive from Dumbledore held his hand. Instead, his snake-like eyes returned to Elijah.
"How about Ginny Weasley and Marcus Flint as volunteers?" Snape suggested softly.
"Now, Severus," Lockhart faltered, "the girl is only a first-year..."
"She is quite excellent," Snape said, his voice dropping to a dangerous silk. "And I think we can show a little leniency to the loser this time, can't we?"
The killing intent in Snape's eyes left Lockhart no room to argue. He pulled Elijah aside, his hands shaking. "Now, Ginny, when he points his wand at you, do this—" He waved his wand in a series of frantic, nonsensical loops before dropping it on the floor.
"If you have no actual advice, get out of the way," Elijah said, pushing past him.
On the other side of the stage, Snape had cornered Flint. He grabbed the boy's shoulder like a pouncing hawk. "I am giving you one last chance, Flint," Snape hissed. "I will teach you a spell. Do not fail me again."
Flint swaggered back onto the platform, though his bravado was paper-thin. He was a sixth-year facing an eleven-year-old, yet he was the one sweating.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson this time!" Flint growled.
"I hope so," Elijah replied, twirling his wand with bored indifference. "Slytherin's reputation is already tragic enough. I'll even give you a head start."
Flint lunged as soon as Lockhart yelled "Begin." He screamed "Stupefy!" but Elijah merely tilted his head, letting the red bolt whistle past.
For several minutes, Elijah simply moved. He dodged, parried, and stepped aside with a grace that made the duel look like a choreographed dance. To the audience, it looked like "Ginny" was barely clinging to life; to Snape, it was a terrifying display of effortless mastery.
"You're boring me, Mr. Flint," Elijah sighed.
He flicked his wrist, shattering Flint's next curse in mid-air. The older boy froze. The aggressive momentum he'd built evaporated instantly.
"How many times can you block, Flint?" Elijah mocked, raising his wand.
"Protego!" Flint screamed, bracing himself.
The collision of Elijah's spell and Flint's shield shook the stage with a muffled thump. Flint swayed, his hands numb, but he was still standing.
"Use the spell I taught you!" Snape hissed from the sidelines.
Flint shuddered, his fear of Snape finally outweighing his fear of the girl. He pointed his wand at the floor between them.
"Serpensortia!"
The end of his wand exploded. A long, black snake hit the stage, coiling instantly, its fangs bared and hissing. The students in the front row scrambled back in terror.
"Is that it?" Elijah chuckled. The snake was tiny compared to the horrors he remembered. "It's almost cute."
Flint, seeing his last resort laughed at, turned his wand on the snake itself. "Engorgio!"
The snake didn't just grow; it swelled like a balloon. Its head rose toward the rafters, and its massive tail swept across the stage, knocking Flint unconscious with a single blow.
The Hall descended into a screaming riot. Snape went pale—not of the snake, which he knew he could kill, but of the potential massacre of students.
"CALM DOWN!" Snape's voice, magically amplified, boomed through the room.
"Ginny, run!" Ron yelled, but he was caught in the tide of fleeing students.
Harry, seeing the giant serpent looming over "Ginny," turned to a panicked Hermione. "Levitate me! Send me over to her!"
Hermione, too frazzled to argue, cast the charm. Harry soared through the air and crashed onto the stage between Elijah and the serpent.
"Harry, you don't need to—" Elijah began.
But Harry had already turned to the snake. His face was twisted in concentration, and from his throat came a low, rasping, sibilant hiss.
The Great Hall fell into a silence more profound than any spell. The giant snake instantly stilled, lowering its head to Harry's chest with dog-like devotion. Harry reached out, almost subconsciously, and stroked its scales.
"It's alright, Ginny," Harry said, turning around with a relieved smile.
He found a thousand people staring at him with looks of absolute horror.
Elijah didn't wait for the reaction. He grabbed Harry's wrist and jumped off the stage. "Don't talk. We're leaving."
Ron and Hermione joined them, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea, shrinking away from Harry as if he were the monster itself. They didn't stop until they reached the safety of the empty Gryffindor common room.
"You're a Parselmouth," Ron said, his voice faint. "Why didn't you tell us?"
"I'm a what?" Harry asked, bewildered.
"You can talk to snakes, Harry," Elijah said, playing the part of the shocked witness.
Harry tried to explain—the zoo, the boa constrictor, the accidental magic. "I thought lots of people could do it!"
"No, Harry," Elijah said, shaking his head. "Hardly anyone can. And it's considered... dark."
"But I saved you!" Harry argued. "I told it to back off!"
"That's not what it sounded like to them," Elijah said gently. "In Parseltongue, you sounded like you were egging it on. It was chilling."
Harry slumped into a chair. "I didn't even know I was speaking another language. But this is the Wizarding world with all sorts of bizar things, I'm sure it doesn't—"
"It matters," Hermione whispered, her face grim. "Because Salazar Slytherin was famous for it. It's why their symbol is a snake."
"Exactly," Elijah added, watching the realization sink into Harry's eyes. "Now, the whole school is going to think you're the Heir of Slytherin. They'll think you're the one who opened the Chamber."
"But I'm not!" Harry cried.
"Rumors," Elijah said, his voice low and ominous, "don't care about the truth."