December 22, 1991 (Part 2)
The thing about parseltongue, I’d come to find out, is that it is a language that is near impossible to translate —and equally impossible to speak without the inherent trait given to the Slytherin descendants. Which is galling. The only reason I even knew what the stone was saying was due to the equally complicated coded note in old English.
Two books on old English to modern, three on charms meant to decrypt enchanted ink, and one on muggle codebreaking. All ordered discreetly through a letter sent to a shop off Knockturn Alley, and each was read a single time before then being burned with a thorough incendio.
All this work, simply due to luck and logic combined. A cold smile spread across my face at the thought. Pansy and Daphne were still looking at me as if I had given them their Yule gifts —the knowledge I had something a least tangentially related to Salazar Slytherin would be enough to keep them from trying to sniff out anything deeper. Millie simply looked disturbed.
“Well, you all know what happened when I found it.” I sighed with faux exasperation, “It’s such a droll story.”
Daphne, with her eyebrow arched, was doing a phenomenal job masking her interest. Pansy was making no such effort, releasing a high-pitched screech.
“Medea, I swear to Morgana, if you do not stop holding this story over our head, I will hex your brother into the new year.”
An undignified snort escaped me, and I looked over to Pansy, “What?”
“Well, I can’t very well hex you,” she stated bluntly, “You’re far too vengeful. But if I hex Draco, it’ll ruin your mood because he would throw an absolute fit if you tried anything in his defense. And while he excels at our charm work, he’s hardly as well-versed as you.”
I looked at Pansy, my face slack, before I felt a laugh bubble up, “You devious little wretch!”
Millie rolled her eyes, “All right, we get it. She’s your favorite dark witch. Can we get on with it?”
“Well,” I huffed, “Just the once. You all remember that delightful Samhain night?”
I let myself fall into the memory as they nodded.
-
Presumably, the golden troglodytes were off fighting a troll and gaining house points. Meanwhile, I was surrounded by half the first years in Slytherin —including, for once, Spektor. The tower was not as spacious as one would expect, as it required the house to be broken up into groups no more than ten due to the seating in each level. This meant Pucey and Flint were nowhere to be found on our floor –and we, as firsties, were forced to climb to the very top of the tower.
It was a bit much, to be honest, all of us surrounded by layers and layers of green brocade hiding the windows —and the occasional rude portrait— on the very day meant for merrymaking. So, when Spektor started chatting about some muggleborn Hufflepuff and throwing barbed comments, I felt justified in my response.
“Spektor,” I said as level as I could manage, “If you do not stop talking I will hex you into next term.”
“Medea—“
“Dorothea, you’ll bite your tongue before you call for me that way.” I snapped, it had been months of Spektor avoiding me and sliding out of my way. It was thinning my patience and with the power of Samhain coursing through my veins I wasn’t in the mood to play two-face.
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She snapped her mouth closed as Pansy and Daphne narrowed their eyes, seeking weakness no doubt. The boys were playing a game of exploding snap, fighting over some inane thought that flitted through their heads. Millie looked as if she could not care less about this, but still brought her head closer, whispering something to Spektor.
As blood filled the water, I chose to stand, “Whatever, I’m not going to sit here and listen to you imply I’m some extremist out to murder muggles or their spawn.”
Her pointed comments had actually also painted Daphne and Pansy in such a light as well, so I was certain my departure would open the floor for their own displeasure. In a move of utmost irritation, I flicked my wand. Then I settled across the tower in a plush chair that I sank into.
It was then that I began to hear a muffled voice from behind a thick curtain. At first, I ignored it. There was no purpose in conversing with most portraits —even the ones I'd commissioned for my room were repetitive on a good day. Plus, what if it caused a problem. That sounded oh so tedious. Thus, I sat steadfastly, twirling my wand and wondering just how poorly Spektor viewed me and why. Not that it really mattered, I was reasonably sure she was a first generation half-blood.
“Pssst, miss?” I whipped my head to the curtain, “Miss, oh please!”
With a huff, I stretched my arm out and slid open the curtain, “Yes?”
“Oh! My, what a beautiful girl! Surely you’ll help me!”
I narrowed my eyes and flattened my expression. This portrait could be anyone. Best not to make an event off the bat.
“Im trapped in this tower alongside you for tonight,” I faux-sighed, “What could I possibly do?”
“Tut tut!” The portrait, an old man with glassy eyes and green robes, cooed, “You can do a great deal! And I can do a deal for you in turn.”
That caused genuine interest to stir within me, “Oh, do tell Mr-“ I peered down at the portrait's frame looking for a nameplate. Once I located it, my eyebrows raised involuntarily, “Gaunt? Ominis Gaunt?”
“The very same —tell me, how would you like something of our house? Something unique.”
Ominis Gaunt. A distant relative of one Tom Riddle, son of Merope Gaunt. This ought to be good.
“Oh, very well. I’ll bite. What do you need?”
The portrait —Ominis— grinned, “Please, open me up. I’ve been stuck listening to this infernal sound for a century now!”
“Open?” I raised my wand, wondering if he meant to cut him open, only for the portrait to nod his head vigorously.
“Oh yes, simply slide me out —I’ve got the hinges for a reason.”
Mildly disappointed about being refused a good excuse for diffindo, I slid my wand back and felt around the portrait frame to get a good grip. Once my finger slid behind the frame and I tugged, I heard a light click, and the portrait opened ever so slightly. I glanced around to see if anyone was looking. They were all preoccupied, so I slid the curtain back over the portrait and snuck behind it, sliding the portrait open enough to see inside.
Behind Ominis was a parchment-wrapped lump. Well, it was a lump at first glance. Then came the hissing sounds. I felt a feral grin creep up my face as I reached for the mystery item. Looking at the packaging, I could make out that it was written in old English –unintelligible at first glance except for a single group of numbers: 1010 AD. Before picking it up, I tapped it lightly with my wand –just to be sure it wasn’t set to explode or any other such nonsense. It immediately stopped hissing. I tapped it again, and the sounds started up. I silenced the package once more and picked it up, pocketing it immediately.
It was a quick thing, then, to sneak back to my friends. I paid them no mind, though, too busy thinking about how tonight was the night Snape would be getting injured.
-
“That’s it?” Daphne was the first to speak, her tone insisting there must be more. Which, of course, there was. But life is hard for a dark witch, so I must keep some things to myself.
“That’s it,” I nodded, “And now I’ve got an artifact that Merlin only knows its purpose.”
It opens the chamber of secrets, I nearly laughed in my head. It says ‘Open Says Me, Snake.’
-
And then it was Yule.