Harry Potter and the Dovahkiin-Chapter 129: Parseltongue and Paper Cuts

It had been a few days since his chat with Dumbledore. Predictably, there'd been no update on the whereabouts of the Gaunt ring. Not that Ben was in a rush. He wasn't exactly dying to find out what would happen if he got his hands on another Hallow.

He might even let Dumbledore hang on to the Resurrection Stone for a bit. The old man already had the strongest one, after all. No point being greedy.

Meanwhile, school life had... settled. Slightly.

The stares had dwindled to a manageable number. Whispers still followed him down corridors, but they'd shifted in tone — less "Is he dangerous?", more "Do you think he'd hex me if I asked him out?".

Some of the Slytherin girls had winked at him between classes. Apparently, being a plausible dark lord was an attractive quality in some circles.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was its usual mess — toast flying, teacups clinking, and someone in fifth year loudly debating the ethics of using Cheering Charms before exams.

Ben calmly buttered a scone, flipped open the day's Daily Prophet, and came face to face with himself.

In badly-drawn ink. Again.

Parseltongue Protegé? Hero of the Chamber Revealed to Share Dark Lord's Tongue.

Ben rolled his eyes so hard it might've counted as a spell. Who else but Rita Skeeter? It had her perfume all over it — overly sweet, rotting underneath.

While Hogwarts celebrates young Benedict Brown for his heroic actions during the Chamber incident, sources inside the school reveal a concerning detail: the boy is a Parselmouth — a rare gift linked most famously with Salazar Slytherin himself. Should we be praising the serpent's heir, or questioning the true origin of the danger?

"That's flattering," he said aloud. "Didn't think I had the jawline for dark lord speculation."

Marianne leaned over from across the table. "Are you seriously in the paper again?"

"Unfortunately." He pushed it toward her. "They're calling me the Heir of Slytherin now. Bit of a career shift, but I hear the hours are flexible."

Owen frowned down at the article. "Isn't that slander?"

"Technically not," Ben replied. "Apparently, it's just 'concerning speculation from credible sources'." He held up air quotes. "Very legal. Very respectable."

"Still think you should punch Rita Skeeter in the teeth," Tobias muttered through his porridge.

Ben grinned. "You say that like I haven't considered it."

Just as Marianne started reading aloud the more ridiculous bits, a dreamy voice chimed in from a little further down the table.

"I wouldn't worry too much," said Luna Lovegood, holding up The Quibbler at just the right angle to catch the light — and every eye nearby. "The Daily Prophet's been infiltrated by Blibbering Humdingers for years. It's very hard for them to write truthful headlines when their brains are full of static."

Ben blinked, impressed. "That... explains a lot, actually." He squinted at her magazine. "Are you holding that up as a shield, or just advertising?"

Luna smiled serenely. "A bit of both. Daddy says we're printing a special edition next week. 'Heir of Slytherin or Victim of Whispering Wrackspurts?'" She tilted her head at Ben. "Would you like to give a quote?"

"Finally," Ben said. "A paper brave enough to say what I've been thinking: my brain is, in fact, riddled with invisible bugs. Do I at least get a better portrait artist?"

Luna beamed. "Of course. I do all the portraits for The Quibbler. We'll send you a copy."

Ben sighed at his fate. He'd probably end up with horns. Or a forked tongue. Or both.

Marianne smirked. "Now that you're giving her a quote, make it dramatic. You know — shadowed past, burdened by destiny, probably owns too many black cloaks."

"I do not own any black cloaks," Ben said flatly.

"Exactly," Cho said. "That's why no one takes your brooding seriously."

Aquilla chose that moment to swoop down, drop a letter on his plate, grab a strip of bacon from his fork, then knock over his goblet with a flick of her wing. Marmalade spilled all over his toast before she flew off like nothing happened.

Ben sighed. He hadn't been paying much attention to her lately. "She's definitely joined the smear campaign," he said.

He picked up the soggy envelope, recognised his mum's handwriting, and gave it a wary look. With another sigh, he opened it, scanning the contents while absently trying to rescue his drowning toast with the edge of a fork.

Your father's been transferred, it read. He's been moved to the Department of Muggle Transportation. They're saying it's temporary but I've seen "temporary" last a decade before.  He's pretending it's a good thing — says he'll have more time to help on the farm now — but you know him. He'd rather wrangle a herd of angry Erklings than admit he's been slighted.

Now about that paper — I saw it. Everyone's seen it. I nearly hexed the kettle when I read what that Skeeter woman wrote. Parseltongue, is it? Since when do you speak snake, Benny? Not that I believe it, mind you —you never even liked the garden gnomes, much less hissing at reptiles. Sounds like Skeeter's usual drivel. Still, you've no idea how many neighbours have been peering over their hedges like I've started raising Basilisks out back.

Don't let it get to you, love. People always talk nonsense when they're afraid — and the Prophet's full of that lately. Dark Lord this, heir of Slytherin that. Utter rot. Nobody in our family's ever been mixed up in any of that. Closest we've got is your great-great-great-grandmother Eileen, and she was only half a Greengrass, and very decent by all accounts. That's just a bit of old family history, nothing to fear.

Dumbledore wrote to us. Said you rescued students from a chamber that had caved in. Said it could've ended much worse if it weren't for you. We're so proud, Benny. Both of us. Whatever that silly paper says — we know the truth.

I put a clover ward in with this letter — just in case. Keep it in your pocket, near your wand. Can't hurt, and I've always found they keep bad luck at bay.

We're fine here. We love you. Don't let them scare you into forgetting who you are.

Be good, and write back, or I'll have Aquilla pluck your ears off.

Mum

It was mostly the ramblings of a concerned mother, but Ben felt a small warmth stir in his chest all the same. He couldn't help wondering what her face would look like if he ever introduced her to Hissy.

He found a golden four-leaf clover charm stuck to the back of the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his robes, right beside his wand. With any luck, it might actually work.

Ben stared at the letter. Then read it again before putting it away. He felt bad for Nigel. Poor guy was getting dragged into his mess.

Transferred. Sure.

From the Department of Magical Transportation, which did actual work, to the Department of Muggle Transportation, which probably meant writing memos about bus stands and debating whether escalators came under their jurisdiction.

He snorted. "Promoted sideways into a department that probably doesn't exist."

"Everything alright?" Marianne asked.

"Yep. The Ministry's just inventing jobs now to demote my father. Wonder if I can get one. Department of Magical Biscuit Quality Control, maybe."

He reached for his tea—and paused.

A shimmer caught his eye near the Great Hall doors. Something small. Gold. Moving just a touch too deliberately along the stone.

Ben squinted. It paused. Was the clover really that strong?

"Hold that thought," he said mildly, getting up. "Going to commit a very minor crime."

-To be Continued...

What exactly is the Department of Muggle Transport? Honestly, I have no freaking clue. Check out more stuff at P@treon/DreamyApe