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The True Heir to Slytherin



“Please! Please, don’t hurt me.” The muggle man struggled against the mysterious shining ropes that bound him. He hung three feet from the ground, upside down, his face going pink from the blood that rushed to his head. “Please. I have a family - a wife and children.” His tears streamed over his forehead, into the line of his hair and dripped to the ground.

The woman moved swift around him, not much more than a blur. She moved close to him so that her eyes looked directly into his, so near there was no looking away from the dark, violet eyes. “You think that I care at all about little muggle children not having their daddy?” she hissed. “Trespasser. Should have thought about those precious ones before you stepped foot into my realm.” The woman swept away, and the man swung from the velocity of the movement.

“I didn’t know --” he wailed.

“Lies,” she whispered, her voice heavy and coming from somewhere behind him. “Everyone in the village knows about this forest. You don’t go into the forest if you plan to come out, that’s what they say.”

“We needed food,” the man cried.

“Then go to the market,” she hissed.

“I haven’t got the money for the market,” he explained. “Please. I didn’t mean to trespass. I won’t tell a soul of what’s happened here tonight. I give you my word.”

The eyes were suddenly there, staring into his once more. “I am very well aware that you shan’t be telling a soul,” she said, “The dead do not speak. At least not usually, that is.” She backed away and for the first time, he got a good look at her. She was tall with wide hips and a sneering, horrible face that would have been beautiful if only she didn’t hold it the way she did. Her hair hung in thick curls that rested upon her shoulders, moving slightly in the wind, he supposed. She held what looked like a stick, which she aimed at him, staring down at him, a bit of a nasty laugh caught on her lips. She leaned closer to him. “Avada kedavra,” she whispered, and green light shot forward, blasting the man to the chest and he cried out, the breath leaving him as he died.

She cackled and loosed the ropes she’d produced with her wand, watching his lifeless body fall to the dirt in a crumpled heap, his neck breaking as he landed. “Such a pity,” she muttered sarcastically, “That you won’t be able to feed your little brats… but you’ll do quite well for my pets.” She waved her wand as she walked away, and the body levitated behind her, his limbs hanging limply as she walked through the forest, stepping over fallen logs and raised roots, until she’d arrived in a tiny clearing where, over a little bridge, there was a ramshackled old cottage, nestled among mossy overgrowth and hanging vines.

She stomped through the door into the cottage, letting the man’s body drop to the floor and she hissed in Parseltongue - the language of snakes, “Dinner, my pets.” And from the ceiling and the corners of the floors came the slithering hoard. Dozens of them, snakes so many that as they clustered around the meat of the man, he was completely buried beneath their slithering, writhing bodies. “Yes,” she hissed, “Yes, enjoy your dinner. Trespassers shan’t be tolerated.” She watched in cruel fascination as the snakes devoured the man completely, leaving nothing but bone upon the floor when they were done.

Medusa Peverell Gaunt magicked the bones into the trees outside that lined the little clearing, adding them to the many other bones that hung among the branches, giving the circle of trees a menacing look.

Back inside the little house, she let her fingers slide over the length of one of the snakes that lay across the heavy wood table that filled most of the room, and sat at the head of it, leaning over a thick book that she’d left at the sound of the caterwauling charm she’d cast upon the mouth of the path that led to the village announcing the trespasser. She slid her fingers along the words, her claw-like nail slipping beneath the sentences until she found the place she had been. The snake slid itself onto her lap, coiling loops around her and her chair, resting it’s head upon her palm, which she held up for it. She rubbed the chin of the snake as it’s black tongue slid in and out of its mouth around it’s long, poisonous fangs.

“One day we shall have everything which belongs to us,” Medusa cooed, her eyes roving over the page before her, “Soon, my pet, we shall be hallowed as we deserve… Royalty of more than just this lousy forest, this boring little town. We will rule over the entire world, as we should.” She stared down at the book with disdain, her upper lip curling to reveal her own fang-like, sharp teeth. “We will do the House of Gaunt proud, unlike this blundering half-blood failure,” she said, glaring hatefully upon a portrait of Tom Riddle Jr. “Stupid fool,” she hissed at the page, “Allowing a child to defeat him” She waved her wand and an aged bottle of mead came to her. She poured it into a goblet on the table. “Claiming to be Slytherin’s Heir,” she rolled her eyes and looked at the snake as he coiled his way up the length of her arm as she reached for the goblet, “As though Slytherin’s true Heir would ever have anything other than the purest blood.” Taking a swallow from the goblet, she violently spat it back at the book. The portrait of Voldemort cackled evilly in it’s endless movement from the page as it curled and blistered from the damage of the burgundy mead. “We shall show them all soon enough, my pet,” she hissed, “Who the true Heir of Slytherin is.”

As she spoke, the caterwauling charm began it’s cries once more and she looked at the window, her face twisting with anger and she leaped to her feet, casting aside the snake and casting a disillusionment spell over herself as she strode from the cottage once again, speedily moving in the direction of the offender.


-*-*-*-*-*-



Until the cries began, they’d been having a perfectly fine trip, something Lysander hadn’t expected upon setting out with his grandfather, who he’d always thought of as an old lunatic. It was bad enough, putting up with the fanciful stories that his mother often concocted, but Xenophilius Lovegood was twice the loon that his daughter was, his stories growing more outlandish every passing year as he moved into his twilight years. But for once they’d been having a moment of actual, truthful conversation and it’d been, for a fleeting time, easy to see that Xeno had once been a perfectly sane man before the death of his beloved wife had driven him nearly mad with grief.

“Felicity is pregnant,” Lysander had confided his worries into his grandfather as they’d walked along a little road, past a village set on the side of a wide lake. “She sent me an owl yesterday. I haven’t told mum yet.”

He’d expected an angry response, but Xenophilius just paused and swallowed pumpkin rum from a flask in his purple jacket’s breast pocket, then offered it to his grandson. As Lysander took a swallow of the warm, burning liquid from the flask, Xeno said, “You know, Luna’s mother became pregnant young, too, and before we were married. I married her, of course, because it was the right thing to do, and never have I made a more brilliant decision in all of my life.” He took a deep breath, “It’s a hard life, being a young father, but it’s a wonderful one. I wouldn’t trade my Luna for all of the wrackspurts in Madagascar.”

Lysander wasn’t sure how many wrackspurts were in Madagascar, nor how much they were worth, but he figured that Xeno meant well by the comment and he asked, “Do you think mum will be very angry when she finds out?”

Xenophilius squinted toward the edge of the Great Northern Forest. “Perhaps,” he replied, “But she’s a wise witch, my boy, much wiser than most give her credit for. She believes in the fanciful, believes in magic, like she should. The things that make people think we are crazy are the very things that prove she’s wisest of them all - she keeps her mind open and fertile for new thoughts to enter in and take root, unlike many of the most so-called intelligent people in this world.” He paused, rubbing his chin for a moment and taking one last swig of the pumpkin rum before replacing it into the pocket. “If we catch a snorkack and bring it’s horn back to her, she will be too pleased to be angry anyway,” Xeno said with a wink and a nudge to his grandson’s side.

“So you think I should marry Felicity?” Lysander questioned as he followed Xenophilius into the forest.

“I think, my boy, that you need to open your mind and allow yourself to come to the knowledge yourself. Ask for the wisdom, and it will come to you.” Xeno smiled and stepped into the woods.

They walked for several yards into the forest before it happened. A sudden loud, vibration of a sound engulfed the air around them and the leaves seemed to shake and tremble with the volume of the din. “What on earth is that?” Lysander screamed over the sound of the wailing.

Xenophilius Lovegood waved his wand as he looked about the forest, staring up into the trees. “The Crumple-Horned Snorkack’s call!”

Lysander knew that the snorkack they were hunting did not truly exist, but he didn’t know what the sound he was hearing was, either. He stared around in a frenzy, his seventeen year old heart racing against his chest cavity as he pressed his back to his grandfather’s for added protection, both their wands held high.

Suddenly, there was a chill in the air and a low, hissing sound that seemed to surround them. Lysander’s wand trembled. “Show yourself!” Xeno shouted up into the trees, “Revelio Homino!” he swept the wand around, releasing the spell like a lasso over his head, and behind him, before Lysander, she appeared, her disillusionment charm broken, her eyes livid with anger, her mouth baring fangs like those of the snake ‘round her neck and before Lysander could say a word, she’d raised her wand.

“Avada kedavra,” she hissed.

Hearing the Parseltongue, Xeno launched himself forward, away from Lysander, convinced the sound had been the movement of trees in the distance before them. Lysander had been leaning quite hard upon Xeno in his shock so that when Xenophilius bounded forward, Lysander fell back, the spell only narrowly missing him, and hitting Xeno full force in the back.

“Grampa!” shouted Lysander as Xenophilius fell.

He felt her wand press into his back and he raised his hands in surrender over his head, trembling, tears blinding his eyes as his grandfather lay still and dead just a few feet away.

“What is your blood status?” came a low, cold female’s voice.

“P - p - pure blood,” he stammered.

“What is your name?”

“Scamander,” he choked the name out, “Lysander Scamander. My f - father is Rolf Scamander, my mother is Luna Lovegood. Both pure blood w - wizarding f - families.”

Medusa stood, looming over him, staring down upon him with interest. She looked at Xenophilius’ blood staining the forest floor. Her snake slithered down the length of her body, moving past the boy on the ground at her feet. She’d seen both the names he’d mentioned listed in a book she’d once read on the history of the pureblood wizarding families, a book written by Cantankerous Nott. She slowly lowered her wand, and Lysander’s shaking hands lowered, too. She hesitated, then in a quick motion raised her wand again and cried, “Expelliarmus.” Lysander’s wand flew into her palm and she quickly snapped it in half and threw the pieces in opposite directions into the forest. “Get up,” she hissed.

“Pardon?” he stammered.

She’d been alone with the snakes for so long that she didn’t always realize when she was speaking in Parseltongue compared to English any longer. “Get up,” she repeated. The boy stood, fumbling over his too-large feet, keeping his hands up for her to see he meant no funny business, something she hadn’t asked for but that he had instinctively done. “Good…” she said, “Now come with me.”

She wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the boy, but until she had figured it out it would be nice to have somebody around besides the snakes.