Chapter Text
Harry Potter was a huffy child.
It was an odd statement to write, and even odder to see.
From a young age, when upset or threatened, Harry would huff and puff. Bloating out his cheeks in his infantile fury.
It was cute when he was three - though his family did not seem to think so - but it was a little weird when he was eleven.
It wasn’t that Harry was doing it on purpose. It just happened.
Anytime he felt defensive or threatened, he would puff out his cheeks. Fortunately, it was often considered a sign of his frustration rather than anything too odd. Even though it would cause Aunt Petunia to narrow her eyes and scoff in frustration. Vernon would turn purple at the sight of it.
Dudley used to turn on the waterworks, but that could have been due to thinking Harry was mocking his weight.
The Dursleys at least took it as Harry Potter being a spoilt child, rather than weird or freakish, who was ungrateful for his cupboard and the meals he was taking directly away from their precious, obese child.
On the contrary, Harry loved his cupboard; it was small, and it was dark and it was safe. Perfect for hiding. It wasn’t fair Dudley had two bedrooms, but there was something about the cupboard which appealed more than a great expanse of space.
Harry understood, years later, that his feelings towards being kept in a cupboard were probably not entirely how he should have felt about the situation.
Harry had always had range of behaviours he didn’t fully understand, and as he grew more socialised when finally attending Hogwarts, he realised they were not entirely normal behaviours for wizards either.
It turned out that wizards didn’t eat raw eggs whole (they had a range of boiled eggs from soft to hard, but no raw ones. And like the Dursley’s the students ate them with cutlery, and some dipped toast or sausages in the yolk.) Harry knew enough that swallowing an egg, breaking the shell and draining the egg before regurgitating the vacuumed shell was not a party trick anyone would appreciate, so stuck to toast.
Other than that, it was fortunate that Hermione huffed and puffed even more than Harry did, especially in regard to their classmates spewing false information or mistreating books. It caused Snape to dock more points than was acceptable for ‘huffing’ - as clearly this was some kind of Gryffindor tactic or plot.
It was during his second year that it became apparent that his unusual habits may have been something else entirely than behavioural quirks.
It turned out being a Parselmouth accounted more than just being able to speak to snakes, and although the library was almost stripped clean of even references to Parselmouths, there was just enough to give hints to the nature of the skill.
Being able to talk to snakes, all snakes regardless of origin or species, came with the inherent ability to understand their behaviours and imitate them.
It predisposed Parselmouths to snake like behaviours and although Harry rarely spoke in the language itself, it felt more natural to him that anything else. Snakes did not deal with words and objects like humans did, but the language came when called upon, and both the snake and Harry knew what they were talking about.
It was disconcerting. It was scary.
And most worrying of all? Harry did not know how to stop it. It was as intrinsic as breathing.
Tom Riddle had known Harry was a Parselmouth, he had had the ear and body of Ginny Weasley for most of the year after all.
For all his fury that Harry was the cause of his elder self’s defeat, he was fascinated by the fact Harry was also a Parselmouth. He had grabbed Harry’s face, turning him side to side looking bemusedly enraptured by Harry’s threat display.
“At your age, I was imitating much more vicious snakes than this, Harry.”
That may have been all well and good, but Harry didn’t feel very vicious. He felt very threatened and in over his head.
And despite feeling so scared, and the fact Riddle wasn’t quite real yet – still hazy around the edges and a little transparent even with his solid touch – his scent in the air was similar to Harry.
People had unique flavours to them, and Harry now knew that his way of processing scents and smells was akin to a snake and not a human. But other people didn’t have the right flavour. They tasted human.
The boa constrictor at the zoo had an earthy flavour, tasted safe and older. Familiar.
And now Riddle had the same echo to him, a similar flavour, a tinge not found in other humans.
Harry got the distinct impression that Riddle was more snake-like than most other Parselmouths.
“No, don’t taste the air like that,” Riddle scolded, closing Harry’s jaw. “If I have to tolerate your presence for any more time, you will do it properly.”
Harry had been affronted. “My mouth wasn’t open that much!”
“If you are going to gape, you look even more pathetic than you already are. You only need your mouth open a sliver to taste the air.”
Harry’s cheeks puffed out again.
“Oh, my word,” Riddle chuckled breathlessly, “Would you stop?” He pressed down on Harry’s cheeks until Harry let the air dispel. “You’re so young. Defenceless. How did you defeat the greatest wizard who ever lived?”
Riddle had almost looked regretful to kill him, not that it stopped him trying.
***
Harry’s greatest source of information became Herpetology books, and learning about snakes themselves. Dumbledore shared a few limited theories with him, when Harry sat in his office covered in ink and blood.
It turned out his first amalgamation was an Eastern Hognose snake. Relatively harmless, known for imitating cobras by puffing out it’s cheeks to deter predators, and if that did not work; they played dead.
A common snake for young Parselmouths to align with before they got their wand and began to learn how to defend themselves.
The hognose was quite embarrassing when there were much more dangerous snakes to imitate.
The difference, according to Dumbledore, was purely psychological. If you felt vicious, you would imitate it. If you felt weaker then, you would imitate a more harmless snake. Of course, this was all hypothetical as Parselmouths were not ones to allow themselves to be studied, and the rarity of them only made it worse.
It was choices that made the difference, but not even the most vicious Parselmouth could take on a snake’s true properties.
(Harry didn’t tell him that there are certain things he has that are directly correlated to snakes, like how he can eat eggs the way he does, or how he doesn’t need to blink anywhere near as much as Ron or Hermione do.)
It was relieving Harry wasn’t going to kill anyone with venom, nor petrify them with his gaze. But also, somewhat frustrating as it was all completely useless. None of the skills that came with being a Parselmouth would help Harry survive Voldemort.
Dumbledore seemed proud that Harry imitations were of relatively docile snakes, seemed to imply that made all the difference, but it didn’t. How could it?
Harry couldn’t use any of those traits against Voldemort.
Nor did it explain the sense of kinship that Harry had felt with him. That Riddle had evidently felt too, even if he did not let it impede his course of action.
Most snakes were solitary creatures, but parselmouths were also mammals. Don’t even predators crave understanding and companionship, of a sort?
But Voldemort had killed his parents…
Harry hadn’t felt that any kinship with Voldemort last year, but all that had been in the air was Quirrell’s rot and pain.
He tasted the air around Dumbledore. Only through the slightest parting of his lips, like Riddle said. Human and congenial, but nothing like the much better scent of Riddle’s ghost.
***
Spitting was a bad habit.
One that Harry developed in fourth year, angry and attacked feeling by not only the other schools but his own friends too, he wanted to strike out defensively.
Malfoy got the first bout of it. Professors Moody and McGonagall had intervened.
“Where do you think you are, Potter?! A zoo?!” McGonagall had shrieked, her thick Scottish brogue in a higher pitch than Harry had ever heard before. Harry tried to look chastised.
Malfoy stood silently next to him looking for all intents that he had been molested, the thick frothy spit still staining the front of his robes.
Moody looked like he was trying not to rupture something maintaining a dedicated and severe frown. So severe in fact, Harry wondered if he was chewing through the skin. He didn’t taste angry though.
“Sorry, Professor,” Harry muttered, “He was going to curse me whilst my back was turned.” Something he had only known through the intent in the air, the shock and gasps of the surrounding audience.
McGonagall gave him a scouring look, turning to Malfoy, who had arisen from his horrified stupor to look affronted.
“The boy’s right, McGonagall,” Moody intervened before Malfoy could finishing opening his mouth, “I was about to put a stop to it before Potter here--” he waved his hand, seemingly running out of words to say. “I’ve never seen someone spit that distance before.” His eye rolled wildly in his head, “Handy defence that.”
“Enough, Alastor,” McGonagall strained, a few hairs escaping her tight bun. She adjusted her glasses primly, “20 points from each of you. And detention as well.” She levelled a stern finger at Malfoy, “Mr Malfoy, I have no doubt your father would not like to hear about you casting at other students’ backs – that is unbecoming. Potter,” she turned her head sharply to him, and then stopped, “I have no words for you. You are better than this. I will not have any members of my house brawling, never mind spitting at other students.”
Both of them nodded resignedly. Malfoy huffing and turning sharply on his heel, no doubt going to write a letter to his father.
“Harry,” McGonagall said suddenly, before he could leave and brace himself against the crowds. “I know this situation is unpleasant for you, but don’t stoop to this level. Hold your head high, do yourself and your house proud.”
Harry felt his mouth twist bitterly, ‘unpleasant’ did not do it justice.
“Come with me, Potter,” Moody said, slapping him on the shoulder, “Let’s have a chat.”
***
With a violent twist the heavy thread of magic broke, sending Harry’s wand flying and his parent’s spirits away in a puff of smoke.
It disappeared amongst the graves.
Harry watched it go with a dismay that chilled him.
He was going to die. That had been a guarantee from the moment he arrived, the moment Cedric had hit the floor with his empty eyes.
But for a moment, just a moment, Harry had hoped he could get free, get the portkey…bring Cedric home to his parents…
But now, there was no chance of that happening. The graveyard was full of dazzling brightness, sparks in the air that tasted like electricity.
Harry couldn’t run to the cup with his leg damaged.
He could have thrown himself to Cedric’s body and summoned it, but he could not get the cup without a wand.
The lights were fading, he could feel Voldemort’s anger in his scar, as well as seeing his robed arms swinging through the smoke.
And that old instinct rose in him. The one that had him drop to the ground in sight of the teachers when Dudley and his friends were chasing him. The one that struck at Malfoy hard and fast and unpredictable.
The one that Moody had told him to exploit and utilise. You’re a Parselmouth, Potter. Act like one. It might save your life.
That snake like coil of cunning that he had tried so hard to repress. To be normal.
Harry let himself collapse as the dizzying colours of the broken magic fizzled out, the blinding lights giving way to the dark of night.
There was a frigid silence in the air as Harry watched the gathered death eaters shift warily, Voldemort glowering down at Harry’s prone form.
And as Harry lay there, he wondered if this was supreme stupidity or the cleverest thing he had ever done, because Voldemort was lowering his wand.
The Death Eaters were exchanging furtive glances, the eyeholes in their masks showing their darting eyes, the whites so easy to pick out in the darkness.
Harry’s scar prickled fiercely, but he tried not to wince.
“I know you’re not dead, Harry.” Voldemort taunted, with a sneer as he tasted the air. Then the sneer gave way to a high-pitched hissed laugh, a manic baring of teeth. “I see it now,” He finally said softly. “I taste it now. What shall you try next? Will you defecate to convince me?” He prowled closer, “As amusing as it would be, I will ask that you not.”
Harry said nothing, kept himself as still as he could. He did not like Voldemort speaking to him in Parseltongue. It was much too nice.
“Rumours reached me about your odd…habits. I dismissed them initially.” Suddenly Voldemort was crouched down beside him, Harry juddered slightly and cursed himself. “I dismissed them as petulance when I saw them myself, but I appreciate what they are now.”
The man’s red eyes scoured Harry’s face with even more fascination than he had before, but with less contempt, his hand hovering in Harry’s periphery.
“Find his wand,” Voldemort demanded, standing. He pointed to two of the Death Eaters and sharply gestured in the direction Harry’s only defence had been flung to. “The rest of you, go. I will deal with you later.”
Sharp cracks filled the air as all of the gathered men disapparated, bar from the lumbering forms of what Harry imagined to be Crabbe and Goyle’s fathers, setting out to find his wand.
Harry was pulled violently back to his original captor of the tombstone, with a sharp crack of his head against the marble as ropes constricted around his middle. He cried out involuntarily, pretence of being dead long gone.
“Let me see you,” The Dark Lord demanded, reaching out with his spidery fingers, “I would have thought that at your age, you might be imitating a more aggressive snake.” The cold fingers touching his cheeks made Harry cry out in pain, his scar burning even more fiercely. “But here we are, the great Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, playing a dead Hognose.”
Harry hissed, not a word or a defence, just a petulant hiss that transformed into an anguished howl as Voldemort pressed his scar.
Voldemort’s nail trailed the scar again, “Does that cause you extreme pain?” His serpentine face folding into a faux sympathetic mien. “We shall have to explore the nature of this then, shan’t we Harry?”
All words of defiance or anger, even pleads for mercy, were robbed from him at hearing Voldemort questioning him in Parseltongue. It was soothing, it was an understanding beyond anything he had ever know. It was much worse than what he had felt with Riddle. Harry felt very…connected, despite the fact he was with someone trying to kill him.
Harry wasn’t to learn for many years how much the Gaunt family spoke in Parseltongue. How they chose to only speak Parseltongue, unless forced to engage reluctantly with the authorities.
He would understand it.
“Oh, hush now. I may not kill you yet,” Voldemort scolded, “You are no threat to me. You know it as well as I.” He tilted Harry’s head this way and that to examine the scales over his eyes, he continued to speak in a clinical manner, “You would not instinctively act like this if you did not consider yourself harmless against me.” He met Harry’s eyes with his piercing red ones, “Lord Voldemort appreciates submission and your honesty.”
Harry worked his throat to spit out that he did not care what Lord Voldemort appreciated. The Dark Lord’s spidery fingers ran along Harry’s neck, feeling the moving muscles, “Do not try to spit at me, you do not have venom. It is merely rude.”
Harry took in greedy puffs of air to breathe through the pain and anger at being scolded by Lord Voldemort of all people.
He could taste the darkness on the man, the cruelty, the spite. And yet. Snake. Kin.
“Don’t do that. You only need your mouth open a sliver to taste the air,” The man scolded, so much like his younger self that Harry found his voice again.
“I know!” Harry snapped, trying to kick out with his legs and wildly twisting.
“Then do not do it. You are not a fish, though by all accounts you may be a half-wit.” Voldemort’s fingers hooked around Harry’s mouth, pushing at his jaw until it gave way. “Unhinged jaws too. My, my, little Potter. We really do have all the traits.”
He let go of Harry’s face, watching as Harry shook his head and neck in a distinctly snake like manner and hissed venomously at his manhandling.
There were muffled footsteps as the Death Eaters returned, lumbering through the gravestones and foliage.
“I have rarely seen other Parselmouths. Especially one so young.” The Dark Lord took the proffered wand from the nameless Death Eater, dismissing him with a glare. He held it loosely between his long fingers, “With a wand so…similar to my own. And my own mark upon his brow.” He smiled, lipless, at Harry’s squirming. “Stop your theatrics.”
Maybe it was because the order came in Parseltongue, but Harry did, his body freezing and trying to coil up.
Voldemort smirked, “You and I will have some fun, Harry. We shall find out what stroke of luck made you survive that night.” The man pocketed his own wand, continuing to fiddle with Harry’s and watching him unblinkingly, “If you are a good boy, I may let you live to propagate the Parselmouth traits you have.”
Harry finally had enough, spitting at Voldemort with desperate fury and fear. He didn’t miss.
Voldemort didn’t look impressed, turning Harry’s own wand on him, “Crucio.”
It was awful, but it was quick. A few moments of searing agony before Voldemort released the spell. Harry panted and heaved against his bindings; and had the crazy thought it was rather a reprimand than serious punishment.
“I told you, Harry. That is rude. I will not tolerate that behaviour, even from kin…However we may be related, be it blood or something more interesting.”
Harry glowered up at Voldemort through his dirty, sweaty hair and perhaps rather fittingly considering his dishevelled, injured and pathetic state, he reverted to his M.O. – he puffed out his cheeks.
Surprisingly, Voldemort smiled. “I have never met a snake I cannot tame, Harry. You are young and can be wrangled into a sense of order. You will be my creature.”
