Chapter Text
Master Harry Potter hisses happily as the afternoon sunlight warms his scales. It doesn’t matter that he’s actually a warm-blooded wizard. Whenever he’s in his Animagus form—that of a shadow viper—he inevitably gets chills that he’s not susceptible to in his regular body.
His tongue flicks out, tasting the brine of the Black Lake.
It’s a warm May afternoon on one of the few weekends left before graduation. Should he be revising for his N.E.W.T.s.? Well … possibly. But Harry’s been doing that for weeks now. He deserves a break.
And while the fireplace in the dormitory he shares with his twin brother, Heir Charlus Potter, as well as several others is lit year-round, it never feels quite as nice as sunbathing his scales outside does.
Harry ignores the approaching footsteps as sand and gravel grind together beneath someone’s shoes. Most of the students who have discovered him today—only one person shrieked in fear at the sight of him, which led to him hissing with laughter at Mister Gerard Lockhart, which, in turn, caused the wizard to flee in fear—assume he’s someone’s familiar. And since harming a pureblood’s familiar is a crime with hefty penalties attached, he’s not even remotely worried that anyone will attack him.
The footsteps stop right beside the sun-warmed rock that all nine feet of him are coiled upon.
“You are the most handsome serpent I’ve ever seen.”
It takes Harry a moment to realize that the words were spoken in Parseltongue which, of course, means that the speaker is High Lord Tom Slytherin. His eyes open just as Tom’s hand reaches for him. He doesn’t have time to pull away, to prevent unknowing contact with a member of an Oligarchy House, before Tom’s hand settles on the back of his head and then smooths down his scales.
Harry can’t help the way his magic flares. In human form, it would ripple across his skin in Potter-Crimson waves. In his Animagus form, it creates deep red stripes down the length of his serpentine coils.
“What a beauty you are,” Tom hisses.
If snakes were capable of blushing, Harry knows that his cheek scales would be brighter than a Prewett’s scarlet hair. As it is, he can only look away and pray that High Lord Slytherin never finds out that Harry isn’t an actual shadow viper. Because this is … highly inappropriate. However, it’s unforgivably rude and disrespectful to turn your back on a member of the Oligarchy. So Harry can’t bring himself to slither away, even though he’s the only one who would know.
Such behavior isn’t honorable. And Harry is nothing less than honorable, for he is the second-born son of the main bloodline of the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter.
Tom’s hand is, somehow, hotter than the sun. The warmth of his magic brushing along Harry’s scales is … it’s a lot. It’s powerful and heady and has Harry’s mind wandering to places that it really shouldn’t.
What would Tom’s hands feel like petting Harry’s skin?
“Whom do you belong to, beautiful?” Tom hisses.
Harry forcefully reminds himself that Tom isn’t actually addressing him, that Tom is High Lord Slytherin, and that he would have no interest whatsoever in a second-born son, even one from a bloodline and magical house as prestigious as Harry’s. Tom thinks that he’s an actual shadow viper.
Everyone at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry knows that High Lord Slytherin adores snakes. The compliments on his appearance are for his Animagus form, not for Harry himself.
It’s rude not to answer a direct question from a member of the Oligarchy. Harry knows that. He does. It’s just—what is he supposed to say?
“You’re a shy one, aren’t you?” Tom teases.
Harry, who has never once been referred to as ‘shy’ in his entire life, rears back with an affronted hiss. He is brave, thank you very much. And outgoing, and charismatic, and, and, and— Shy?
Tom’s laughter is dark but sincere, and one of the loveliest sounds that Harry has ever heard in his entire life. It’s nothing like the smug, superior chuckles that spill from his lips when misfortune befalls anyone who annoys him, which Harry has overheard on several occasions throughout their seven years of schooling together.
Before Harry can decide if he’s going to answer—he should, he really, really should—Tom stands from where he’s crouched beside Harry, his emerald eyes alight with amusement as he wandlessly and wordlessly Levitates Harry into the air before stealing Harry’s comfortable perch and then lowering Harry back down so that his coils end up draped all over Tom’s lap.
“That’s better,” Tom hisses.
Can snakes suffer from heart failure? Because Harry feels like his heart is about to burst. It doesn’t matter that he’s currently in his Animagus form. He’s, in every way that matters, sitting in High Lord Slytherin’s lap. And that’s something he’s never even dared to hope would be a possibility.
Tom is intelligent. He’s also clever and cunning.
Harry is excellent at dueling, defense spells, and potions. He’s average in all the other subjects, perhaps slightly above average in Charms and Transfiguration. He excels at Quidditch, but that’s not something that interests Tom.
To be blunt, Harry’s never been delusional enough to believe that High Lord Slytherin will ever be interested in him as a spouse, which is why he has guarded his heart so fiercely, even though Tom fascinates him on every level. He would really rather never have to experience the pain of a broken heart. Romantic angst is for those who enjoy emotional suffering. Harry isn’t amongst those ranks. He doesn’t plan on joining them either.
Tom strokes Harry’s scales, which makes Harry feel like he’s swallowed live prey, his stomach wriggling inside of him. It’s too much. He can’t handle this. He can’t bear to know what Tom’s hands feel like against him when it’ll never happen again, when—
“Your magic is as beautiful as you are,” Tom hisses as he pets Harry.
Harry glances away from Tom’s piercing emerald eyes, unable to bear the attention any longer, knowing it isn’t actually meant for him, and prepares to leave, regardless of how rude it is. His mouth falls open and his fangs drop in surprise. Charlus, who must have Silenced his footsteps, is leaning against a boulder on the shoreline several feet away, his eyes dark with mischief and threat.
“High Lord Slytherin,” Charlus says, attracting Tom’s attention. He places his right fist over his heart, tucks his left foot behind his right, bows, and then demands, “I’m afraid I must ask, as the Heir of the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter, what your intentions are, since you’ve got my baby brother draped all over you.”
Tom’s hand freezes against Harry’s scales.