Chapter Text
Harry is on his third hour of yard work, the hot sun beating down on his bare shoulders, his hair falling into his eyes thick with sweat, when he reaches out to pull a weed and instead brushes his fingers against the cool scales of a small garden snake.
Watch it, the snake hisses, coiling up and rearing its head back to regard Harry contemptuously.
Sorry, Harry responds. He pauses in his work, sinking back on his heels and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
The snake blinks slowly at him and uncoils. You understand me, it hisses, sounding confused.
I know, Harry says absentmindedly. He reaches around the snake and yanks up another handful of weeds. The snake watches him. It slithers close, a forked tongue peeking out and tasting the scent of Harry’s dirt-stained hands.
Where are your scales? The snake asks.
I haven’t got any, Harry responds. He swallows with difficulty, his throat parched from working all morning in the garden without reprieve. He shoots a wary glance to the sliding door of the house. The hose is coiled up next to the fence, a slow, steady drip of water puddling into the grass below it. Harry wets his lips.
He could use a break—a moment out of the sun, some water to rinse the taste of dirt from his mouth, and a quick bite to eat if he’s lucky. But he’s on thin ice already. And he can faintly see Petunia through the sliding glass door to the house, chopping something on a cutting board and shooting him the occasional venomous glance to ensure that he’s still hard at work.
Harry sighs and shifts a few feet forward, starting on a new section of weeds. This work is simple, at least, and it keeps his mind busy. He doesn’t have to think about the graveyard, or Cedric, or the fact that he’s stuck here, alone, while Ron and Hermione send him vague updates that tell him absolutely nothing about what is actually going on in the wizarding world.
The daily prophet tells him nothing of use, and the muggle news are no better, especially now that Uncle Vernon caught Harry with his ear pressed to the door of their bedroom, straining to catch even a vague confirmation that things are changing, that something has happened, that someone else in the world recognizes that Voldemort is back.
Now Harry’s got a dark hand-shaped bruise around his arm, and an aching wrist, and has been put on yard work duty indefinitely. His list of chores grows longer by the day, and he’s not permitted back inside until Aunt Petunia needs his help cooking dinner in the evening.
It’s to keep him out of trouble, is what Uncle Vernon says, and to keep him from sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.
Harry thinks that if he doesn’t get a real update soon, he might do something very stupid. Sirius can warn him not to be rash all he wants, but he’s not the one stuck at Privet Drive. He’s not the one who saw Cedric die, who saw Voldemort return. None of them have any clue of what Harry’s been through.
Did they fall off? The snake asks, and Harry startles, blinking away his anger and returning to the present moment.
What?
Your scales, the snake says, sounding very annoyed.
No, Harry responds, bemused. I told you, I haven’t got any. I’m not a snake. Do I look like a snake to you?
The snake hisses something unintelligible. It blinks up at Harry consideringly.
No, it finally says.
Harry glances back over at the sliding glass door. Petunia has her back turned now, rifling through the pantry for something out of sight, and Harry chances it. He climbs to his feet and crosses over the yard to the hose. He winces at the squeaky sound it makes when he turns it on, but after holding perfectly still for a moment, he relaxes and drinks as much as he dares.
The water is cool and soothes his parched throat. He drinks his fill and then runs the hose over his hair, soaking his curls and dripping down over his chest and to his shorts. Then he turns off the hose and lopes back over to his spot.
He kneels back down in the grass. His hair drips onto the snake, and it sticks its tongue out, slithering closer. Harry goes perfectly still when it begins to wind its way up his wrist.
Nice and cool, the snake says, slithering up Harry’s arm to coil around his neck. Its forked tongue sticks out and tickles at Harry’s collarbone.
Yes, Harry says, feeling slightly uncomfortable. The last snake he spent any amount of time with was Nagini, in the graveyard with Voldemort. He remembers her thick, heavy body, the cool shine of her scales under the moonlight. The way she had turned to him hungrily, tongue flicking out to taste his scent, his blood in the air.
“I will not be feeding Wormtail to you, after all ... but never mind, never mind... there is still Harry Potter...."
Harry shudders.
But it’s just a small garden snake, not venomous, and this is the most conversation he’s had in the weeks since he returned from school, so he doesn’t want to offend the little snake.
There is more water next to the house. In the shade. Harry inclines his head in the direction of the hose.
The snake’s scales ripple, and it tightens a bit more around Harry’s neck.
That is the loud man’s territory, the snake says.
Harry thinks of the purple vein that had pulsed in Uncle Vernon’s forehead while he shouted at Harry the other night, yanking him harshly by his wrist and tossing him into his bedroom. Harry’s ears had rang for half the night afterward. He half-smiles in understanding.
He’s not here right now, he explains. He’s at work. He won’t bother you.
The snake seems unconvinced. It stays with Harry the rest of the day, eventually slipping into the pocket of his shorts, and doesn’t seem interested in much more conversation.
Later, when the sun is starting to slip lower in the sky and Aunt Petunia opens the sliding door and shouts for Harry to come in and help with supper, he sticks his hand into his pocket and sets the snake down carefully underneath one of Aunt Petunia’s rose bushes.
I have to go now, Harry says. You should find somewhere else to hunt. It’s not safe for you here.
The snake tastes the air, blinking yellow eyes up at Harry.
Is it safe for you? It asks.
Harry hesitates. He rubs at his sore wrist.
It’s supposed to be, he finally says with a shrug.