Chapter Text
The autumn air in Hogsmeade smelled of roasting chestnuts and butterbeer, warm and inviting despite the chill that nipped at Harry's nose. He walked between Ron and Hermione, half-listening to their bickering about whether they should stop at Honeydukes or the Three Broomsticks first. Everything felt normal. Safe, even, in that fragile way things had felt safe lately—like a held breath before the plunge.
Harry should have known better.
The hex came from nowhere, a flash of purple light that sent Ron sprawling into a stack of cauldrons outside Potage's. Hermione's scream cut short as ropes materialized around her, binding her arms to her sides. Harry's wand was in his hand before he could think, but then she was there.
Bellatrix Lestrange.
Her wild hair whipped around her face, her eyes alight with a manic glee that made Harry's stomach turn. "Hello, baby Potter," she cooed, and before he could cast a shield, her wand flicked. The world lurched sideways, colors bleeding together, and then he was falling, falling, falling—
He hit marble floor hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. The marble floor was cold beneath him, elegant serpent carvings visible at the edges—some Death Eater's manor
"Did you miss me?" Bellatrix circled him like a predator, her wand trained on his chest. Harry scrambled backward, reaching for his wand, but she was faster. "Expelliarmus!" His wand flew from his grip, clattering somewhere in the shadows.
He tried to run. Stunning spells erupted around him, one catching his shoulder and spinning him around. He crashed into a decorative table, porcelain shattering beneath him.
"Crucio."
The pain was instant and all-consuming. Every nerve in Harry's body ignited, white-hot agony that tore a scream from his throat. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but hurt. When it finally stopped, he was curled on the floor, shaking, tasting copper.
"That's for my Lord," Bellatrix whispered, kneeling beside him. Her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back. "For what you did to him. For what you keep doing to him."
"He—" Harry gasped, "started it—"
The Cruciatus Curse hit him again. Longer this time. When she released him, Harry couldn't stop the tears streaming down his face, couldn't stop his body from convulsing. He'd been under this curse before, but never like this. Never this sustained, this personal.
"Let's play a game," Bellatrix sang, dragging him upright by his robes. "You try to escape, and I'll see how many ways I can hurt you. Won't that be fun?"
She threw him forward. Harry's legs barely held him. He staggered toward the corridor, knowing it was hopeless, knowing he had to try anyway. A slicing hex caught his back, and he felt the hot rush of blood soaking through his shirt. Another curse—something that felt like his bones were splintering from the inside—sent him to his knees.
He crawled. Actually crawled, like an animal, while Bellatrix laughed behind him.
"Pathetic. And the Dark Lord fears you?"
A door. There was a door ahead, slightly ajar. Harry lunged for it, shouldering it open, and found himself in what must have been Lucius Malfoy's study. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes bound in materials Harry didn't want to identify. A work table dominated the center, covered in vials and bottles of varying sizes, their contents ranging from opalescent shimmer to viscous black.
Potions. Dark artifacts. Nowhere to run.
Bellatrix's cackling followed him inside. "Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!" She didn't give him time to recover between curses. Harry's vision went white, then black, then white again. He couldn't even scream anymore. His throat was raw, his voice broken.
"Stop—please—"
"Does it hurt, Potter? Good." She grabbed him again, slamming him against the bookshelf. Volumes tumbled down around them, heavy leather-bound things that reeked of dark magic. "I want you to remember this. I want you to remember who—"
Harry didn't plan it. Didn't think. His magic, wild and desperate, exploded outward in a burst of accidental power. Bellatrix flew backward with a shriek. Books launched themselves from the shelves. The table overturned, sending dozens of potion vials crashing to the floor.
And in that chaos, Bellatrix's next spell went wild.
It hit Harry as he tried to stand—a sickly green light that wasn't quite Avada Kedavra, but something else, something experimental and wrong. His body seized. The world tilted. His perspective shifted, dropping rapidly toward the floor as his bones compressed, reformed, changed.
His arms weren't arms anymore. His legs fused and elongated. Scales erupted across his skin, black as midnight with strange iridescent patterns that seemed to shift and move. He tried to scream but what emerged was a hiss.
Snake. She'd turned him into a snake.
Bellatrix stared, her eyes wide with something between horror and delight. "Oops," she giggled. "That wasn't supposed to—well. I suppose I should just kill you now—"
Harry lunged. His new body moved on instinct, fast and fluid, fangs bared. He struck at her wand hand. Bellatrix shrieked and stumbled backward, crashing into the remaining shelves. More books fell. More potions shattered. Harry felt the liquids splashing over his scales, hot and cold and burning, each one a different sensation, a different magic seeping into him.
They fought through the wreckage of the study. Bellatrix fired curse after curse, but Harry was small now, quick, harder to hit. He wove between falling furniture, through puddles of spilled potions that steamed and hissed. His scales absorbed it all—preservation draughts, experimental brews, things that made his serpentine form tingle and burn and feel strange.
Finally, Bellatrix raised her wand, her face twisted with rage. "Depulso!"
The banishment spell hit Harry like a battering ram. He flew backward, crashing through the study door, into the hallway, and then—
Then he was falling again, but this time it was different. This time the world didn't just lurch; it unraveled. Magic crackled around him, dark and ancient, responding to something in his transformed body. His scar—that connection to Voldemort he'd always had—pulled
Colors bled into grays. The manor dissolved. Harry felt himself being yanked through time itself, the spell latching onto that connection, that shared soul, dragging him to where the other piece existed—
He hit earth. Grass. Cold night air.
Everything hurt. Everything. The torture, the transformation, the potions still burning through his system, the temporal displacement—it was too much. Harry tried to move and managed only a weak coil, his snake body trembling violently.
He could hear a forest around him. Smell damp earth and autumn leaves.
And footsteps. Someone was coming.
Harry wanted to hide, to flee, to do anything, but his body wouldn't cooperate. He'd been broken by Bellatrix's torture, twisted by dark magic, and now flung through time to who-knew-where. He had nothing left.
Not even the strength to be afraid when the footsteps stopped beside him.
𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓
Tom Riddle was not supposed to be out of bed.
Then again, Tom Riddle did many things he wasn't supposed to do. The castle at night belonged to him—the shadows between patrols, the shortcuts through abandoned corridors, the secret places where he could think without the constant press of his housemates' expectations.
Tonight, he'd slipped past the prefects and out onto the grounds, needing air, needing space. The Forbidden Forest loomed at the edge of the lawn, dark and uninviting to most students. Tom found it peaceful.
He was following the tree line when he heard it—a sound so faint he almost missed it. A rustling. A weak hiss.
Tom's wand was already in his hand as he stepped between the trees. His eyes, well-adjusted to darkness, scanned the undergrowth until he found the source.
A snake.
Tom's breath caught. He'd always had an affinity for serpents, could speak to them in ways that unsettled even his fellow Slytherins. But he'd never seen one quite like this.
It was perhaps four feet long, coiled loosely in the fallen leaves. Its scales were black as midnight, but with strange iridescent patterns that seemed to shift in the wandlight—blues and greens and purples rippling across its body. Beautiful. Unusual.
And clearly injured.
Tom crouched down, setting his wand on the ground beside him in a gesture of peace. He spoke in Parseltongue, the sibilant sounds coming as naturally as breathing. §Hello, little one.§
The snake's head lifted weakly. Its eyes—strange eyes, too bright, too aware—fixed on him with what looked like fear.
Tom frowned. Fear wasn't unusual in injured creatures, but something about this felt different. The way it watched him, the intelligence in its gaze...
§You're hurt,§ Tom observed, noting the way the snake trembled, how its scales seemed damaged in places, discolored by what might have been burns or cuts. §What happened to you?§
The snake didn't respond. Just stared at him with those unsettling eyes.
Most students would have left it. Some would have killed it, afraid. Tom Riddle had never been most students.
§I won't hurt you,§ he said softly, extending his hand palm-up. The snake flinched away. §I promise. I only want to help.§
It was a lie, of course. Tom wanted more than that. He wanted to understand. This snake was unusual, possibly magical in origin, and Tom collected unusual things the way other boys collected Chocolate Frog cards.
But the snake didn't need to know that.
He waited, patient as stone, until finally—whether from exhaustion or resignation—the snake stopped trying to move away. Tom carefully scooped it up, cradling it against his chest. It was cold, too cold, its body limp with weakness.
§There,§ Tom murmured. §I've got you now. You're safe.§
The snake made a sound that might have been distress. Tom pretended not to notice.
Getting back into the castle was easier than getting out had been. Tom knew which corridors the prefects avoided, which portraits wouldn't tattle, which staircases led directly to the dungeons without passing the main halls.
The Slytherin common room was empty at this hour, green-tinged firelight casting shadows across the leather furniture. Tom didn't stop there. He climbed the stairs to the boys' dormitory, slipped inside his section—thankfully, his roommates were all asleep—and shut the curtains around his four-poster bed with a whispered charm for silence.
Only then did he set the snake down on his pillow.
It immediately tried to slide away. Tom caught it gently, holding it in place. §Stop that. You're in no condition to go anywhere.§
Up close, the damage was worse than he'd thought. The scales were definitely damaged, some areas looking almost melted. There were wounds along its body, some fresh, some already trying to heal. And the trembling hadn't stopped.
Tom retrieved his school bag, rummaging through it until he found the small vial of dittany he kept for emergencies. He'd stolen it from the hospital wing weeks ago, just in case.
§This will hurt,§ he warned, uncapping the vial. §But it will help.§
The snake tried to pull away when he applied the first drops, but Tom held firm. He worked methodically, treating each visible wound, murmuring reassurances in Parseltongue as he did.
§Where did you come from?§ he asked as he worked. §I've never seen a snake like you near the castle. Were you someone's pet? Did they hurt you?§
The snake remained stubbornly silent.
Tom found that curious. Most snakes would respond to Parseltongue, even if only with simple thoughts—hunger, cold, fear. This one seemed to understand him perfectly but chose not to answer.
§Can you not speak?§ Tom tried. §Or will you not?§
Those bright eyes just watched him. Wary. Intelligent. Afraid.
Tom smiled. He liked puzzles.
§That's alright,§ he said, finishing with the dittany and setting the vial aside. §You don't have to talk. Not yet.§
He conjured a shallow dish of water, placed it near the snake's head. It didn't drink, but it watched the water like it wanted to.
§You're safe here,§ Tom said again, and this time he meant it. Safe from whatever had hurt it, at least. Safe from the cold forest. Safe from other students who wouldn't understand.
Safe with him.
The snake finally moved, just slightly, coiling into a tighter ball on his pillow. Still trembling. Still afraid.
Tom lay down beside it, propping himself up on one elbow to study his find. The iridescent scales caught the dim light filtering through his bed curtains, creating patterns that seemed almost hypnotic.
§I'll take care of you,§ Tom promised softly. §Until you're well. And then...§
He trailed off. Then what? Release it back to the forest? Keep it as a familiar? Try to discover what made it so unusual?
Tom didn't know yet. But he had time to decide.
For now, he had a secret. Something precious and strange and entirely his. In a castle full of students who feared him or used him or wanted something from him, this creature needed him. Depended on him.
It was intoxicating.
§Sleep,§ Tom murmured, reaching out to stroke one finger along the snake's scales. It flinched but didn't pull away. §You're mine now. I won't let anything hurt you.§
𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆙 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓 𓆓
Harry lay coiled on Tom Riddle's pillow, every muscle in his serpentine body screaming with pain and exhaustion, and tried not to panic.
He was in Tom Riddle's bed.
Tom Riddle—who would become Voldemort, who would murder Harry's parents, who would destroy so many lives—was currently treating his wounds with stolen dittany and speaking to him in soft, sibilant Parseltongue.
And Harry couldn't do anything about it.
He couldn't fight. Could barely move. The torture had broken something in him, and the transformation, and the potions, and the time travel. His magic felt wrong, twisted, like it didn't quite fit his new form.
When Tom had found him in the forest, Harry's first instinct had been to flee. But his body wouldn't cooperate. And then Tom had spoken in Parseltongue—of course he spoke Parseltongue—and Harry had understood every word.
I won't hurt you.
Harry didn't believe that for a second. This was Tom Riddle. Future Dark Lord. Killer of thousands. The fact that he was currently sixteen years old and almost... gentle... didn't change what he would become.
But Harry was trapped. Trapped in this form, trapped in this time, trapped in this bed with a boy who looked at him like he was something precious.
It was terrifying.
Tom's finger stroked along his scales again, and Harry forced himself not to react. Not to hiss, not to strike, not to give away that he was anything more than an ordinary snake.
Because if Tom knew the truth—if he realized Harry was human, was from the future, or was connected to him...
Harry didn't want to think about what Tom Riddle would do with that information.
So he stayed silent. Stayed still. Let Tom believe he was just an unusual snake that couldn't or wouldn't speak.
And prayed that the spell would wear off soon, before Tom's "care" turned into something darker.