Author's Notes: Written for the Off the Block Competition. Race: Butterfly. Category: Hard.
Prompt: Write about the first Harry Potter person you've ever written.
The snake talked to her.
It wasn't the first time it had happened, nor would it be the last. By this point, Hermione had given up trying to understand the silver-and-green snake that coiled on her pillow almost every week. It was just a...thing. In the too-sharp light of day, perhaps she would be concerned. Perhaps she would run to Professor McGonagall or the Headmaster, or at least tell Harry and Ron.
But at night? When her curtains were charmed shut, and only the dim light of the moon showed the fact the snake even existed, save for its content hissing? She couldn't.
"Tell me," the snake whispered in her mind, its tail coiling around her wrist. The scales were cold, but not slimy or unpleasant as she always feared.
And she did, whispering back in a flat, deadened voice all that had happened at the last Order meeting, the worry in Dumbledore's eyes, the panic and aura of "not prepared" that surrounded Harry and his friends. As she talked, the snake's fangs jutted smoothly out, dipping into the vein that ran down her wrist. It stung for a moment, but then nothing.
"Good girl," the snake hissed, and Hermione's eyes filled with delighted tears. One fell, splashing onto the snake's back. "Now lie down, dear child. Forget."
Hermione nodded, slipping under the covers obediently, and curling up on her customary side. The snake winked out of existence, and the ring around Hermione's finger glowed briefly.
By morning, she'd forgotten it ever happened.