Author's Notes: Unbeta'd, not very edited, will probably be rewritten if I do manage to finish the whole thing (and being posted now to encourage myself to do that).

§ words §- section symbols and italics signifies spoke Parseltongue
Ϩ words - hori and italics signifies Parselscript

I'm very much into mythology and fanon around Parseltongue and have had some ideas brewing in my head about it for years, though I never actually wrote anything off of it for fear of the fic coming out as ridiculous. However, as the years go by, I realize I care less about whether a fic is ridiculous as long as it holds my interest and decided to throw something together.

This starts off in Fifth Year and will continue from there. Almost everything in the fifth book from October on does not happen.

Planned ships right now is some Draco/Harry and then Voldemort/Harry. If anyone has other ships they'd like to see (or other characters, too), let me know.

Chapter 1

If you believed the stories, magical beings' inheritances came on birthdays, like they were linked to the spinning of the planet. Harry had found out, from what little Hogwarts Library had on such things, that that wasn't the case for most. It wasn't the amount of years Harry had been alive that mattered, it was the amount of solstices, or equinoxes, or whatever else he'd lived through. And so, in late September, right after the fall equinox, the changes had started.

At first he hadn't noticed, too distracted by classes and homework, by Umbridge, by the betrayal (once more) of his House and classmates. The changes were gradual enough that he didn't have one moment where he noticed them so drastically that his equilibrium shifted, but little moments, spliced together in his head, leading to his horrifying realization.

That Ron had woken him up one night, staring at him in horror, whispering that he'd been hissing in his sleep again. That he'd mutter under his breath, without thought, and a snake in a portrait or carved into a fixture was the only one to respond. That English, all human languages, had begun to grate on his ears. The increased caution the Magical Creatures were treating him with, even the House Elves.

There wasn't much information on Parselmouths in the Library, he'd known that since Second Year. There was no hidden library tucked away in the Chamber of Secrets with what he needed to know-he'd stalked the girl's bathroom in his invisibility cloak for weeks until he had Moaning Myrtle's schedule memorized and slipped down the tunnel with just his cloak, and his wand, and his broom.

What he knew he'd pieced together from stories of Slytherin and his children, from books about other creatures that 'passed' as human, from his own experiences. Because as he poked at the unappetizing meal on his plate for the umpteenth day in a row, looking at the boisterous children around him enjoying their dinners, all he could think was that they looked like prey, and that was not a human sort of thought.

He withdrew, forgetting his anger at Dumbledore and the Ministry, ignoring Umbridge's maneuverings. He'd never participated overly much in the discussions around him, inside or outside of class, so no one noticed it. After all, he had to pause before he spoke, physical force English words out of his mouth, and all it would take was one slip to remind everyone why they'd feared him when he was just a little twelve year old.

It wasn't as if it had all been bad: His reflexes in Quidditch and outside had only increase, he'd had to transfigure plain glass to take the place of the lenses he no longer needed in his glasses, and his magic came far easier, letting him get through the practical portions of Transfiguration and Charms without much care. And, while the increased strength of his sense of smell could be seen as a blessing and a curse in Potions, he was realizing how much the smallest details could help clue him into when he should move onto the next step, or when he'd crushed or juiced something enough.

The other aspects, though, were worrying. And he knew, from the slow build of everything, that this might only be the tip of the iceberg. So when he'd exhausted all sources and it kept getting worse, it was time to start looking for new ones. He might have asked Sirius, who could have books in the Black family library about this sort of thing, or Remus, who might have sources on Dark Creatures that only a werewolf could access, but he was scared-scared of them revealing his questions to someone else...or of them judging him and finding him unworthy of their care, anymore.

Dumbledore, besides the fact he'd been avoiding Harry, was obviously out. And so were any other professors, because the only one who was guaranteed to know something about Dark topics was the one that hated him the most (not that he'd ever give Snape the satisfaction of knowing another secret of his).

His next, reluctant, thought was Hermione. So one day he sat next to her in the Library, after making sure no one else was around, and stared blankly into his History book.

"Well?" she asked, with a huff, after about ten minutes of silence only punctuated by her leafing through pages and scribbling with her quill.

"I need help with some research."

She'd paused in her work, then, looking him over. He didn't know what she saw, but it didn't cause any concerned looks to appear. "For class?" He shook his head and she frowned. "For..." She hadn't needed to specify, eyes darting around them as if waiting for something to jump out.

"Uh, no. I don't-I mean, as far as I know, there isn't anything like that." He snorted. "I think Umbridge is enough for this year."

Her lips tensed and she made no effort to tack a 'Professor' onto that name, the way she'd do with Snape. She could forgive Snape for being an awful person because he was technically trying to impart knowledge on them, but Umbridge was just purposefully sabotaging their educations, something Hermione couldn't abide by.

"Listen, Harry, this is our OWLs year. We need to focus on those! They'll decide our entire future, if we don't get enough OWLs, we won't get into enough NEWT level courses, and then we won't get enough NEWTs, and then we'll have very limited choices for our careers," she lectured. "Have you even finished your assignments? I know you're doing well in most of our classes-I'm very proud of how dedicated you've been-but with everything against you, you need to be great this year."

And she was right, he knew she was right, but it was hard to care about things like his future when his present was falling apart.

"You're-you're right." He cleared his throat. Hermione had enough stress in her life and he'd already put her at risk every other year, practically. Maybe this year...maybe this year he'd let her be normal, even if he couldn't. "Are you working on Herbology? What did you put down for..."

He tried to ignore the changes after that, but of course he didn't. Then he tried to figure out how to access books on his own, if he could sneak out to Knockturn Alley somehow on a weekend, or find an excuse for why he had to visit Sirius at Grimmauld Place. By Halloween night, he was getting desperate, and stayed curled up in his bed, ignoring the Feast and festivities.

Ron cautiously left some candy on his bedside, regarding him like someone might an injured animal that they worried needed to be put down. "You...you alright there, mate?"

"Yeah, just...thought I'd take a break from Halloween, for once."

He gave a slow nod. "Can't say I blame you," he finally replied, shuffling to his bed.

November dawned cold and damp, chasing Harry away from wanderings around the Lake and the edge of the forest to wanderings around the castle.

It was only as he sat in an alcove one night, wrapped in his invisibility cloak and staring at a wall, that the answer came. There was no real plan, he always mucked those up anyway, just an invisible hand reaching out and pulling Malfoy into the space with him as the other passed by on his rounds.

He threw off his cloak while Malfoy was still distracted, hiding it behind him.

"Shh," he whispered, a little too much hiss to the sound. "I need to talk to you."

"Talk to me?" Malfoy's voice was blessedly just as soft, he was probably used to these sort of covert dealings with his Housemates or from his dad's Death Eater pals.

"I want to make a deal."

Malfoy's scent changed, the fear he couldn't hide from Harry's senses shifting into what Harry imagined was anticipation, and hesitance. They weren't friends, or even friendly, but Malfoy could be observant when Harry was involved and might have noticed his recent withdrawal from everything around him.

"I need information, your library might have it. In return...you get to know a secret that might help your family out." He didn't have to specify how it would help the Malfoys, at least, and he was glad they didn't have to play a game of Malfoy pretending he didn't know Voldemort was back.

He looked skeptical. "You're going to trade, what, Dumbledore's plans for books?"

Harry shook his head. "No." His face twisted into a scowl. "You'd probably find out that information before I did. I mean..." he trailed off, leaning his head back against the stone behind him as his mind raced. Maybe a little more of a plan would have been helpful. "I need whatever books you have on Parselmouths, or any other information you might know." He pierced Malfoy with a look when he opened his mouth to interrupt. "And we both know who else might be interested in why I need those."

"Why do you need them?" Malfoy's haughty attitude had covered up his surprise, at least in his expression and stance, but he let his curiosity through.

§ Because I'm starting to understand why Voldemort's temper is so awful § he hissed out, looking away. Of course, there was no direct translation between human and snake speech, and Parseltongue was based as much on feeling and magic that Harry couldn't understand as it was on actual words. And to his disgust 'Voldemort' or any version of his name came out as something akin to 'emperor', more than 'king' or 'lord', at least. The best he'd managed to mellow it down was 'elder kin', which was awful in its own way.

"Potter?"

Harry sighed, eyes straying back to Malfoy's. "I don't think it's just a Dark Gift, Malfoy. I think there's a reason he looks like he does, and it's not just because of how he came back." He shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself. "This isn't just some ability I inherited from his magic. This is a blood trait. It's..."

Now Malfoy's eyes were wide and knowing. His lips slowly curling into a trademark smirk. "The Gryffindor Golden Boy, a Dark Creature," he whispered, seemingly delighted with the discovery.

Gritting his teeth, Harry nodded. "So, he'll be interested. And no one else knows, yet. Which means you- your father-can drop it on him when you need to and he'll just eat it up."

He didn't want Voldemort to know, necessarily, but he couldn't think of him with the same sort of hatred and fear he had before. Whatever magic made the unwanted translation of Voldemort's names in Parseltongue seemed to also twist around a Parselmouth's view on him. He was the eldest and most powerful living Parselmouth Harry knew of, he couldn't not respect him. And if things kept getting worse, Harry might even need him.

A little more haggling, with Harry reluctantly revealing a little information on his condition, and they had a deal.

The next week, same time and same place, Malfoy casually slipped into the alcove and cast a Silencing charm around them. He had a small bag in his hands, which he offered to Harry, who quickly realized there was an Expansion charm on the inside. A few books he'd seen cited by others in the Library, a few others he'd never heard of, and then...he swallowed hard, fingering the scroll as Malfoy looked on, seemingly fascinated by his every reaction.

Unrolling it, the spidery writing was terribly familiar, though he had to take a moment where his sight seemed to shift and his vision blurred, to realize it was not English he was reading. What looked like 'Harry' was an endearment for a child that had probably clued Voldemort into what was happening more than anything else. What followed was a thorough list of the process that Harry was going through, a sort of Parselmouth puberty that was changing his body, mind, and magic. As Harry approached where he was, and then kept going, his heartrate climbed and breathing quickened.

"If you pass out, I'm just leaving you here."

Malfoy's voice cut through his panic and Harry's eyes snapped away from the scroll. Giving a shaky nod, Harry rolled it back up, knowing he'd probably need a whole weekend of hiding out on his own to process what it was saying.

"You already told him, then."

"I had to tell my Father, of course, to get the books sent to me." For a moment, Malfoy looked awkward, almost bashful. He was fifteen, too, Harry realized, and would probably have liked to have managed to outmaneuver his father if he could have. "He said he skimmed through some of the books and realized it would be better to tell Voldemort sooner than later."

Judging by what Harry had read in the scroll, he could understand that. "Right, uh, thanks for the books."

A hand caught his arm before he could slip away. "The Dark Lord will be wanting updates, Potter. Weekly." Harry opened his mouth to protest. "You'll probably be needing more from him than that scroll."

Suspicions rose in Harry as he thought about just how much information Malfoy might have. He and his father couldn't read the scroll, but Voldemort might have told them other information.

Voldemort had gone through this on his own, a teenager trapped in Hogwarts just like Harry. But he'd been smarter, more powerful, and even more had probably read every single thing about Parselmouths it was possible to get his hands on by the time he was this age. Harry would need him, no matter how much he hated knowing that.

"Fine," he muttered, pushing away Draco's hand and leaving.

Two meetings later, they actually spoke about something other than his horrifying transformation and the Dark Lord's probably glee at it.

"What are you wearing?"

Harry glanced down at the misshapen jumper and torn jeans he had on, shrugging. "It's eleven o'clock at night, Malfoy, I felt like being comfortable."

"And that involves dressing like a Muggle street urchin?"

"Sorry not everyone likes flouncing around in robes all day."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "I'll have you know these are far more comfortable than whatever that material is. They're charmed by expert seamstresses."

Harry was a little intrigued by that, and hesitantly asked what charms other than the obvious anyone would bother putting on clothes. He'd slipped away two hours later with the newest package from Voldemort, distracted by the dizzying amount of information Draco possessed about something as seemingly mundane as wizarding wardrobes.

"Harry, I...was wondering if you still needed help? On that research?"

Hermione pulled out the chair beside him, sinking down into it as if it was hard to stay standing. He stared blankly at her for a moment before realizing what she meant, then shook his head.

"No, uh, you were right. I'm focusing on our classes. No reason to branch out this year."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Did you need help with that?"

He looked at his scroll, considering, then shook his head again. A part of him wanted to say yes, to have Hermione back in his life in even some small way, but that would mean having her back in his life and exposing her to what he was, and Malfoy's probably plots, and Voldemort's interest. On top of that, it was his DADA homework and, well, he was currently doing better in that class than she was. Draco had shared a few tips on how best to write for Umbridge.

"No, I think this is something I've got to do on my own. You know, do all the work by myself so it sticks better, so revision's easier."

"Oh. Yes. That's a good idea, Harry."

She took out her own homework and worked beside him, neither of them talking.

By Christmas break, Hermione and Ron had mostly stopped trying to talk to him. He'd made himself practically invisible, so the enmity of the other students had faded as more personal issues distracted them. Umbridge was fine with his silence in class, if anything she seemed to approve of it, as if thinking he was cowed. Snape still sneered and took points, but barely spoke directly to him. Dumbledore still couldn't even meet Harry's eyes.

The other changes that the scroll listed kept coming. He became more sensitive to the cold (and far more proficient in heating charms because of it), had something like heat vision in darkness, and had a hard time remembering that the others around him were also people. That gave him a new sort of sympathy for Tom Riddle, who had cared less about people than Harry had to begin with. How he could have killed another student, framed Hagrid, fallen into the Darkest of magic, without ever seeming to give a damn...all of it made sense, now.

Harry didn't want to kill people or become some sort of Dark Lord, though. He just wanted to survive the next few years without anyone else finding out what he was, and then maybe have some semblance of a normal life after that.

Christmas morning and none of the Weasleys had stayed behind, nor Hermione, nor anyone else Harry would normally care about. He didn't blame everyone with a place to go for fleeing, the atmosphere around the school was getting oppressive even for Harry, who spent most of his time tucked away in empty classrooms trying to keep some level of human sanity.

He still had all the standard Christmas gifts, and two more, as well. Food and a Weasley sweater, a Quidditch book, a sturdy new set of quills from Hermione who had apparently noticed a few of his had broken (not his fault, that sometimes little acts like that helped snap him back into the present, helped him remember that even if he wasn't human, he could still act like it). He'd gotten her some study materials he'd seen in a catalog Draco had been leafing through a few weeks before and while now it seemed a little too impersonal, he knew she wouldn't think so. Out of everyone, he missed her the most.

The first of the unexpected gifts was in delicate silver and gold wrapping paper, and revealed itself to be a set of casual robes that even he could tell were lovely. The note attached was more polite than Draco ever bothered being in person, but with a nice undertone of his normal attitude as he mentioned Harry not having any respectable casual wear. He should have known after the lecture he'd been given that this was coming. He'd be lucky if he avoided Draco treating him like some dress-up doll.

The second was wrapped in black and green, looking more like a package one might send if people celebrated at funerals than something for Christmas. Inside were carefully packaged vials, marked with numbers. #1 looked almost like water, but they became thicker and yellow as the numbers increased, until #14, which looked almost black in the shadows of the box.

Ϩ Drink once everyday for two weeks.

No further instructions, no signature. Not that it was necessary, considering it was Parselscript.

Harry set the box on his bed, warding his curtains, before taking the vials out and studying them up close. The idea of Voldemort poisoning him in such a weird and elaborate way seemed unlikely. He always imagined Voldemort wanting to witness his death and wanting to personally cause him any pain. Now, though, he couldn't imagine Voldemort casually killing off the only other Parselmouth-Harry's chest ached unbidden at the idea of ever losing Voldemort's presence in the world, even though they hadn't seen each other for half a year and then Voldemort had almost killed him.

He drank vial #1, it had a sort of bitter taste and made his mouth ache, but he didn't notice anything else. Every morning, he continued drinking a vial before he left his bed, and still didn't notice any changes.

Seventeen days later, Harry woke up with an odd taste in his mouth. He swallowed reflexively, surprised at the amount of liquid there. He slipped his hand down to the pouch he'd taken to keeping between his headboard and his mattress, filled with the books and scrolls Malfoy gave him and a few other odds and ends. The mirror he took out was something he'd started keeping early on, scared some physical change might occur and others would get the chance to spot it.

The top of his mouth looked a little puffy, and his teeth were sore, but he didn't see anything noticeable. He thought back to what he'd been dreaming of, tensing at the memories of Uncle Vernon and a particularly bad punishment, and noticed the strange taste again. This time he spit onto the mirror, the nearest surface he had, but some drops fell to the bedding below and little holes appeared in the material. It was easy to see that whatever had been in his mouth wasn't just saliva.

Harry thought back to the vials, to the taste and texture, and realized with less horror than he knew he should be feeling, that it had been venom. And now that his body knew of it, he was starting to produce it. The memory had scared him, and angered him, and his body had reacted.

The books he had read said that Parselmouths were entirely immune to snake venoms and resistant to most others. To Harry, they implied that even the Basilisk venom probably wouldn't have killed him, though it might have made his still un-transformed body very ill for a very long time. But just because having venom didn't do him harm, didn't mean he wasn't royally pissed off that Voldemort had given him this without asking.

At the next weekly meeting, he passed Draco a note, knowing he would send it to his father who would turn it over to the Dark Lord. It was still written in Parselscript, though, because he didn't trust the Malfoys as far as he could throw Hagrid, at least not when it came to snooping.

The next week he received a letter in reply.

Ϩ Harry,

Ϩ Your anger is senseless-within those walls, surrounded by Light wizards loyal to Dumbledore, you need every protection you can obtain. The venoms were a mix, starting with the weakest and watered down ones, and ending in a personal concoction which used Nagini's venom as a base. No general antivenin will work against you, though I have included steps to make a specific one, in case you decide to partake in teenage fumblings and lose yourself in the moment.

Ϩ Lord Voldemort

Harry blushed at that, even though he doubted he'd feel like kissing someone (or doing more) anytime soon.

"Do I even want to know?" Draco asked, eyebrows raised.

That only caused Harry to blush more. "No! It's...disturbing." The Dark Lord considering Harry's sex life was close to traumatizing.

"Here's another book, by the way. Not about your condition, but he thought it might be useful."

Harry took the book, glanced at it, but didn't expect to know what it was, yet. All the covers were charmed now, so Harry could read them in public.

"Any new, uh, changes?"

"He...over Christmas he sent me venom to drink," Harry smirked, watching Draco's disgusted expression, "and, uh, now apparently I'm...deadly."

Draco snorted. "We'll have to come up with an alibi, then."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm not planning on killing anyone."

"Not planning on it, but I've seen how you look at the Weasel lately."

"Ron isn't that bad, he's just..." immature, clueless, human.

"Right."

"If anyone should be cautious, it should be you. You're the one I spend the most time around alone, now."

That earned a smirk and Harry blamed the letter's contents for why he thought it might be flirtatious. "I'm flattered."

"You're a berk."

"And poor widdle Potter's only real friend."

"I think right now that might be the Dark Lord," Harry muttered, looking down at the book he was still holding.

The silence after that stretched on too long to be comfortable.

Then Draco broke the news that the book was on the Dark Arts. And he'd been ordered to help Harry with them, if he had any questions.

They couldn't get away from each other fast enough, after that.

With basically nothing like a social life and no Quidditch, Harry had taken to actually studying. And with Draco's help with Dark Magic came Harry helping him on DADA, the real stuff, the stuff that would be on the OWLs.

A few sessions in, Draco came with an entourage.

"What is this?" Harry scowled at most of the fifth year Slytherins who had piled into the room after Draco.

Draco gave a graceful shrug. "Just expanding our mutually beneficial arrangement to include a few others."

Parkinson had laughed softly at the two of them, stretching an arm over Draco's shoulders. "Don't worry, Potter, you two will still have plenty of opportunities to snog while no one's watching. We're just here to learn."

A few months of friendship with Draco and the first thing Harry asked was, "What's in it for me?"

Apparently, a lot. They all had their own strengths and most of them had been getting private instruction on topics not allowed in school for years. Together, they came up with a study schedule that would help everyone in some way.

Later, Nott revealed he knew of a room that would better suit their purposes and soon they started meeting there. Not only was it bigger and safer, but his father had assured them that the normal wards of the castle wouldn't sense Dark Magic cast within, as long as they were careful.

OWLs came. OWLs went. Harry's 'study group' were probably some of the only students in the school who were actually prepared for the Defense practical part of the test.

"I think this is the first year at Hogwarts no one has tried to kill me," Harry commented, casually, as Draco walked into the room they now used for all their meetings.

"...I think you might be right. See how much easier life is, when you're on the right side?"

Groaning, Harry fell back onto the desk he was sitting on, staring up at the ceiling. It looked like the night's sky, stars twinkling and moon glowing. He'd wanted something relaxing and the room had provided. "I suppose I can still count my relatives. I bet they'll try, if no one else has."

An envelope hit him in the chest and Draco's smirking face loomed over him. "Doubtful, since you're not going anywhere near them."

"What?!"

"No offense, Harry, but it's not that hard to work out their names and general location from everything you told me this year. The Dark Lord got ahold of them and...let's just say as far as they know, their delinquent nephew will be at home all summer, but keeping himself scarce."

"But," Harry's eyes widened and he sat up, catching the letter as it fell towards his lap, pushing Draco away so their head's didn't knock together, "where will I go?"

"You're coming home with me."

"That doesn't-but I-what?"

Draco rolled his eyes but continued, ignoring Harry's shock. "You'll have a room near mine, of course, and will come with us to the villa in France this summer when we go. My mother has already arranged for a session with our tailor and has set aside time in her schedule to conduct lessons on etiquette. As if I'd let someone in my acquaintance continue to act like some lowborn Muggle," he finished with a sneer.

"Did the Dark Lord order this?" Harry was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that not only did he not have to go to Privet Drive that summer, there was a good chance no one would even find out he hadn't been there, so he wouldn't get in any trouble with Dumbledore or the others.

"Well, he didn't want you returning to living like a House Elf, even a Mudblood doesn't deserve that treatment. But it was Father who offered to let you stay with us."

Nodding slowly, Harry's lips started to form a smile despite his misgivings. He wouldn't want to have spent all summer stuck at Riddle Manor, he was sure. "That's...very kind of your family, Draco." He'd owe them a favor, probably, maybe a lot of them before the summer was out, but it was totally worth it.