This didn't exist in Parseltongue.
Neither that nor when, not then nor now.
As there were only fifty words in the entire language — and maybe seventy, just depending on which dialect you were hissing — so you had little choice, but to be creative if there was something you wanted to say. And for anything that didn't exist, you'd have to combine it with whatever did.
Such as how fire is 'hurt-heat' and yet it can signal when you have a fever, as to how castle is 'up-nest-rock' while also used for a home high up, as to how flying is 'air-move' while synonymous for a windy day, and then you realize that this language is heavily based on context. And that it's so easy to mistake what you thought another had meant and why for serpents, they live alone — as to keep this circumvent.
Because with no one to question or a need to explain, it makes living a little easier when it's dangerous as it is.
But as for those who can speak this and are anything but snakes, as well as those who associate and can understand what's being hissed, the thought of a lonely life or a single life is not theirs to be expected. So to change with these conditions, you'll see it reflected within the language.
With how there are more words for a loved one and for friendship between these speakers, with how there are more phrases for expression and pronouns for one to choose from, and with how there are more names and cues and terms and touches that have sprouted from the language and have dotted it like art.
Painting hisses with a texture that can be pleasant for one to come by, spinning growls into blankets that could nestle by your side, and with shrieks and snarls about as powdered as the sky — like a cloud surging forward and ballooning from where it were.
As this language is a feat of Nature and it's older than the earth, than the ground beneath your belly and your feet if you're to step forward. But younger than the water and the rush of every current for these were the first, true serpents of the land. And gradually, with every turn, this has trickled down to man.
Where from mother to child, to brother and his arms; from friend and then lover, then student speaking first — as he's digging at the carpet surrounding him and Tom, tearing at the grass while sounding another word. And when he gets it and does it right, he flips around to face the other.
And there's a smile coming to greet him and praises to be heard, sandwiched with phrases and flicks of Parseltongue that he's slowly getting the hang of — if by chance, he's not distracted — when he traces the corners and the welts of that mouth.
Doing so with his eyes and tempted to brush them, just so he could mimic every shape if the other were to ask him: because his tongue was at the forefront for the majority of what he was saying while for Tom, it retreated and his words began from there.
That they rattled from his being and he parsed them from here: through his cheeks when he was snappy and there was a threat he wanted to give, through his teeth when agitated and when he wanted nothing — but to be alone, through his nose while surprised and accompanied with a fumble, and through his throat when satisfied and often what would follow would be a growl or a yawn or a grin to mark him happy.
An excuse to show his teeth as his way of being playful — that while dangerous anywhere else, he could be domestic for a moment and for a person if he wanted, especially if they caught his eye. And right now, he's baring them and gradually, Tom widens.
Reaching as far as he could go before snapping at his jaws, clacking lightly upon impact and then parting out of habit. Both to taste the afternoon and to catch Harry between his teeth, or at least challenge the other boy with feints he could manage.
Because pretending to be docile was his favorite little game and while sizing each other up, it was an opportunity for the both of them.
Where Harry could come to practice and grow comfortable with the language, and what a better way to do either than to manner with the behavior? Where he'll mimic as he sees it while engaging with his partner, while playing with Tom's instincts and twining them a little closer.
Whereas for Tom, he could breathe a little easier and not hold back all the urges and the pangs that were thumping through his skin. Because through blood, he had instincts that were anything but tamed and as such, they were hungry to be let out from their cage.
Allowed to writhe and to mingle and to curl to where they wanted, as there's someone to do it with and Harry's willing when he hisses.
Though not a snake or with instincts, Tom's own wasn't picky. Just excited when it veered towards the boy sitting near, flopped along an elbow and yawned to show his teeth. And there was nothing dangerous to be seen, but that's a thought for those beguiled.
Because to be caught between those teeth and to be mewled upon their mercy, nipped until you're pink and bruised with affection, is what stirs Tom from where he's sitting and he unravels like a cobra. Levelling at his partner and smirking as they have this, and there's a rumble of him hissing and never once, does he dart away.
Tom's holding his own ground in the face of a burning star, narrowed while he eyes him and at half-mast while he looks — stealing brightly through his lashes as if he found a lovely mouse. And a part of him is delighted with what he hears from Harry's mouth.
He could taste the challenge in those words as viridian met with brown; and from there, they took their places and did their damndest to wound the other.
Jousting with the momentum of them rearing and lashing back, much like snakes inside a pit and with their hoods fanning out. Tempting for a bite — whether dry or full of venom, as they twist around each other and it's hard to tell where either ends.
Because brown meets another and they're tousled with the wind, fingering through their hair as they clash like that of snakes. With red finding green while green consumes its end, with a wrist tugging sharply and the ties soon descend. And then they're fumbling on their backs, then upright, and then down again.
Both dancing through each other and cycling through defeat, about as familiar as two snakes having at it until they've knotted. And were bound around their middles or their tails during the skirmish: pushing and pulling and growling at each other until one of them ducks away and shudders from the conflict.
But neither is going to do that: not with the hissing in-between them and not with the leverage either has as he faces his opponent.
With Tom on higher ground, he's seated at the crown: like a prince between the roots of a willow above this hill. As Harry's pinned underneath him and is plated against the ground, spitting twigs and bits of grass from a mouthful he got earlier. And eschewed are his glasses, lopsided when he glares at him.
That they're digging with the wiring and there are slits along his nose. Burning redder while he wrestles but Tom has him on his back, using nothing but a finger to hold him down to how he has him. And if Tom's eyes were at half-mast, they were closed right around now.
Or maybe a sliver of them were opened when he studied the other boy and when he hissed, there were words that were foreign when Harry heard them.
But of the few he understood, what propped out was the use of 'one.'
Gibberish and then a 'one.'
Laughter and then a 'one.'
Teasing, then another, then a shake, and then a 'one.'
All were graveled when he caught them and these hisses were from the throat, cradled into existence as Tom played with one of his buttons. Toying it shortly from pulling it off and his nails raked below it, tickling at the skin and the muscles bundled then.
Much like a cat or rather, a tom when he found what earned his notice and keeping it within distance until he's ready to swallow it down. Whether fish, whether mouse, whether another who has him now. Because even though he's on top, it's not that hard to drag him down.
Especially when Tom hears this — a calling for his own.
When Harry trudges to his elbows and hisses that in kind: no hesitation as he says it and he knows he's made his mark. For not a stutter could even reach him and there's no embarrassment anymore as he's hissing with a fluency that only seven years could bring upon. And he's meshing word after word after word without a slight and only a few were a little shaky because as a human, he couldn't say them right.
He didn't have the range like that of snakes or true Parselmouths when he hissed them. But with the mouth he had been blessed with, he managed so Tom would know it.
Know an equivalent of an 'I love you' when shared in Parseltongue because 'Tom' didn't exist if you wanted to call him in this language, so Harry found the perfect words and looked at him when he trailed with, "...one."
And then another, then a next, then a third until the fifth: he knew exactly what made him crumble and pressed further into that.
While levelling the Parselmouth as he adjusted his own glasses, with glimpses through his lashes when he smiled back at Tom. And all his calls came to match him when Tom ducked and looked away — hiding behind his bangs while faltering in-between him. And not a part of him could back away, not with Harry and how he held him.
With a hand around his wrist and gingerly coming to kiss it — with his palm, with his thumb and with his fingers when they found it.
With his knees when he pressed him and when he kept him from darting away, squeezing around his waist and rubbing softly as he was still.
And with magic — he hadn't noticed — when it reached out to caress him: like a stag coming forward and nuzzling at a serpent, sniffing down its back to keep it warm in the midst of winter.
Although it was summer in the shade when Harry threaded through his magic, stroking at the fibres that were bristled to Tom's person.
Because he was redder than the tie he unraveled from Harry's neck, softer than the robes they unfurled from themselves, cuter than the buttons he had thoughts of picking off, and lovelier than the fingers — now burrowing into his palms. Twisting with himself because they're reaching for someone else and for once, he's speechless.
He never thought he'd ever hear this.
But it was real and as solid as the boy staring back at him. Hair tousled before his eyes and half-blind while tracing Tom because he's looking above his glasses and the lenses haven't caught up. But he knew Tom and his every feature and he could replicate them with a pencil.
Even if he was blind because he could mold what he remembered, and shade that onto paper — it'd be a mirror of the boy in front of him: of kind eyes, a kinder mouth, and a toothy little smile; of a mole beneath his ear while masquerading as a freckle, flicked there from a paintbrush when a force of Nature came to sculpt him; and of a nose scrunching forward and a laugh behind his tongue, and it'll be a real one and a good one because he'll be snorting when it comes.
There'll be hics inside his throat, but he'll sound lovely when Harry hears him. And when you hear something that beautiful, all you want is to be a musician. So you could be an expert with this instrument and learn to coax this note again, and again and again until it wheezes at your hand. Until it's singing before you're near it and you're its audience of only one — whistling for an encore as you're filled to the brim with love.
That by the time it's almost over, Harry feels this against his lips: a finger coming closer and he feels it parting near his mouth. There's a thumb at his corner and it's peeling a dimple back, as if to hook him from moving away — but he's on the ground and laying flat. There's nowhere for him to go, but up when he looks at Tom. And he's more handsome from a few inches, than the length of his own person, and his mouth is blocking Harry while his eyes are all on him.
And Harry could lick at the canines peeking out like little nubs, brushing the bottom lip of this Head Boy and Slytherin. But what holds him to where he was is when his glasses are pulled off: dragging lightly and with a click, he can't say he's wearing them anymore. Or that he needs them when they slip into a pocket of a pair of slacks, but a part of him does follow the trajectory of their path.
Tracing the edges of Tom's person when he slides them towards the back; and speaking of that position, Harry could angle and wander there.
He could tiptoe from where he was and map the mountains of a spine that would dip into a basin and let him fondle with the hills there. Or he could perch them on Tom's shoulders and curl them around his nape, relishing the warmth here before it slips from his grip.
Because he's kissed until he's breathless and even then, he's still kissed. And there's an old, familiar magic coming to meet him where he is.
Where it reminds him of dragons, centaurs and hippogriffs; where it reminds him of the merpeople and all the creatures in the Great Lake; where it reminds him of the rustling and of the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest; and where it reminds him of the music and of all the humming along his back.
As every rune and drop of magic across the grounds swept to him and he could hear them like a heartbeat, trailing lightly at his spine. It's like his lifeline when he trembles, when he explores the other's mouth.
Hands digging past the curls that took an hour for Tom to dress, hands parting at the shallows and cupping him with all they have.
Knees rising and biting and latching at what they have, trying to swallow the weight between them before it slithers from their grasp.
Chest colliding with a snap and it's like they're snakes fighting again, but the main exception is that they're not — they're not doing this to hurt each other.
How to describe it?
It's like a house and a forest crashing forward without a fence: where what's wild, domesticates and what's domestic turns wild.
That when he pulls himself away and smells the moors he could only imagine at this point, Harry shudders with every take, with every breath he's come to savor. As Tom watches him like a snake before he nestles along his shoulder. With the wilderness deep inside him, it's satisfied for now. While for Harry, he embraces and is licking his own mouth.
Chasing the sun and every star that somehow wandered into that kiss. Aware that somewhere inside his heart, there's a forest and it's sprouting.