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The Stag and The Snake	By : JBankai89 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 9713 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, I gain nothing from this but a way to pass the time.

Chapter List
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Chapter 3 – First Impressions

Five years had passed. The passage of time at Number Four, Privet Drive was marked only by the evolution of the family photographs upon the mantle. The little blond toddler had been replaced by a rotund, boisterous boy at the fair with his parents, eating ice cream by the sea, and standing proudly next to a Christmas tree overloaded with gifts.

Harry's passage of time under the tyrannical rule of his aunt and uncle was marked quite differently. It was punctuated by memories of running away from his cousin and his friends as they gave chase. While some of these were followed by bloody noses and broken glasses, these times were few, and Harry mostly remembered the running and the hiding, amidst the gales of cruel laughter that snapped at his heels.

He remembered watching Dudley as he was doted on by every family member, his own jealousy burning like a fire in his heart; not for the gifts he received, but for the love and attention Harry had never been given. He remembered watching as Dudley consumed enough food to make him sick, leaving Harry with meagre portions of his own, his aunt and uncle all but daring him to ask for more.

In contrast to Dudley's pampered upbringing, Harry was ignored, or worse, blamed for things that couldn't possibly have been his fault. How could he have been responsible for his own hair regrowing overnight, after a particularly awful haircut? Or Uncle Vernon's car tires mysteriously disappearing in the night, after he had screamed himself hoarse at Harry for breaking a glass on accident? He hated it when his uncle yelled at him, but even when he did his absolute best to follow the house rules, Uncle Vernon always found things that were definitely his fault—even if they definitely weren't.

Harry learned quickly to make himself invisible. If he was not seen, Dudley wouldn't practice his punching on him, and Uncle Vernon wouldn't yell at him. Not that it did any good, anything that went wrong was always his fault. Of course, his pleas fell on deaf ears, and he was shoved into his cupboard and locked in. In the dark and quiet he tried to reassure himself that things would get better one day, but how could it? The Dursleys were his only family, and there was nowhere else he could go. Some nights this was easier to accept, like when he had gone to bed of his own accord, instead of being unceremoniously locked in after daring to cry for allowing himself to fall and get hurt. Harry would hug his pillow those nights, muffling the sound of his tears with the thin cotton while whispering, “it's okay Harry,” until he fell asleep.

It may have been easier for Harry to cope with if he had some sort of thing to look forward to. But while he knew that Dudley was going to Primary School come September, there had been no mention of such plans for Harry. He wondered if they planned to send him to school at all. As the summer passed, his aunt and uncle had become curiously tense, though they did not punish him any more or less than usual. He often heard them hissing at night in panicked whispers the more the season progressed, and they became gradually more hysterical, going so far as to snap at Dudley one morning—closely followed by vomit-inducing apologies from Aunt Petunia. While the whole thing made him wonder, Harry knew better than to ask.

~*~

Harry woke one bright August morning, three days after his fifth birthday. At first, he was not entirely certain what had woken him, though a moment later all was made clear as he heard a sharp rapping on his cupboard door. He still had a bitter taste in his mouth, remembering his so-called birthday gift—a paperclip and some string—but he knew better than to ask why. He was his aunt's sister's son, and Aunt Petunia made no effort to conceal her absolute hatred for her late sister. “Up, up!” Aunt Petunia shrieked from the other side of the door.

“Yes Aunt Petunia,” he said groggily while he put on his round sellotaped glasses and fished out some clean clothes—three sizes too big—and clambered out into the hall. He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes and it did not register that Aunt Petunia was still outside his cupboard door, hands on her hips and white apron draped over her light blue dress. He looked up at her in confusion, but he found his voice to be caught in his throat. What could he have done now? He only just woke up!

“Get your things,” she said stiffly, as though the slightly softened tone that she suddenly spoke to him with was physically painful to her. “You're leaving today to spend some time with your—your godfather.”

“I—what? I have a godfather?” Harry blinked in surprise, certain for a moment that he had misheard her.

“Get your things,” she snapped angrily, and Harry flinched. “They will be here in two hours to collect you.” She spun and stalked off without another word, and while her silent refusal to answer him wasn't unexpected, it was still frustrating. He stepped back into his cupboard, leaned over and pulled out his patched rucksack from under the cot.

It didn't take long to pack. He shoved an armful of clothes into the bag, then after making sure his aunt was nowhere to be seen, he lifted up the thin mattress and pulled out his most prized possession. He slipped it into his bag.

Uncertain what to do with the packed bag, he set it on top of the cot and stepped out of his cupboard, heading to the kitchen for breakfast. He was not surprised when no one acknowledged his presence, and he picked at his toast silently. He desperately wanted to ask a million questions: Who was this godfather? Why was he only finding out now? What was going on? Why did Aunt Petunia say they? Was someone else coming with him? But Harry knew what the answer would be. “Don't ask questions.” He didn't want to be yelled at again, and resigned himself to two hours of painfully frustrating silence.

Of course, the idea of time away from the Dursleys was an exciting prospect. Maybe this godfather would even let him sleep in a real room, or, dare he wish, get to wear something other than oversized hand-me-downs. He shivered at the thought, wondering if he was getting too greedy with such a thought. He was also caught up with nervous worries. Harry had heard of children who were hit by grownups. While it had never happened to him, what if this godfather turned out to dislike him even more than the Dursleys did? The thought overshadowed his excitement, and he felt his stomach tie up in knots.

Harry slipped away quietly after breakfast, and sat in his cupboard. He picked at the loose threads on his jeans nervously. He didn't have a clock or watch, and two hours seemed like a really long time. He knew it was longer than a quarter of an hour, at least. He tried to count the minutes, but he kept getting distracted by the same questions fluttering through his brain. Who was this godfather? Would he be nice, or mean? Harry's emotions were so mixed up, he felt like he might be sick. Distantly, he heard a sharp knock at the door, and Aunt Petunia racing up to the second level with Dudley, as though the house was suddenly under attack.

Uncle Vernon lumbered to the door, and while he couldn't make out the words, he heard two polite voices answer his uncle's curt one. Harry hadn't been paying attention, and jumped when his uncle suddenly yelled, “boy, get out here!” Harry swallowed thickly, took a breath to try and stead himself, and he slung the light bag over his shoulders. He stepped out of his cupboard, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

Harry shuffled towards the door, but didn't dare slow his pace. He stopped just behind his uncle, and peered around Uncle Vernon to the two strangers that stood there. Harry's eyes widened in surprise. There were two men standing there, both with open, kind smiles on their faces. His uncle appeared distinctly irritated about something, but whatever it was, he didn't say.

One of the men with shoulder-length dark hair spoke, his voice as nice sounding to Harry as his face was kind. “Hello Harry. My name's Sirius. I'm your godfather.” His voice shook a little at the end, and that surprised Harry. He'd never seen a grownup nervous before. Harry was still in a state of shock, and he couldn't find his voice straightaway. “This is my—friend, Remus. Your uncle is letting you stay with us for a little while, and we have a room all set up for you. Would you like that?”

A million questions exploded in his mind like a crate of fireworks. “I have a room?” was the first thing Harry blurted out, while stepping out from behind his uncle and moving forward. His eyes were wide with shock, and also nervous kind of happiness. The man's smile faltered and he glanced over to his uncle, who seemed to quail under the man's gaze but hold his ground at the same time. It was a strange thing to see. The man but didn't say anything, and refocused his attention on Harry.

“I—I mean, yes,” Harry tried again, vaguely remember that the man—Sirius, had asked him a question. “That'd be nice.” His words stumbled out of his mouth in a rush, and his emotions felt as jumbled as his words had been. He was nervous, wondering what was to come, excited at the prospect of having his own room, and almost dizzying joy at the idea of getting away from his relatives, even if it was only for a little while.

“Get on with it, I haven't got all day.” Uncle Vernon snapped, making Harry jump. He had almost forgotten about his uncle's presence. Sirius, extended a hand and Harry stepped forward to take it. Sirius gave his uncle one last nasty look, and led Harry outside.

It was a strange experience for Harry. He couldn't recall an adult ever holding his hand before, gently leading him instead of shoving. He wanted to ask the man more questions, who he was, where were they going, what was going on, but he was afraid, too. He noticed that once out of sight of his aunt and uncle's house, he took the other man's hand, lacing their fingers together in the way he'd seen mothers and fathers do. He didn't know exactly why, but the gesture made Harry feel warm in his stomach.

They continued to walk until they reached a bicycle path a few blocks from Number Four. Sirius led him to the middle of the path, bordered on either side by high, thick hedges. He let go of his hand and reached into his pocket and pulled something out. It was a key on a string, and he held it out within Harry's reach. “On the count of three Harry, I want you to grab hold of this, all right? It will be uncomfortable, but I promise nothing bad will happen.” said Sirius seriously. Harry could hardly explain it, he'd known this man for less than half an hour, but he could feel that he was telling the truth. He could feel his stomach untying itself, and a warmth he couldn't explain fill him.

“'Kay,” he said, while the other man had reached out and grasped hold of the string too.

“One, two, three—” as he said three, Harry reached out and grasped the string, having just enough time to gasp in shock, before he felt a sensation like a hook behind his navel.

The next thing he knew, he was falling down onto a cobblestone street. He looked around, his eyes wide. He was somewhere else entirely! He was fairly certain that they were still in England, but he knew they had somehow moved. The place he found himself in was some sort of strange combination of old fashioned and modern buildings, houses, and shops. Before he had a chance to really absorb what had happened, he felt himself being fulled to his feet. Harry looked up, still slightly dazed, to see Sirius's hand on his upper arm, but the hold was gentle, not painful. “Sorry Harry, taking a portkey for the first time can be a little disorienting. Are you all right?”

At first, Harry didn't know how to answer. He could hear the question, understood what was being asked of him, but it was the way Sirius looked at him. Concern. Worry. It was strange to see, and for a moment the look itself overwhelmed him. He shook his head and looked back up, to see Sirius was still watching him. “I'm okay,” he said quietly, feeling genuinely conflicted about how he could readily trust a man who was practically a stranger, even if he was supposed to be his godfather.

“Come on,” Sirius said, pulling him from his thoughts, “let's go inside.” He took Harry's hand again, and led him up the staircase of a building directly in front of them, and used the same key to let themselves in. The other man walked silently, but he was watching Sirius with a small smile on his face. It looked like he was proud of Sirius for something, but Sirius hadn't exactly done anything special, had he? Harry didn't know what to make of it.

After walking up four flights of stairs with the two men, they stopped outside a highly polished wooden door with a brass '7' on the outside. Harry heard a soft tap, but couldn't see what they were doing. The door swung open and Harry stepped inside behind them, unable to stifle the soft gasp that escaped him.

It was much smaller than the house at Privet Drive, and messier. There was a small, cramped sitting room with two mismatched armchairs and a sofa around a low table that faced a fireplace. Connected to it was a small kitchen, with a rectangular wooden table and a number of things hanging from the ceiling—herbs, garlic, meat— and directly to Harry's left was a long hallway where he could see a number of closed doors. The floors appeared to be made of some kind of stone, and they had been covered by a number of rugs in varying stages of shabbiness, and none of them seemed to fit together. Some were woven with green and brown, others were made of some kind of fur, and others still looked like they had been knitted, covered with intricate designs.

The walls held a few photographs, at least, Harry thought they were photographs—did that lady just wave at him? The walls had light brown wood panelling, and the the upper half of the walls were covered in a deep maroon wallpaper. Harry thought it felt more like a little cottage than a flat.

There was no other word for it: it was cozy. Harry couldn't wipe the smile off his face, and looked up at Sirius, who had been watching him with a strange look of worry. “I really get to stay here?” He asked, unable to completely quell his excitement.

Sirius's face broke out into a smile, and Harry saw his shoulders sag a little. “Come on my lad, let's show you your room.” His room. Harry liked the sound of that. Sirius rested a hand on his shoulder and steered him down the hall. It felt different than how Uncle Vernon would do it, almost making his knees buckle as he would grab him and all but shove him forward. This was gentler, allowing Harry to walk at his own pace, and merely guiding him in the right direction.

They stopped outside the second door in the hall. It was made of the same polished wood as the front door. The other man, Remus, leaned forward and turned the knob. Sirius let go of Harry's shoulder, and with a feeling of mild nervousness, he stepped inside.

Harry's mind had gone blank with shock. He stood in a bedroom, a real bedroom. There was a bed with blue sheets and a headboard made of some kind of pale wood, a nightstand with what looked like an oil lamp, a desk and wardrobe made of the same wood. The walls were light blue, and there was a window that looked out on the street below, for the moment obscured by a set of white curtains. Harry had no idea where his voice went, he didn't know what to say or how to express what he was feeling. His feet shuffled over the plush carpets and reached out to touch the wood of the headboard, wondering if he was dreaming. It felt real.

There was a soft chuckle behind him, and he turned to see the pair smiling at him. “I take it you like it, then?” Harry nodded. He wanted to thank him, or cry, though for once not because he was sad. But for some reason he felt like he couldn't talk. Sirius seemed to understand though.

Sirius showed Harry the rest of the flat, where his and Remus's room was, as well as the loo. Harry was still reeling from everything that had happened, especially after Sirius had opened the wardrobe to show him that it was filled with clothes for him, in his size. Some were normal things, like T-shirts, jeans, and pyjamas, but there were also strange garments that almost looked like dresses. In the meantime Remus had wandered off, though Harry was too overwhelmed to pay much mind to it.

“It's not much,” Sirius said after the small tour, “but this is your home too, Harry. We are thrilled that you're here.” His godfather smiled at him, and gripped his shoulder again. “Why don't you go and try on some of your new clothes, then come out to the kitchen for something to eat, all right? We have some—er—stuff to talk about with you.”

“All right,” he said, still slightly in a daze. He felt as though he had been picked up and tossed about by a whirlwind. It wasn't the sequence of events that made him dizzy, but what Sirius had said. We are thrilled that you're here. Harry hoped he meant it. Sirius gave him one last smile and walked off, and Harry walked to his room. It still sounded strange to him; while the morning had been wonderful, it still didn't feel entirely real.

Harry shuffled through the clothes in his new wardrobe nervously. It still felt a little strange, even after his godfather had said it was for him, it almost didn't feel like it. He eyed the strange dresses for a moment. Did Sirius have a niece or something? He ran his fingers over the fabric to find that some were made of some heavy material, while others were thin and very soft. He shook himself out of his daze, and selected a red T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

It still was amazing to Harry that the clothes fit. He didn't have to roll up the trouser cuffs five times to keep from tripping over his own feet, and the shirt was fitted, but not too tight. He looked down at himself, hardly daring to believe that Sirius had bought things for him, someone he barely knew. Why would Sirius bother to do that? Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia knew Harry particularly well, and never bought him a thing. It made Harry feel strange, and not for the first time he wondered if this was some sort of hyper-realistic dream.

Remembering that he couldn't stand around staring at his clothes all day, Harry forced himself to walk out of his room—was it really his?—and he made his way towards the kitchen. He was a little nervous. Harry knew when grownups wanted to talk it was never a good thing. It meant someone was in the hospital, or in trouble, or something just as bad. He had heard his uncle talk to Dudley about things like that, in gentle tones he had never used with Harry.

When Harry entered the kitchen, he saw Sirius leaning against a wooden table with his arms crossed, and Remus carrying a large plate of sandwiches from the kitchen counter to the table, where three plates and two jugs sat. He chewed at the inside of his lip nervously, uncertain how to make his presence known. “Harry!” Sirius said a second later when he noticed him standing uncertainly in the doorway, “come on in. No need to look so nervous, everything's fine.” Something in the way Sirius didn't meet his eyes told Harry that something was most likely not fine.

He stepped over the threshold as the two men sat down at the little table, and Harry climbed into the third chair. Sirius stacked two sandwiches on his plate, and filled his glass with milk. Harry watched quietly as the two adults served themselves, pouring an amber, foamy drink into their glasses. He thought it might be beer with the way it foamed, but the smell was sweeter somehow, like caramel and barley.

“Tuck in, Harry. They don't bite back.” Sirius laughed at himself, while Remus rolled his eyes. Harry bit into the sandwich, ham and cheese, and eyed the adults nervously. They had said they needed to talk to him, but so far they seemed more focused on their food and drink. Harry hadn't realized how famished he actually was, and was already on the second sandwich on the plate before either of them spoke.

“Harry,” Remus said gently after a moment, while Sirius looked at him with a strange, sad expression. “We wanted to talk to you about a few things, in particular why you're here instead of with your aunt and uncle.” He paused, and Harry felt his stomach clench with worry. Suddenly, he didn't feel so hungry.

“When you were a baby, you were left with your relatives by a man named Albus Dumbledore. He felt that that was the safest place for you.” Harry frowned a little at that, but reigned in his urge to ask questions as he waited for Remus continue. “But your relatives weren't—er—keen on taking you in, and they decided to ask the Ministry of Ma—er, the government to find you an, erm, friend of sorts.” Harry blinked. Since when did the Dursleys care whether or not Harry had friends?

“What that means,” Sirius added in, though his voice was harsher than it had been before, “is that they wanted to find you someone for you to be very close with, and when you get older, live together.”

“Like you an' Remus?”

“Exactly,” Sirius seemed to relax a little, but his face still looked sad to Harry. “This friend is someone we're taking you to meet soon, so you can get to know them.”

“What if we don't get on?” Harry asked, his voice sounded very small in his ears.

“Let's wait and see before we worry about that.” Sirius offered him a small smile, “his name is Draco Malfoy, and he's from a very different kind of family.” Remus snorted as though something was funny, but Harry didn't understand what Sirius meant. Apparently sensing his confusion, Sirius continued, “for one, they're very rich. For two, they have very strong feelings about people who don't live like them. They think certain ways of living are wrong, and they don't agree with interacting with certain kinds of people.”

Harry frowned, and tried to wrap his head around what he was being told. “Like nancy boys?” he asked, making both men start a little. “I heard Uncle Vernon talk about them before, how they're wrong, or bad, or something. Is it like that?”

Sirius suddenly looked very sad, though Harry couldn't figure out exactly why. “Yes, something like that. The Malfoy family feels very strongly about people like—like your mother.” Sirius was almost whispering by the end, and Harry almost dropped the bit of sandwich in his hand.

“My mum? But...why? And if they don't like people like her, why do they want me to be friends with their son?”

“It's complicated Harry,” Remus said, and Harry frowned. He hated it when grownups said that. “When your uncle asked us to do this, the government picks your—er, friend. Once they're selected, there's no way to change it. So the Malfoy family has to learn to be more accepting.” His cheek twitched a little, as though he wanted to smile, but it didn't look like a happy expression to Harry at all.

“But why don't they like my mum?” Harry felt suddenly like he had eaten something alive and wiggly. He didn't like the feeling.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a look. Both of them looked very serious all of a sudden, and it didn't make Harry feel any better. After a few moments of silence, Sirius turned back to Harry, who had been picking at the crust of his sandwich absent-mindedly. “You mother was a witch.” Sirius paused, and Harry blinked in confusion. Instantly his head was filled with images of an old crone with warts and a black cat. “Your mother was born to a family of non-magic people,” Sirius continued, though he no longer looked happy. “We call them Muggles.” He paused, watching Harry with a strange look in his eyes, like he was scared. “Your mother was what's called a Muggle-Born. Your father was a wizard.”

“I—but—what...” It was too much. Was Sirius really saying what he thought he was saying?

“That means you, Harry, are a wizard too.” Remus said, smiling at him in a quiet, peaceful sort of way. While Sirius looked very anxious, Remus seemed very calm by comparison. The conflicting personalities made it hard for Harry to digest what he was being told.

“I'm a what? But, how can I be? How come no one ever told me?” The questions tumbled out of him one after the other in a rush. Harry was feeling very strange, as though he was being pulled apart inside.

“Your aunt and uncle are afraid of people like us—wizards. I don't know why they didn't tell you, but I can assure you that you are most definitely a wizard.” Remus smiled kindly, but Harry looked down at his hands. Could it be true? It felt real, but at the same time, how could it be?

“Harry?” he looked up and saw that the pair were watching him worriedly. “Are you all right?”

“I—this doesn't seem real. I thought wizards and—and things were pretend.” He trailed off, looking back to his hands. He pulled his legs up onto the chair and folded them under him. He heard Sirius chuckle and he looked back up to see him drawing a narrow piece of wood out of his pocket—a wand. Harry gaped as he flicked it at the platter that held the leftover sandwiches, and suddenly it was lifted up on two narrow pieces of metal, and two more narrow bits of metal grew out on either side of it. It took Harry a moment to realize that the platter suddenly had little arms and legs, as it walked across the table towards him, reached up, and handed him one of the sandwiches. Still staring at the platter, gaping at it with his mouth hanging open, he accepted the sandwich and watched as it sat back down on the table, the arms and legs disappearing.

Harry didn't eat the food that had been handed to him, but instead set it down on his plate. He felt overwhelmed, and definitely not hungry. “If my mum and dad were both wizards, and you say I am too, why wouldn't this family like me?” Harry spoke quietly. He wasn't used to asking questions and not being yelled at for it. What if he asked the wrong thing and they sent him back to his aunt and uncle?

Sirius didn't answer right away, and instead glanced towards Remus, who nodded slightly. “Because of your mother's family, the Malfoys don't see her as a real witch. They see you as what's called a Half-Blood, meaning half magical, and half not.”

“That's stupid,” Harry grumbled, crossing his arms.

“Yes Harry,” Sirius said with a laugh, “it is.”
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The Stag and The Snake