They didn't speak. Not because there was nothing to say, but because words couldn't fix what the world had already broken.
The quiet lingered. Then—movement.
A cool, sleek body slid carefully from the folds of Void's shirt, scales glinting faintly in the pale moonlight seeping through the cracked window. The python uncoiled with slow grace, its head lifting, tongue flicking at the dry air of the cramped attic.
Harry gasped softly, his wide eyes fixed on the serpent. "You… you brought it with you?"
Void didn't answer immediately. He simply met Harry's gaze with calm certainty. "It needed a place to hide."
The python's voice slithered into their ears, audible only to those who could hear the ancient tongue.
"Safe… for now. But I cannot stay. The walls here are too tight, too filled with eyes and fear. I must find a place where stone and shadow do not bind me."
Harry leaned forward, whispering in awe. "You're leaving?"
The serpent's black eyes turned toward him, gleaming with quiet wisdom.
"Not leaving forever, Speaker. I will remain near. This land has forests, rivers, forgotten tunnels. I will make them mine."
It shifted, turning its great head toward Void. Its gaze lingered on him longer, deeper, tasting something unseen.
"You… bearer of old blood. Shadows cling to you not by chance, but by choice. Within you stirs a power that remembers what the world has forgotten."
Void's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't look away.
The python lowered its head, tongue brushing the air near Void's chest.
"And there…" it hissed softly, "a little one. A spark curled in your pocket, too young yet to name itself. It has chosen you. Guard it well, for such choices are never made lightly. What sleeps now will one day awaken, and when it does… it will be bound to you as master."
Void glanced down instinctively, slipping a hand to the pocket of his loose shirt. His fingers brushed something faintly warm, pulsing as though alive. He froze, breath catching.
The python's gaze flicked between them both, slow and knowing.
"It means paths are shifting. The world remembers through you. But beware—remembering is not always kind."
It began to coil back toward the narrow crack of the window, muscles flexing with silent strength. The wood creaked faintly under its weight, but the serpent moved with care, slipping into the night without a sound.
Just before its tail vanished, its voice whispered one last time, softer than the wind:
"Call for me if silence grows too deep. I will hear. Until then, guard the little one… and guard each other."
Then it was gone.
The attic was still again.
Harry exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Void… what's in your pocket?
Void didn't answer right away. His hand lingered over the warmth, the pulse. Slowly, he drew it out—revealing a tiny black snake, coiled tightly. Two small bumps crowned its head, and along its body ran faint streaks of red and purple, glowing softly in the dim light.
Harry's eyes widened. "That's… alive?"
Void studied the little serpent in silence, then tucked it close against his chest once more. His voice was low and certain.
"It chose me."
Neither spoke after that. They sat together in the dark, the house creaking above them, shadows curling soft around their shoulders. For the first time in a long while, the attic didn't feel entirely empty.
Hours passed. Their stomachs ached.
Harry's growled loud enough to echo, and he ducked his head in shame. Void's eyes shifted toward him, calm and unreadable. Then, on the second night, the air shimmered faintly around Void's fingers. There was no wand. No spell. Just instinct.
A crust of bread and a bruised apple appeared on the dusty floor between them.
Harry blinked. "Did you—?"
Void shrugged. "It just happens."
Harry hesitated, then picked up the food and offered the larger piece to Void.
"I don't like apples," Void murmured.
"Still. We can share."
Void accepted the smaller half with a quiet nod. They ate in silence. It wasn't much—but it was something.
Later that night, just before the house fell completely silent, the lock on the attic door clicked softly.
The door opened barely a crack. A thin hand slipped inside a plate—one sandwich, and a glass of milk that wobbled with the movement.
Petunia didn't look in. She didn't speak. She just left it.
One plate. One glass. For two boys.
Only when Vernon and Dudley were away—or asleep—would she come. Quiet as a shadow, just as they had been told to be. Sometimes it was cold toast, other times leftover vegetables. Never enough. Never a word.
But it was something.
The days after the zoo were different. The Dursleys had always been harsh, but now a new edge sharpened every word, every glance. Vernon, red-faced with fury, muttered often about "unnaturalness" and "discipline," while Petunia's lips stayed pressed in that thin, silent line that said she agreed but dared not speak aloud.
Harry and Void's stay in the attic became permanent after one particular night, when Vernon had guests. The cupboard under the stairs, once their cage, was no longer enough.
The boys were growing—longer legs, sharper elbows, and a stubborn refusal to stay bent and small inside the cramped space. Worse still, they had learned how to slip out when no one was looking. A weak latch, a hinge that groaned at the wrong time—little flaws they could exploit, even if only for a few stolen moments of air and freedom.
Vernon would not allow that anymore.
So, one evening, after Dudley had been tucked safely into his room, the boys were ordered up the staircase. Vernon's grip was iron, one thick hand clamped on each of their shoulders as he shoved them higher and higher until the hallway narrowed, and the hatch to the attic loomed above.
The ladder creaked down. Dust rained softly from the beams.
"In here," Vernon growled, his face dark with rage and something like fear. "No more chances. No more wandering about. You'll stay where you belong."
Harry hesitated, but Void stepped forward first, his movements silent, steady, as if daring Vernon to push harder. Harry followed quickly, not wanting to be left behind.
The attic was nothing more than shadows and cobwebs, a space meant for old boxes and forgotten things. Its cracked window let in only a sliver of pale moonlight. The air was dry, heavy with dust, and every sound seemed swallowed by the wooden beams above.
The ladder was pulled away. The hatch slammed shut.
The lock clicked into place with cold finality.
For the Dursleys, the attic was easier—high, hidden, out of sight, and impossible for the boys to escape without being noticed.
For Harry and Void, it was exile.
A few days later, the tiny snake stirred fully awake. At first, Harry had trouble spotting it at all. Whenever it slithered into a corner or coiled near the beams, it seemed to vanish completely, blending into the gloom like living shadow. Harry often squinted into the darkness, muttering, "Where'd it go?" only for Void's eyes to track it easily, sharp and unerring.
Shadow.
That was the name Void gave it. The little serpent seemed to accept it instantly, flicking its tongue in approval whenever he whispered the word. Shadow curled most often around Void's wrist or slid under his sleeve, perfectly content as long as it stayed pressed close to him.
One afternoon, when Vernon was away on a business trip and Dudley was shrieking with laughter somewhere outside, Petunia crept up the attic ladder with another plate. She slid the hatch open just wide enough to slip the food through.
Her eyes flicked up—and froze.
There, coiled tightly around Void's hand, was a black serpent, its red-and-purple streaks faintly glimmering in the dim light. Its eyes locked on her instantly, tongue flicking in warning.
Petunia's breath caught. For a moment, Harry thought she might scream or slam the hatch shut. But instead, she stood still—eyes wide, lips trembling, yet silent.
Because she remembered.
Her sister Amara's husband had one as well. A snake that followed him like a shadow.
For Petunia, the memory was bitter, sharp with envy and grief. But as she looked at the serpent coiled protectively around Void's hand, she did not scream, nor run. She simply slid the plate inside, her fingers trembling faintly.
Because she remembered.
It wasn't just James Potter she thought of, though she had always resented her sister's smug husband. James had carried himself with an arrogant ease, always smiling as though he knew a joke at her expense, always treating her as though her lack of magic made her small.
No—this memory was different. Stranger. Older, half-buried beneath years of silence.
She had once met Amara's husband. A man who unsettled her in ways she couldn't name. Half-Asian, half-British, he carried himself with the same quiet confidence as James, though his eyes were sharper, colder—more calculating. And yet, unlike James, he had never treated her as if she were beneath him. He was easy to speak with, polite in ways that surprised her, even though she had bristled at the world he belonged to.
Petunia had never understood the details of his relation—why he had been called James's brother when he looked so different. But then, she had never cared to ask. She hadn't gotten along with Lily; she had wanted no part of her world.
And yet she remembered him vividly.
He had borne the same name as her nephew—Void. A coincidence that still unsettled her. And coiled around his wrist had been a black serpent unlike any she had ever seen. Its scales gleamed like obsidian, and two small horns curved elegantly from its head.
The sight of Shadow now—so like that serpent—brought the memory rushing back.
Her breath caught, but she forced her lips into a thin, silent line and withdrew her hand from the hatch. She closed it without a word.
Shadow flicked its tongue once more, then relaxed, curling tighter against Void's skin.
Harry glanced at his cousin. "She didn't… freak out."
Void's gaze lingered on the closed hatch, unreadable as ever. His hand drifted over the little snake, calming it with a soft touch.
"She knows something," Void murmured at last, voice low, almost like an echo.
Harry frowned, confused, but before he could ask, the hatch creaked open again. Petunia's thin, pale face appeared in the narrow gap, her eyes sharp and unsettled.
Her gaze flicked once more to the serpent coiled around Void's hand, and for the first time, she spoke. Her voice was hushed, strained, as if even the dust of the attic might betray her words.
"Do not let Vernon or Dudley see it," she whispered quickly. "Keep it hidden. Always."
Then, just as suddenly, she pulled back. The hatch closed with a quiet click, leaving behind only silence.
Shadow flicked its tongue, curling tighter against Void's skin as if it understood.
Harry stared at the hatch, wide-eyed. "Why would she—?"
Void's expression stayed unreadable, his hand stroking the serpent's scales with calm certainty. "Because she knows more than she wants to."
The house below groaned as the Dursleys moved about their lives, but for the two boys in the attic—one with a serpent on his wrist, the other with a heart full of questions—things had already shifted.