Snakes

Snakes, Harry soon learned, were transient creatures. Khasa hadn't stuck around long, and neither had his successor, Xelos. They stayed with him about half a year each, and during that time, Harry had become quite fond of them - more fond than he'd ever been of any human being. Snakes were much better people than actual people, he had quickly decided; it was no coincidence that the language of serpents had no word for 'freak'.

They had other unsavoury words for sure, but the absence of that one word was enough to make Harry believe that, in general, snakes were far superior in moral quality than human beings. They understood little of the cares and troubles of the human world, and Harry found that he preferred that - spending time with the little creatures provided an escape from the drear ordeal that was his life.

They showed him kindness no human ever had, and accepted him without judgement, and with an innocence he was sure humans weren't capable of. He enjoyed their company more than anything - there was nothing that made him happier than chatting with them cheerily while he knelt over Aunt Petunia's garden, pulling weeds, and listening to their skillful narrations when he sat on the grass eating his lunch. Snakes had the best stories to tell; Khasa in particular had quite the silver tongue.

:It had been snowing heavily since three days prior and the winds had come in naught more than ghostly wisps, doing little more than whispering sweet nothings to no one. It was truly beautiful.

:But that's not the point, is it? For despite the tranquility of the forest of fathomless trees, my foe, that persistent viper, stood in my way. He was larger, faster, and to the outside observer, it would have seemed I had no chance to win. Defeat was imminent. But the outside observer would not know that I was, in fact, far cleverer than he.

For you see, I had not only noticed the abundance of snow and absence of wind, but also deduced the strategic advantage the weather had made available to me. It took little more than the tap of my tail on the trunk of a young yew tree to send a great torrent of snow from its place on the tree top to the ground where my foe stood, waiting to strike. The snow engulfed him quickly, giving me the chance to slither away unharmed. So you see, Harry never be strong when you can be clever.:

It turned out snakes live quite exciting lives, what with their hunting small rodents and fleeing from birds of prey, not to mention fighting with other snakes. But Khasa and Xelos were young, and by the time a few months had passed, their collection of stories ran dry.

It was then that Harry noticed their sluggish movements, and their volatile mood swings; as time wore on they became more distracted, distant. In the end, it became evident that they couldn't stay with him – it wasn't right for them, lingering in one place so long; they needed to move on, and Harry needed to stay, trapped during the day in Classroom 5a, and during the night in the cupboard under the stairs of Number 4 Privet Drive.

He wouldn't deny it – when Khasa first left, he was heartbroken. He had never felt anything like the pain of losing a friend before, and he was not prepared for it at all. But he was a better person for it, or so he told himself.

He was one step closer to being a real person, not a mere freak, for he now knew of the pain that seemed to haunt all normal people. It wasn't the fear of being hunted, nor the weight of the knowledge that he would never amount to more than being a worthless freak – it was the pain of loss, a universal ailment of the human race.

Grief had always confused him – he didn't really understand the concept. Often, his mind would wander to the stricken faces of the characters of Aunt Petunia's soap operas – he would commit the raw emotion on their faces to memory, and after his chores were finished and he was finally allowed to return to his cupboard, he would return to these memories, revelling in the unfamiliar sentiments those skilled actors portrayed.

Harry was familiar with pain. Intimately familiar, he'd dare say, but there was more to it than that. There was something deeper in the expressions of the blonde man and woman on the telly, as they mourned their four year old daughter – they knew something that he didn't.

Harry knew loneliness, too; the pain of absence. And yet, the grim faces of the funeral attendees held something more. There was something important he was missing, some shared human experience common enough that professional actors could capture it on the television screen, but profound enough that the full implications of it eluded Harry constantly.

But he finally understood. The departure of Khasa left a gaping hole deep in Harry's chest – a dull ache and a sharp feeling of dread – the realization that he had had something wonderful, and would never have it again. Khasa was not coming back.

Xelos's arrival filled the hole, but not entirely. It was just different. Xelos's presence cured the illness that was loneliness, but his presence didn't erase the grief. It was then that Harry came to understand that friends could not be replaced, a lesson that he would surely take to heart.

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