Chapter Text
Petunia Dursley gasped, her heart hammering violently against her ribs as she stared at the wicker basket resting on her pristine welcome mat.
It was barely dawn. The streetlamps still glowed weakly beneath a grey sky, and the familiar clink of milk bottles had yet to echo down Privet Drive. The neighbourhood remained asleep behind drawn curtains and carefully tended hedges.
Yet there, on the Dursleys’ doorstep, sat a basket.
A basket containing a baby.
For several seconds, Petunia simply stared.
The infant slept soundly beneath layers of blankets far too lovely to belong to any family who would just leave their baby abandoned. A shock of black hair poked out from beneath a knitted cap. One tiny fist protruded from the blankets, curled loosely against a rosy cheek.
Then Petunia noticed the letter tucked beneath the handle.
The breath left her lungs.
“No.”
The word escaped as a whisper.
No.
No, no, no.
Not him.
Not here.
Panic crashed over her so suddenly her knees nearly buckled.
If the neighbours saw—
If Mrs. Next Door happened to glance through her curtains—
If someone spotted a baby left outside Number Four—
Questions would follow.
Questions Petunia wanted absolutely no part in answering.
Acting on pure instinct, she darted forward, snatched up the basket, and hurried inside.
The door slammed shut.
The bolt clicked into place.
Only then did she dare look at him again.
Harry Potter blinked awake.
And stared directly at her with Lily’s eyes.
The first week was awkward.
The second was uncomfortable.
The third became unbearable.
The baby occupied a makeshift crib in the sitting room. Petunia insisted it was temporary. Vernon insisted it would remain temporary.
Neither acknowledged the uncomfortable reality that the child had nowhere else to go.
The strangest part wasn’t the magic.
Not at first.
It was how easily he fit into the house.
Far too easily.
Dudley adored him.
The two boys were barely more than babies, yet somehow they found each other whenever Petunia looked away.
She would place Dudley in one room and Harry in another.
Minutes later they would be together.
Always together.
One morning she discovered them asleep beneath the coffee table, Dudley’s tiny hand tangled in Harry’s blanket.
Another afternoon she found Dudley trying to share mashed banana with him.
Most alarming of all, Harry laughed.
Only with Dudley.
Never for anyone else.
Never for her.
Never for Vernon.
Yet whenever Dudley babbled nonsense at him, Harry would smile.
And when Harry smiled, Petunia saw Lily.
The same crooked grin.
The same bright eyes.
The same unbearable familiarity.
It made her stomach twist.
One rainy afternoon, Dudley was inconsolable.
Petunia spent nearly an hour carrying him around the sitting room.
Nothing worked.
Not toys.
Not bottles.
Not rocking.
Not singing.
The moment she set him down, however, Harry crawled over.
Slowly.
Silently.
The black-haired infant reached out one small hand.
Pat.
Right on Dudley’s head.
The crying stopped.
Immediately.
Dudley blinked.
Harry blinked.
Then Dudley burst into delighted giggles.
Harry laughed too.
Soon the pair were rolling across the carpet, shrieking with childish joy.
Petunia stood frozen in the doorway.
For one strange moment she imagined a different future.
The cousins growing up together.
Birthday parties.
School photographs.
Family holidays.
Harry sitting at their dinner table.
Dudley calling him his brother.
A family.
The image settled over her so suddenly it almost hurt.
Then the mantel clock began chiming backward.
Dong. Dong. Dong.
The hands spun in reverse.
Petunia screamed.
The fantasy shattered instantly.
After that, the incidents multiplied.
Lights flickered.
Doors opened by themselves.
Objects moved.
Harry never seemed aware of it.
That somehow made it worse.
The magic happened when he was frightened.
Or upset.
Or laughing.
As though it spilled from him without permission.
One evening Vernon entered the sitting room and froze.
Every toy in the room was floating.
Not high.
Only a few inches above the carpet.
A wooden train.
A stuffed elephant.
Several blocks.
All hovering gently in the air while Dudley sat beneath them clapping his hands.
Harry giggled from his blanket.
The toys dropped the second Vernon shouted.
That night, Vernon and Petunia argued long after the boys had fallen asleep.
The television blared loudly in the next room.
Neither trusted the walls.
“It’s getting worse,” Vernon hissed.
“He doesn’t mean to.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Petunia folded her arms tightly across her chest.
“It isn’t hurting anyone.”
Vernon stared at her.
For a moment she thought he might actually agree.
Then he said quietly:
“I found Dudley trying to jump off the sofa today.”
Petunia felt her stomach drop.
“What?”
“He said Harry flies.”
Silence.
“Harry doesn’t fly."
“No.”
Vernon’s face darkened.
“But Dudley thinks he does.”
The words hung heavily between them.
“He worships that boy."
Petunia looked away.
Because she had seen it too.
Dudley’s face lighting up whenever Harry entered the room.
The way he crawled after him.
The way he laughed harder around him than anyone else.
The boys loved each other.
And somehow that frightened Petunia more than the magic.
Because children grew attached.
Children grew protective.
Children remembered.
When Vernon finally said they had to get rid of him, Petunia didn’t answer immediately.
She stood alone in the kitchen after he’d gone upstairs.
The house was silent.
Slowly she wandered into the sitting room.
The two boys were asleep.
Dudley somehow no longer in his room.
Harry had somehow escaped his crib.
Again.
He lay curled beside Dudley on the rug.
Dudley’s arm rested across his chest.
Their foreheads touched.
Petunia stared.
For one terrible moment she saw not Harry.
Not Lily’s son.
Just a little boy.
A child who had lost everyone.
A child who trusted the adults around him completely.
A child who had no idea he was unwanted.
Harry stirred slightly.
His eyes opened.
Green.
Lily’s eyes.
He smiled at her.
Sleepy.
Trusting.
Completely innocent.
Petunia’s chest tightened.
Then she remembered standing alone while her parents praised Lily.
Remembered watching owls arrive.
Remembered being left behind.
Remembered every single time she had been ordinary while Lily had been special.
The warmth vanished.
When she looked at Harry again, she saw only danger.
Only magic.
Only the thing that might steal her son from her.
“You won’t overshadow my Dudley,” she whispered.
Harry only yawned.
And fell back asleep.
An hour later, Vernon carried him to the car.
Harry never woke up.
Not as the engine started.
Not as Privet Drive disappeared behind them.
Not as the roads narrowed and the sea began to roar somewhere beyond the darkness.
Vernon glanced once into the rear-view mirror.
The boy remained asleep.
Tiny.
Defenceless.
Unaware.
For the first time all evening, Vernon felt something unpleasant stir in his stomach.
Guilt.
He crushed it immediately.
The child was dangerous.
Abnormal.
A threat to his family.
This was for Dudley.
For Petunia.
For all of them.
The sea crashed violently against the cliffs below.
Vernon switched off the engine.
Opened the passenger door.
And lifted the sleeping child into his arms.
The wind howled.
The waves churned.
And far above the dark water, hidden beneath blankets and dreams, slept the boy who had already survived death once.
The sea, as it turned out, would prove no more successful than the darkest wizard in Britain.
But let’s not get too ahead of ourselves just yet.
It truly was a beautiful day in Ithaca. The skies were a brilliant, uninterrupted blue, the sun baked the earth in a comforting warmth, and children darted through the stone streets, their laughter echoing as they chased one another.
Yet, despite the flawless afternoon, Lady Penelope could find no joy in it.
She had been unhappy often these past months—a quiet, heavy sorrow that broke Odysseus’s heart more than he cared to admit. For his wife—his love, his world—to look so hollow was enough to make even Polites lose his easy smile, which was no small feat.
Odysseus had tried everything to ease her aching heart. Her favourite meals were prepared daily by the palace cooks, the finest musicians played sweet melodies through the halls, and he had even prayed to Eileithyia herself in the hopes of a miracle.
Nothing worked.
Of course, he understood the root of her grief. They had yet to bear a child.
Years of trying had brought them nothing but empty cradles, and the persistent ache of it had begun to wear them both thin. It felt uniquely cruel. Neither cared whether their bloodline continued through a boy or a girl; they only wished to be parents. Yet fate seemed fiercely determined to deny them.
Penelope sat quietly beside him beneath the shade of an ancient olive tree, her gaze distant as children’s laughter drifted from beyond the palace gardens. Once upon a time, she would have smiled at the sound, her eyes bright with the anticipation of their own family. Now, she only watched the horizon in silence, her fingers twisting absently in the fine fabric of her dress.
Carefully, Odysseus reached out, taking her hand and bringing it gently to his lips.
“Careful, my love,” he murmured, his voice low and grounding. “If you frown any harder, the olive trees might wither from the gloom.”
Penelope lowered her eyes, a shadow crossing her face. “Then perhaps the gods should give me a reason to smile.”
His expression softened at once. “Am I not reason enough?” He squeezed her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles with a soft chuckle.
That earned a faint, flickering spark of amusement from her.
"Your arrogance needs to be studied," she muttered, though a tiny smile finally graced her lips.
Odysseus grinned, leaning in close. "It's called confidence, and it's highly effective. Did it work?"
"Not even close. But nice try."
She wanted to smile for him, of course she did just like she wanted to believe that one of these days they would have a tiny echo of themselves wobbling around the palace floor. But it hurt to keep hearing the same empty phrases over and over again.
‘Any day now.’
‘Good things take time.’
‘Patience is the ultimate lesson before motherhood.’
As though Penelope lacked patience! She spent hours weaving intricate tapestries at her loom, pulling thread after thread with meticulous precision. If nothing else, she knew patience intimately. The words were meant kindly, she understood that, but kindness did not blunt their sting.
Before Odysseus could offer another comforting word, a sharp, piercing wail shattered the afternoon quiet.
Penelope stiffened instantly.
Odysseus lifted his head, his sharp instincts kicking in. “Did you hear that?”
She snapped her gaze to him, eyes wide and alert. “Is that—”
The cry rang out again, echoing from the treeline. A baby.
Penelope sat bolt upright, confusion and sudden adrenaline flashing across her face as she looked to her husband for confirmation. “There it is again,” she whispered.
Odysseus was already rising to his feet. “Is that... the cry of a child?”
Penelope was up even faster than him, rushing toward the sound with her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. Was there a toddler lost in the brush? Hurt? Or worse—abandoned?
The frantic cries led her directly to the edge of the rushing river.
“Oh, Gods—”
She dropped to her knees at the muddy water's edge, her hands instinctively reaching into a small, waterlogged basket snagged against the reeds. Carefully, she scooped the tear-streaked, shivering babe into her arms, pulling him tightly against her chest.
The infant blinked up at her, his crying ceasing the exact moment she held him.
Penelope stared, breathless.
He possessed the most striking eyes she had ever seen. They were a brilliant, deep emerald—vibrant and alive.
“Heavens above,” she breathed softly, brushing a stray lock of damp, dark hair from his forehead. “Where ever did you come from, little one?”
As though the baby understood the question, he let out a soft, bubbling giggle.
The sound melted something frozen deep within her chest.
Her fingers smoothed through his unruly hair once more, stopping when she noticed a peculiar mark resting against his brow—a thin, angry scar shaped like a lightning bolt.
“Well, that’s a concerning thing for someone so small to carry,” she murmured, tracing the jagged line lightly with her fingertip.
The instant her skin brushed the scar, a violent jolt of pure energy shot through her. The unseen force flapped her cloak and made her gasp, but the true shock came from what happened next. Panic seized her as she braced for the fragile child to slip from her grip—except he didn't fall.
No… quite the contrary really. The baby was floating?
Penelope could only stare, frozen in sheer disbelief. The child simply hovered in the air before her, suspended by nothing at all. He waved his tiny hands lazily through the breeze, bubbling happily as if gravity were merely a suggestion.
Perhaps she would have thought herself mad, or cursed, had a beautiful, blinding realization not immediately bloomed in her chest.
A gift!
Yes, that must be it. The Gods had finally answered her prayers.
“Penelope!” Odysseus shouted from behind, panic lacing his voice as he burst through the brush toward the riverbank.
He had barely taken three steps when he stopped dead in his tracks. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword, his mind struggling to process the sight before him.
A floating... was that a baby? A floating baby?!
Not falling. Not held aloft by divine string.
Floating.
The infant drifted a little higher, tiny feet kicking the open air.
Penelope let out a soft, awed gasp, entirely devoid of fear. “How extraordinary.”
Cautiously, she extended her fingers beneath him, gently nudging his side.
The child spun lazily in the air, letting out a delighted crow of laughter.
Odysseus stared, his legendary wit failing him entirely. “Penelope,” he said, his voice remarkably controlled despite the absurdity of the situation. “There is a baby in the air.”
"Yes, yes! He's floating, Odysseus! I can't believe it myself—a flying child? It's utterly absurd!" Penelope’s voice was breathless, the words tumbling out of her in a joyful rush Odysseus had never heard before. "But look at him, Ody! With all our prayers, he must be a gift from Olympus! He just has to be!"
“Isn't it just marvellous?” she asked, looking up at him with tear-filled, luminous eyes.
The moment she reopened her arms, the child drifted naturally toward her, settling against her chest as though he had been molded to fit right there. Penelope melted instantly, cradling him close and burying her face in his soft hair. “Oh… oh, he’s precious.”
Odysseus watched the boy burrow contentedly beneath his wife's chin. The tight knot of sorrow that had plagued Penelope for months vanished, replaced by a blinding, ferocious maternal love. Standing there, the King of Ithaca felt something profound shift in his own chest.
A son. The Gods had given them a son.
He made a silent mental note to have Athena pass on his gratitude to whoever it was that answered their prayers.
“What should we name him?” Penelope whispered, gently rocking the baby.
Now that was the golden-tripod question, wasn’t it?
“A little warrior, hm?” Odysseus mused, stepping closer. In a world of monsters and fickle deities, their boy would need strength.
“Of course,” Penelope replied fondly, looking up at him with a soft smile. “He’ll be simply legendary.”
"Then perhaps... Telemachus?" Odysseus offered thoughtfully, his eyes locked onto his new son. "He must have come to us from afar, and he will one day be a great protector.” Thus fighting from afar.
"Telemachus," Penelope repeated, testing the weight of the name on her tongue. "It’s perfect. Do you like that, little one? Telemachus?"
The baby let out a soft, milk-drunk babble at the sound of her voice—which, to both proud parents, was as good as a resounding yes.
"Then Telemachus will be your name, my son," Odysseus said softly. He reached down, letting the boy's tiny, miraculously warm fingers curl tightly around his thumb.
"And a wonderful warrior you will make."
Telemachus only giggled, letting out a wide, sweeping yawn before closing his emerald eyes, finally safe at home.
The family stood together in heavy silence, the sea wind tugging softly at their clothes as the docks bustled around them. It all felt strangely distant. The shouting soldiers, the creaking ships, the crash of waves against wood. And yet, none of it seemed to touch the small space the three of them occupied.
Penelope held Telemachus against her chest, one hand spread protectively across his stomach with his back to her chest so he could face his father properly. The child blinked up at Odysseus with wide, curious eyes, utterly unaware of the weight hanging in the air around him.
Penelope, however, knew it all too well.
Her gaze searched her husband’s face desperately, as though memorising every line before the sea could steal him away from her. She looked pale beneath the morning light, worry etched so deeply into her features it hurt to witness.
Odysseus noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He stepped closer, lifting a hand to cradle the side of her face before pressing a lingering kiss against her temple. His lips remained there for a brief second longer than necessary, almost reluctant to part from her.
“I love you both so much,” he murmured quietly.
The words shattered something fragile inside her.
Penelope sucked in a sharp breath, eyes glistening immediately. “Oh, Ody…” Her voice trembled despite her efforts to steady it. “Must you truly go?” Her fingers tightened slightly around Telemachus. “You’re a father now.”
The plea was futile and they both knew it.
A child did not erase promises sworn before kings. A wife did not undo fate. The war had been set into motion long before Telemachus had ever drawn breath.
Still, she asked anyway.
Odysseus closed his eyes briefly, as though the sound of her voice alone exhausted him. For a moment he said nothing at all. Then, gently, he reached for Telemachus and lifted him from her arms.
The baby immediately grabbed fistfuls of his father’s chiton, holding on tight.
“You know I have to, my love,” Odysseus said softly. The words carried no grand conviction anymore—only a heavy, quiet resignation. “I made a vow.”
The sentence hung between them like a formal condemnation.
He exhaled slowly, defeated by the reality of his duty, before lifting Telemachus high into the air. The child let out a soft, delighted squeal at the sudden movement, his tiny legs kicking the open air.
“You’ll look after your mother for me, won’t you, my joy?” Odysseus asked, forcing a desperate warmth into his voice. “Until I return.”
Telemachus stopped kicking. He stared down at his father with those strange, sharp emerald eyes. For one absurd, fleeting moment, Odysseus felt an icy chill down his spine—a sudden, fierce certainty that the boy understood every single word.
As though he knew the stakes.
Then, breaking the solemn mood entirely, the child reached both hands forward and clumsily squished Odysseus’s cheeks together with all the surprising strength a baby could muster. A wide, toothless grin spread across Telemachus’s face.
Odysseus barked out a startled laugh, the sound warm and genuine despite the sorrow pressing against his ribs. “Hah! Such a spirited lad, aren’t we?”
The baby answered with another happy, bubbling noise, patting rhythmically at his father’s face like a conqueror claiming a prize.
The sight before Penelope ached almost as much as it comforted her. Her husband laughing softly, their son clinging to him without a shred of fear. Her boys. Her entire world stood right there on the wooden docks.
Odysseus—clever, weary, and far too willing to carry burdens that should never have belonged to him.
Telemachus—a peculiar, magical little thing, watching the world with an unsettling attentiveness whenever he wasn’t smiling like pure sunlight.
A faint smile finally touched her lips, though tears still tracked down her cheeks. Strange child or not, Telemachus had wrapped his tiny hands around her heart and refused to let go. And Odysseus—Gods, she loved him so deeply it made her breathless. If the world demanded it, she thought she would gladly march to war herself to keep the two of them safe.
She stepped closer, resting her hand firmly over Odysseus’s where it supported their son.
“Come back to us,” she whispered.
Odysseus looked at her for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he looked down at his son. His expression softened into something painfully human beneath the legend, beneath the king, and beneath the soldier everyone else expected him to be.
“I will,” he promised.
Six years later, the palace of Ithaca was in absolute chaos.
Servants hurried through the stone halls, their sandals clicking frantically against the floors as they searched for the missing prince. It wasn’t unusual for Telemachus to disappear these days, but that hardly stopped the household from panicking.
“Prince Telemachus has gone rogue once again, my lady,” one exhausted servant reported, breathless as she approached the throne room.
Penelope sighed softly, setting aside the shuttle of her loom. She smoothed down her skirts, a fond, knowing expression crossing her face.
“You know,” she said, her voice laced with amusement, “from the very moment I pulled that child from the river, I knew he would grow into a free spirit.”
A beautiful little rascal, she remembered thinking to herself back then. And she had been entirely correct.
There had been a time when his sudden disappearances sent her into a blind panic. These days, however, Penelope had learned to accept it as simply another one of her son’s peculiar habits. The entire palace had eventually learned to adapt to the whims of their strange prince.
“Have you checked the olive groves?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“The fig orchard?”
“Twice.”
“The stables?”
“He is not there.”
“The kitchens?”
“He stole three honey cakes this morning but has since vanished.”
Penelope pressed a hand against her lips to hide her amusement.
The poor servant looked utterly bewildered.
“We even checked the servants’ quarters,” she continued miserably. “The laundry rooms. The storage houses. The docks. The western gardens.”
“No sign of him?”
“None whatsoever.”
Penelope stepped down from the dais, taking the servant’s trembling hands gently in her own.
“There is no need to worry,” she reassured her kindly, offering a comforting smile. “I know exactly where he is. I will go find him myself. Thank you.”
The servant bowed gratefully, letting out a massive sigh of relief as Penelope left the room.
Such a free little bird he is, Penelope thought, walking out into the bright afternoon sun.
“Telemachus?” she called out warmly.
No answer.
Not that she expected one.
The winding path toward the river was familiar beneath her sandals. Wildflowers swayed among the grasses. Cicadas hummed lazily in the afternoon heat.
The river.
Always the river.
Whenever Telemachus wanted to be alone, he found his way back there.
The place where his story had begun.
The place where Penelope’s own life had changed forever.
Had it truly already been six years?
Six years since she had found the basket.
Six years since she had looked into a pair of impossibly green eyes and fallen hopelessly in love.
Where had the time gone?
The rushing sound of water grew louder as she approached.
The scent of wild mint and damp stone filled the air.
Penelope didn’t have to search for long.
Just beyond a curtain of tall reeds sat a small boy with a crown of unruly black curls.
Telemachus.
Seven years old.
Barefoot.
Covered in dirt.
Exactly as expected.
He sat cross-legged atop a flat river boulder, his simple white chiton wrinkled and grass-stained. Fresh scrapes marked both knees. One sandal left abandoned, the other missing entirely.
Penelope made a mental note to ask where the other one had gone.
Though experience suggested she probably wouldn’t enjoy the answer.
The boy appeared completely at peace.
Sunlight danced across his dark hair. His face was relaxed. Content.
For a brief moment Penelope simply watched him.
Then she took another step.
And her blood turned to ice.
The greeting died in her throat.
Coiled on the stone directly before her son was a sand viper.
A venomous one.
Its pale scales gleamed beneath the sunlight.
Its horned head was raised.
Its eyes were fixed upon Telemachus.
To any mother in Greece, it was a waking nightmare.
Penelope froze.
Her hand flew instinctively to her mouth.
The scream building in her chest never escaped.
If she startled the snake—
If she frightened it—
The beast would strike.
Her heart hammered violently against her ribs.
Every instinct screamed at her to run forward.
To grab her son.
To pull him away.
To do something.
Anything.
But she forced herself to remain still.
One reckless movement could kill him.
So she stood rooted in place.
Watching.
Waiting.
Praying.
Then she heard a sound.
At first she thought it was the river.
Then she realised it was coming from Telemachus.
The boy was speaking.
But not in Greek.
The sound that emerged from his small chest sent a chill racing down her spine.
It was a language composed entirely of hisses and clicks.
Soft.
Fluid.
Ancient.
Like wind slithering through dry grass.
Like scales brushing stone.
“Ssssha-eth… sss-mar-vessss…”
Penelope stared.
The viper stared back at him.
Entranced.
Not threatened.
Not aggressive.
Listening.
The serpent lowered its head.
Slowly.
Carefully.
It slid across the warm rock until its scales brushed against Telemachus’s chiton.
The dark tongue flicked through the air.
Testing.
Tasting.
Then the viper rested its jaw directly atop the boy’s knee.
Telemachus giggled.
Actually giggled.
The sound was so innocent it felt absurd against the terrifying scene.
“Oh, you’re grumpy today,” he informed the snake.
A few more hisses escaped him.
The viper responded with several of its own.
Telemachus nodded solemnly.
“As I said, I would be grumpy too if I had to lie on hot rocks all day.”
The snake seemed satisfied by this answer.
It coiled lazily around his leg.
Penelope’s knees nearly gave out.
The boy reached down and gently stroked the scales behind its head.
The place where one should never touch a venomous snake.
The place that should have provoked an attack.
Instead, the viper leaned into the touch.
Like a cat seeking affection.
“Sss-tah…”
Telemachus smiled brightly.
The serpent closed its eyes.
Penelope felt it then.
Magic.
Not the faint traces she occasionally sensed around her son.
Not the subtle oddities she had learned to ignore.
This was stronger.
Older.
The air itself seemed to vibrate.
The same impossible force she had felt the day a basket had floated against all reason atop a raging river.
The same force that had wrapped itself around her son since infancy.
Her son.
Because whatever magic had placed him in her life, he was hers.
She loved him far too much to care what mysteries surrounded his birth.
Suppressing the tremor threatening to betray her fear, Penelope finally stepped out from the reeds.
“Telemachus, my love,” she called softly.
The boy didn’t startle.
The snake did.
Its head snapped toward her instantly.
A sharp hiss split the air.
Penelope’s heart nearly stopped.
Before the serpent could strike, Telemachus hissed right back.
Not playfully.
Not curiously.
Commandingly.
The sound cracked through the air like a whip.
The viper immediately lowered its head.
Submissive.
Chastened.
Almost embarrassed.
Telemachus patted it reassuringly.
“There now. That’s rude.”
The snake remained perfectly still.
Penelope blinked.
She wasn’t entirely certain she hadn’t imagined that.
Telemachus turned toward her, emerald eyes shining brightly.
“Mama!”
A beaming smile on his lips.
Completely unaware of how close she had come to dying of fright.
“Look! I found a friend.”
He pointed proudly at the deadly serpent.
“He says the rocks are too hot today, so he wanted to sit in my shadow.”
Penelope stared at the snake.
The snake stared back.
Then it gave what looked suspiciously like an offended hiss.
“He…” she began weakly.
She swallowed.
Tried again.
“He speaks to you?”
Telemachus frowned.
“Well, of course.”
The answer came so naturally that it momentarily robbed her of speech.
The boy tilted his head.
“Don’t they talk to you?”
Penelope opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“No.”
“Oh.”
Telemachus considered this carefully.
Then he looked genuinely surprised.
“Really?”
“Really.”
The prince blinked.
His gaze drifted down toward the viper.
The snake only tilted his head.
A long moment passed.
Then Telemachus looked back up.
“That’s odd.”
Penelope couldn’t find it in herself to disagree, so instead she took in a deep breath and sat beside them both. The least she could do for her boy was to try understand him and all the peculiarities that came with him.
“So, what’s his name?” she asked, tilting her head as she cautiously eyed the coiled reptile.
Telemachus perked up instantly.