The Serpent Kills

The weather was sultry and humid, and Tom's shirt was clinging to his skin. The sun touched even Knockturn Alley and rays of golden sun dust drifted into the room suffocating and thick and Tom thought of scales, numbered over and over in gold or faded green, slick and sensual.

Mr. Borgin was expecting a customer today, but he had somewhere else to be.

"Sorry, Tom," said he, with his pale smile, "I suppose I might leave the store in your care for the afternoon."

He trusted Tom. Tom, Tom, Tom with his spectral smile and ever deepening gaze. Tom never did miss a thing.

The bell at the door rang. Tom stood near the back, stacking small boxes of Lebanese Aisha dust. Tom never missed a thing. He knew three things as the door opened admitting the new stranger. The first was that Mr. Sarff was in a bad temperament, the second that Mr. Sarff was a parsimonious man, and the third was that Mr. Sarff had a companion with him.

Her jewels were what made him look at her. She wore them on each finger and one on a choker about her neck. Green and deep burgundy. He paused before he bothered to look at her face. She was dark in the racial sense of the word. A mulatto, rather; tea with far too much cream, tightly wound hair trailing in crimson plaits over narrow, black, lying eyes.

He thought of lies when he met her gaze because of the way she seemed to infer his unimportance on sight. Tom knew it would be ungenerous to think that her lips were too thin or that her cheekbones a bit too tight, or even her nose that was barely there to begin with, was snake-like.

Tom could speak Parseltongue.

He was also ungenerous.

Shifting his eyes away from her in a haughty manner, he looked at Mr. Sarff. From what Borgin had told him, this man owned masses of wealth and was also the keeper of a much forbidden curse. Possession and use of this curse would surely put one man in the arm reaches of eternity. Tom noted that Mr. Sarff, being a parsimonious man, would not use the curse for fear that others might also learn it. Tom looked at Mr. Sarff, and smiled with dripping nonchalance.

"How may I help you, Sir?"

Mr. Sarff gestured toward the young woman, but Tom kept his eyes fixed in place. "I am to buy her a present," said he, with a twist of bitterness on his lips. Ah, Tom knew what it was now. She liked money, jewels, synonymous with power. Mr. Sarff was her source.

He turned toward the shelves and pulled out a thin tray full of ancient, powerful jewellery, all at opulent prices. When he brought the tray forward, she was looking at something else. He looked at the item she held. It was a silver armlet in the form of a snake and Tom knew this one well.

"The serpent kills," he said simply in her direction.

Tom remembered her low, velvety laughter and he thought of hisses wreathed in devotion and love-was it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He stood in her bedroom; Mr. Sarff lay lifeless at his feet. Tom raised his wand once more and the jewels that lay on top of her dresser crashed against the walls. Green and deep burgundy against white. They didn't break but they scratched at the paint, leaving long wiry marks near the ceiling.

Tom remembered how she looked at him when she stepped into the room. Her black rimmed eyes scanned her surroundings and met the sight of Mr. Sarff, his body twisted and mangled from the Cruciatus lying on the floor, eyes wide open in an expression of confusion. Tom had not even given him time to feel surprise. He remembered his disgust at her tears as she fell to Mr. Sarff's side, spouting disbelief and sorrow all at once in her native tongue. He neither understood her screams, her wails and sobs nor why she rose and pointed her wand at him.

No.

That he could understand.

That was hatred. Another abstraction.

It had been easy to break her wand, easy to watch her drop to her knees in pleading as her wand's magic rippled into the air, inhaled partially through his nostrils like smoke.

Tom liked to think he was merciful sometimes. As he raised his wand once more, as she flew sideways at an odd, painful angle, and as he whispered, "Stupefy," he knew that the world had only been blessed with his mercy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shouts and gasps shot through the air as the bound man twisted and shook convulsively under the light of the young man's wand.

"Tell me what the curse does, Sarff."

"N-no..."

More screams.

"Tell me."

"Will I die?"

"Do you think that is how I am, Sarff? Do you think I wish to kill you?"

The space between gasps spread as a cry rang icy into the air.

"Please! For all that's holy, stop!"

Blood dribbled over the older man's bottom lip.

The young man knew that the Cruciatus curse could make one bite his tongue. He liked to think that even in the midst of all that awful, sickening hurt his victims might still feel extra smidgeons of agony on top if they would just bite their tongue.

"You have the power here. You can make it stop. Just tell me."

A long silence passed. Moments only, but what seemed like aeons to the young man as the older man lay his head back in numb relief as the curse ended.

"It is c-called Theopietas, s-so much more powerful than the Imperius. Th-the one who is under the curse can and will do anything you ask them to."

"That hardly seems any different from the Imperius..."

"It is different." Another gasp as a prickle of pain swam in the tendons of the man's body. "With the Imperius, you can only ask the person to do what is within their abilities. This curse...it creates the ultimate servant. The only servant who cannot betray you or-or mislead you, and they can do anything. The only problem is that you may only use it once for only one being could serve you with so much devotion. Do you see?"

"I do see. It's all in your head, is it not, Sarff?"

"Yes, I know the whole curse word for word. I'll teach it to you. Just, please, untie me."

Sarff will teach him the curse, each part of the ritual, each detail in word. Tom will not miss a thing. Tom will watch him closely learning each part step by step before he smiles at Sarff.

"The serpent kills," is what he will say simply in Sarff's direction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even at that time, Tom had many followers.

Many of them were at his proverbial beck and call. He had recently found a way in which to communicate his needs to them that they might come when he asked. That would be for later...

Now, he had something else, something more promising with its infallible nature. His mind ran through names and faces of every single male or female who looked at him often with adoring, indulgent eyes.

He saw nothing inside them; no desire to have them at his will because he knew he easily had them. His thoughts flickered to Dumbledore, that abhorrent professor from his high school. Yet, why? He should rather like to kill Dumbledore, but to have him at his side as a constant, silent stability, despite its mockery, made him feel a little disdain.

Tom needed the world to know that he was infinite even before he managed to split his soul enough. He must be seen as infinite. Nothing better than to have a servant so intimate beyond the sordid thing called love.

It is almost difficult to spot the red glare coming off those blue eyes...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It hits him when he looks at her again. She is wearing her jewels again, but this time in not such a proud manner. Her jewels are not real, mere glitter over cheap glass as she hurries past him. Once again, she infers his unimportance by not noticing him.

It was always supposed that Tom did not love because he could not fathom it. After all, one can only express what one feels and understands completely. He did not, indeed, understand love.

He understands hunger, however.

Hunger and desire are human needs, mortal in their want and dependence. Tom knows that one day he will be autonomous from these. For now, he binds her bejewelled hands with iron woven rope. Their bodies are cacophony in the still night when her robes tear and he is above her.

He does not let her stop struggling when he kisses her, tightening the coils as his lips smother her. Sweat and blood makes her skin like honey-coloured scales and he digs his blunt fingernails in at her thigh with each rough gasp. She only says one thing to him as he enters her and for that Tom knows the essential.

The blood on you draw is pure, half-blood.

He remembers her harsh, angry laughter as he slips the snake armlet with its defined green emeralds up her round, soft arm.

"The serpent kills."

The air in the room is humid again, and Tom almost stops to think of venom pouring sickly sweet into his mouth, and a darting forked tongue with a scent on its tip.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In time, the room is silent and hisses like blazing knives slip smoulderingly about the two.

Do you love me?

I could never.

Never is a promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The spell is not easy. Tom does not often like things easy and he does not use magic to hold her down in the circle of blood. The palm of her hand is still streaming red life as he curls his hand around her wrist and places it slowly, gingerly into heated, liquid metal.

Her sobs and inhuman cries make the left side of Tom's mouth curl with delight. Pain is another abstraction he has adopted and redefined. Without the magic in her, she would not survive the feel of each wrist forged along with her imprisonment.

"Pietas volo," he whispers to the sigils in the centre of her circle of blood. Flames rise up on the glass floor burning up promises, soul's water, and freedom.

Tom's shirt is scarlet when it is finished, and when she looks at him he decides that jewels are like patterns on a snake.

Sarff mentioned the night he was killed that to create this servant is to give a piece of one's soul in the process. Tom does not see any reason why he cannot become immortal at the same time.

The snake on her armlet nearly shatters under the weight of its new baggage, but his most ultimate servant will protect it for him. That was her first order.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first days he marvels at what she can do. Tom has watched her peel the skin from a man's arm forcing out hushed, gasping confessions. He has seen her scale walls of most ancient castles, her fingers pressing neatly into the stone as she brings each leg up forward. His eyes have narrowed with mirth as she twisted iron and steel; crushed them like stale bread as they fell in crumbs at her feet.

Only for him.

He loved to make her throw herself from high places and with merely a whisper of "live," she would open her eyes and offer him a smile. He recognises the smile much later when he watches his reflection.

Tom often liked to think that she lived. As her black rimmed eyes nodded silently at his words, his whispers, his orders, he liked to think that there was someone in there, struggling against the remnant of his own soul. He thinks she hates him, but cannot at once. He likes paradoxes like these.

Still, he liked to think better that she did die as the spell suggests. Perhaps, the very idea that she is still human bothers him as much as his own humanity torments him.

He holds the tortuous enigma at the back of his mind.

His Death Eaters often cast furtive glances at her. Though he dresses her in black and covers her hair in the same so that her presence is wreathed in concealing shadow, her caramel skin makes them look at her again and he feels they think she is important. A significant other, perhaps. Even her blank, serene expression belies adoration while deep inside, it is only himself there.

"This will not do," he murmurs one evening and Severus Snape, only entering the room looks at him.

"What is it, My Lord?"

Tom does not look at him. He is looking at her, sitting at his feet, her hands clasped before her. She is wearing jewels again and it occurs to him that he told her to do so. The burgundy is dull scarlet now and the green is like thin stained glass against her honey scale coloured skin.

Finally. "Severus."

"Yes, My Lord?"

"What is the rarest of snakes?"

Severus pauses in a form of reflection before he replies.

Tom will smile his new smile and look down at his servant, and he will murmur, "And the serpent kills best..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He is undressing her when he gives her the order. Her robes slip from her shoulders and pool in a heap on the floor. He can still feel mortal hunger, and her skin is moist in the heat of the room. As his fingers trail from her breasts to her stomach, he closes his eyes and he can feel the tightening of her breath as the change commences.

He pushes her down on the floor, resting himself bare between her round thighs. He looks at her odd, almost unpleasing features once more before he closes his eyes again. Even as his own satisfaction makes him sigh a little over her, he feels the scales beneath his legs and he does not pull away as a black forked tongue slips into his mouth.

Soon she is no longer beneath him, but around him; winding her way over the tops of his naked thighs and pressing her sinewy form against his chest and constricting next to his bare back. She is legendary, almost mythical in her limbless state. Her former darkness remains true and Tom can see his own eyes blinking back at him in red. The jewels have disappeared into patterns and primitive variations of sparkling, effulgent jewellery.

His heart constricts along with her long tail and for a moment, just that minor second, Tom understands affections and perhaps the need to weep, bleed, and protect.

This is all, of course, before he becomes another creature...free of the traditional views of love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

May 28, 1998

Nagini winds her way along the thick, scarlet armchair. A pale, spidery hand reaches up to grasp at her head; a light, knowing touch.

Her bright eyes scan her surroundings and meet the sight of a thin, bespectacled boy with untidy black hair, his mouth set. He holds his wand up in defiance and anger. She does not need to look at her master to know that this boy must die.

She slides to the floor; her head raised quick to strike.

Voldemort's smile is a stretched form of the handsome one it once was, but feeling something akin to amusement as Harry Potter dives out of the way of Nagini's strike. He remembers the sound of her spastic hiss and how the boy winds his way almost sinuously on the floor, deflecting her fangs with a silent jinx. He remembers how the boy is a Parseltongue. Voldemort laughs in the general direction of the two of them.

"The serpent kills," he sighs, rising from his seat.

The Death Eaters nearby smile unaware of their master's reasons. They smile because they think Nagini is going to fulfill her final order.