Through the Blessed Tongue of Serpents

Morfin's sister didn't watch him avidly. She didn't smile at him, didn't speak to him unless it was a hissed, biting remark while their father was away, and she reserved her soft, pretty sighs for the Muggle who lived nearby.

Morfin's sister wore the same grey rags as he and his father, but around her neck shone ancient gold and under her dress were lacy straps, ragged and ripped but still beautiful against dirty, spotted shoulders.

Morfin would sneak behind her carefully as she undressed, revealing those lace trimmed straps. He would smile at her in her looking glass, and hook a thick, grimy finger under the left one.

Merope would give a half-smile and murmur in the tongue of the unblessed.

Morfin would push the strap off her shoulder, watching the swell of her breast in the mirror, and hiss in return, "We are the chosen."

Merope would turn towards him, smile vanished from her lips and reply, staring him in the eye and not looking at him at all, "We are the memory of the chosen." She would always use the harsh, unmusical language of man. Merope chose not to speak in the way of serpents unless their father was nearby.

Morfin laughed, smiled and grabbed Merope's arms. He shoved her back, shoved her against the wall with enough force that when she moved away her looking glass fell to the floor, a harsh, jagged line appearing down its length. His hands were sore from digging into the fatty flesh of her arms, but he did not loosen his grip.

"You are mine," he hissed. "Mine and mine alone."

Merope did not argue.

***

A lone fly buzzed slowly around the front door, landing on the decaying snake nailed there.

The snake's head had been cut off some days ago, and sightless eyes rotted on the ground near the small growth of weeds Merope liked to pretend was a garden. Morfin knew better.

There was a stain on the door behind the snake, a dark stain made by countless rotting snakes all nailed with the same crusted, rusting nail in the same blood-lined hole.

The stain only covered a small portion of the door. The rest of the wood was a weathered, silvery grey that bespoke of ages without paint or repair. The doorknob was metal, any brightness long since worn away. The frame had a few peeling slivers of white paint still clinging pathetically to weather worn lumber.

The harsh light of day threw a new appearance onto the scene, displaying their shame in bright relief. To the side of the house were rusted cages sometimes filled with squawking animals waiting for the slaughter.

***

When Morfin was a boy and Merope was a girl, his sister had taken in a stray cat.

The cat was mangy and grey, just like everything else within sight, but Merope had loved the creature as much as Morfin loved his snakes. She had petted it, brushed it and given it a name -something girly and dainty, despite the fact that it was clearly a tomcat. She had tied a scrap of ribbon around its neck and would feed it scraps from her own plate, so that their father wouldn't get upset.

One day Morfin cornered the cat, scooped it up, ignoring the sting as the cat viciously swiped at him with claws, ignored the trickle of blood as it latched onto his chest. He carried it away from their house, into the woods away from anyone. He very carefully sat on the cat, not putting too much of his weight on the small creature, but holding it firmly in place with his legs.

He untied the careful bow around the cat's neck, then pulled the two ends of the ribbon around its small neck and pulled.

The cat squirmed and shrieked, but Morfin did not let it loose.

Finally the cat went limp, and he stood, looking at his handiwork. Once the creature's eyes were closed, it looked almost peaceful, lying there on dead leaves with the ribbon still tight around its throat.

Morfin re-tied the bow, but his attempt was much clumsier than Merope's.

He carried the cat back to the house, fresh scratches still stinging, but thankful he was to receive no more. He slid into his and Merope's room, pulled back the covers of her neatly made bed, and laid the cat on the mattress.

He then covered the cat up, and went outside to catch a new snake.

That ought to teach his sister that she could only love him.

***

Daylight infected everything it touched, revealing secrets and showing the dark ugly truths of their life.

It slid into the few windows of the Gaunt's home, sending rays of light to reveal the dust heavy in the air, floating slow and leisurely. It shone on the grime embedded in floorboards, into the gaps between walls and floorboards and crooked doorframes. It revealed the mismatched curtains and stained furniture. Sunlight shone mercilessly on stained blankets and bloodied sheets, bringing back midnight nightmares.

There was no safe harbor from cold reality.

Merope learned that young. Morfin made damn certain of it.

***

Merope's scream had echoed through the house when she found her cat, but it wasn't enough for Morfin.

Her tears of grief, despite their father smacking her for her weakness, did not abate. She didn't cook dinner that night. Instead she went outside and buried the filthy animal beneath her favorite tree.

Morfin didn't like her reaction at all.

That night, he slipped out of his bed and went to the tree, scooping dirt with his bare hands until he touched matted fur.

The next morning, he waited outside, crouched underneath a bush, watching his sister as she exited the house, looking downcast.

She opened the first cage, reaching inside for an egg before freezing.

Morfin watched, a giddy giggle escaping his lips as he saw the blood drain from her face. She crumpled. Her features fell, her knees gave out and she sat in the dirt, grief and terror and disgust and anger crossing her features in a confused blur.

Morfin strode out of the bushes and stood over her, skinny arms on skinny hips as he scowled down at her. He did not spare a glance for the mutilated cat in the hen coop.

"You're mine, Merope," he said determinedly. "Mine and mine alone."

***

Merope would not fight back when their father hurled abuse, but she found ways to get back at Morfin.

The first time he discovered his favorite pet nailed, writhing and pathetic, to the door, he stared, and went to jerk the nail out of its body.

"Stop," hissed his sister.

He froze, shocked at the sound of Parseltongue emitting from his sister's normally silent lips.

He turned, and saw her standing there, a mallet in one hand and a smear of blood on the other. She walked up to him, and pressed her bloody fingers to his lips.

"You are not better than me," she hissed.

"We are the same," Morfin said, "only you are mine. I am yours, if you want to take me," he offered as an afterthought.

Merope went into the house, silent as death and flushed angry red as sin.

***

Morfin always spoke in Parseltongue because it was what came easily to him.

The human tongue had more words, certainly, and more sounds, but it wasn't as expressive as the snake's language. There was no uncertainty or ambiguity in the words of the serpent. Every nuance, every detail could be conveyed effectively, if only the one listening would pay attention.

Morfin told Merope a thousand times that he loved her. He spent hours, playing with his pets and figuring out the exact hiss that would make Merope believe him, make her see that he would not lie in the sacred tongue.

He would shove her face-first into her pillow, hold her there tight and secure beneath his body. He would make love to her, listen to her whimpering, and flick his tongue against her knobby spine, but she would not return his words of affection.

But despite everything Morfin had done, his sister still didn't love him like he so desperately loved her.

She chose to bestow her adoring looks and sweet smiles on a filthy Muggle, and Morfin could think of no way to change her mind.

Morfin had tried to force her to love him for years, but Morfin was, as ever, alone.