A/N: Hi, all! This was written for Round 6 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I, as beater 2 of the Caerphilly Catapults, chose to write about a dark character (Nagini) showing humility. For judging purposes, the final word count of this story is 1,435. My optional prompts were:
2. (dialogue) "I only came because I was told there was going to be cake."
4 (song) 'Stitches' by Shawn Mendes, and
13. (word) therapy.
One's Manor
My Master sits at the head of the table, casting his gaze between each of the others gathered around him. Some of their heads are bowed in submission, some held high with arrogance, but he makes no remark on either. For now, he simply looks at each of them impassively. Then his eyes flick upwards to one figure that hangs above the group, and I can hear its blood thrumming beneath its flushed skin; it is asleep, or maybe immobilized. I ache to close the distance between it and myself, but I do not move from my master's chair, waiting for his word.
His long digits whisper against my head as he thinks. When he finally speaks, it's in my tongue, and I can feel my skin thrum with pleasure at the sound of it.
"Is there any sign of them, my beloved?"
I move closer and his hand closes around the back of my neck. He rubs firmly, and I must overcome my desire to stroke against him before I make a fool of myself.
"I shall go, Master, and look for them…"
He tsks and pulls his hand away. The missing contact feels like a wound.
"Not yet, my dear Nagini. Stay here, for now. I wish to keep you close."
I want him to seal it; I need the gaping flesh to close.
"Indeed, Master."
The wound remains.
He begins to address the table, and though I long to inch even closer to his gentle fingers, I settle where I lie, my tail draped lightly upon his shoulder.
"The time has come again, has it not?" he says with a smile, and I struggle to grasp the human tongue. Its use of sibilance is sparse at best, and my ears prefer to tune it out, but when my master speaks, I listen. His voice gets softer, more sinister as he addresses them, and the others become more attentive; I can feel his growing fervor to know what has been accomplished.
His gaze snaps forward to one of the figures at the far end of the table. He was one of the few who had not bowed his head with his brethren, and I share my master's throbbing irritation.
"What have you for me, Dolohov?"
Dolohov's posture straightens, elongates. He looks at my master in reverence for a moment, as though he is considering doing something dangerous. A perilous impulse hangs from his lips. I can feel it begin to fall, but I don't know what I can do to stop it or if I even want to.
"What have I for you?" he sneers. His voice is thick with drink, and I can smell his inebriated blood from where I lie. "My lord, I only came because I was told there was going to be cake." He lets out satisfied guffaw, but the rest of the room is silent. Even the figure suspended overhead has ceased its whimpering.
My master has stiffened next to me. His joy from my earlier submission has vanished, and I bite back a hiss at the drunken brute's ungratefulness. All at this table know that we are nothing without our master. Anyone who says otherwise is simply being arrogant.
While drunken chortles drift across the room, the others keep their gazes from their ill-spoken companion. Mine and my master's eyes are the only ones fixed coldly on him.
My chair is pushed back abruptly, and I thank my master-given serenity for keeping me from jumping at the noise. He is on Dolohov in a second, is grabbing his collar and spewing daggers just a breath from his face. Dolohov has begun to tremble. My stomach lining trembles in satisfaction—anticipation, even, if I am so fortunate. Now he remembers who my master is.
He nods so frantically it seems he will lose his head, until my master pushes him back into the table. My master is halfway to his chair again before he flicks his wand over his shoulder.
The cry is both guttural and shrill, and Dolohov collapses to his knees on the stone tiles. He writhes on the floor, and we watch as he retches convulsively with the pain, unable to stop himself. I think back to the beginnings of my time with my master, when my grasp on his language was tentative at best. He and the pretty one had been laughing about such a reaction, when humans convulsed and cried. Master had truly smiled when the pretty one explained that two of her victims were in permanent psychiatric therapy as a result of a previous attack. At my master's raised brow, she had dipped her head in concession and thanked him for his teachings in making her so strong. He had touched her then, just a fingertip against her throat, but she had moaned so loudly, so satisfyingly, that I had immediately known what I wanted from this life—that sensation, and that alone.
Currently, Dolohov has quieted to moans, but he still twitches and shakes. Master has returned to his seat. He straightens his shoulders, and when his palm drops to my side, I gladly move forward to accept his ministrations.
"Master," I hiss gently. "Master, may I…?"
"Not now, pet," he replies, brushing his fingers over my head. "Go hunt. See what you can find. I shall provide for you, if need be. Stay out of the cellar, remember."
I slide forward from his shoulders. "Yes, Master…"
I slither from the room; the shuddering ripple that passes among the humans as I go thrills me; they fear me, as they do my master.
The house is large, dark, and quiet. I keep close to the walls, waiting for a gentle sound of scratching, scrabbling feet…perhaps I have hunted the vermin to extinction…or perhaps they have fled from my master. There is an echoing creak that sounds throughout the house; more humans have arrived, those my master waited for. I coil around myself in the darkness, watching the dark figures approach my master at his table.
When there is silence once more, I slide further along the corridor; a smell of decay—a sweetish, tempting smell—catches my attention, and I stop at the top of the stairs that lead to the forbidden cellar. I put my tongue out. I can taste the looming death on the air, and I am hungry—but what arrogance this would be, to directly defy my master! I would be nothing, nothing—I am his humble servant, and I must not forget…
With great effort, I tear myself from the temptation and retreat to my master's side once more. From outside the room, I hear him speaking.
"Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand? I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you?" My Master's voice is thunder in the confines of the room, but after a beat of silence, it becomes silk. "I have noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late… What is it about my presence in your home that displeases you, Lucius?"
The blond one is not humble—not obedient as I am. I quicken my pace, eager to rejoin my Master.
"Nothing—nothing, my Lord!" The blond one sounds frightened—as he should be.
"Such lies, Lucius…"
I hiss in agreement, delighted by what I hear. I am the truest, best servant of my master, and I will prove it. I coil myself up the side of his chair once again, coming to rest on his shoulders, where I lay my head down docilely. The others shudder, and I fix my eyes on Lucius, who dares to look doubtful of my master. Master strokes my head, and I close my eyes peacefully as he continues to speak. I listen, half awake, hypnotized as a moth drawn to a flameby the softness of his voice.
It's not until I realize that Master has woken the figure floating above us that I raise my head again. I wait; my patience, my submission to his orders—that is all I need now. He will provide for me. The figure overhead is warmer now, but still unable to free itself. Then, my master raises his wand, and with a flash of green light, the figure crashes to the table. I wait as the surface rattles, flicking my tongue, knowing that my patience will pay off—and Master voices my favorite command, in his human language, so that all the others knows what awaits their arrogance should they be so foolish as to cross him:
"Dinner, Nagini."