The streets were dark, the air pungent with the smell of beer and smoke. Not of tobacco, yet evidently from a fire – perhaps a drunkard had set something alight. It wouldn't be surprising, due to the state of the surroundings and the boisterous yells that echoed from somewhere in the maze of towering buildings. Perhaps there was a thin tendril of smoke signalling the burning inferno; the man could picture it now, terrified faces, the flames licking at wood and flesh, sending shadows flickering through the ashen-filled air. Yet, he did nothing, only staring from his place on the cobblestone path at the passing crowds, a deranged yearning dancing the depths of his sunken eyes.
These muggles were traipsing about in the dank streets, bottles of alcohol clutched in their grimy unworthy hands, each exuding an air that they thought they were invincible. It made the man scoff, eyeing the parading people with undiluted hatred. Yet, they paid no attention to his hunched figure that lurked in the gloom; their intoxicated gazes swept across his form as if he were a mere brick in the wall that he was pressed up against.
How easy it would be to make them suffer, to hear them squirm like the worthless animals that they were.
But, due to some hidden restraint, the man suppressed his urges - instead he continued muttering senselessly to the slithering creature that flowed and danced between his gnarled fingers.
"Hissy, hissy, little snakey,
slither on the floor.
You be good to Morfin,
or he'll nail you to the door!"
The man cackled loudly, yet it was muffled by the sound of stumbling footsteps on the uneven street, by the raucous chatter that echoed from the near-by pub. The snake hissed softly, its tongue tickling the man's callused skin and he flashed the serpent a deranged grin before reciting his chant.
It had etched itself into his mind, for he had repeated those words countless times while he was held captive in Azkaban. Morfin was surprised that he remembered it, in all of the Dementors' joyless glory; the memories he had of saying it weren't exactly happy - they couldn't be, not while Merope and his father were in the same room - but they weren't unpleasant.
Nonetheless, reciting the verse helped him hold onto his sanity - and he didn't have much of it before entering the depressing prison.
It had been years since he was released from that place, where his 'guards' would peer at him through the hood of their skin-thin cloaks. Sucking the happiness from his sadistic form – it even repulsed him, and that was something for he purely enjoyed tormenting those hopeless muggles. He couldn't even remember cursing those unworthy into oblivion.
Needless to say, his time spent there was full of pure insanity.
Yet, now he was free to bewitch the pitiful people to any extent. His hand twitched inside his grimy robe just at the thought, fingers closing around the wooden stick with sadistic relief. All it would take was a swish of the wand, and everything would be perfect.
Well, it would be for him.
But before he could whip out his 'weapon', a tap on the shoulder distracted him, causing Morfin to straighten up - or, as much as he possibly could - and curse at the intruder with surprising intensity. Of course, his words just happened to be in parseltongue, but they didn't last long enough for the muggle to notice, for his voice trailed off as he looked at the stranger.
He usually didn't allow himself to look at non-magical folk with unprejudiced eyes; it wasn't what his father had taught him. Yet, looking at the woman before him, it was hard not to. Pale skin with rosy cheeks and painted red lips like rose petals, Morfin could easily understand why Merope had fallen for the scum, Tom Riddle. Apparently, muggle or not, beauty can capture your heart.
Then again, Morfin was slightly intoxicated and the view was obscured by feathery shadows. Nonetheless, looking at this gorgeous figure sent his heart pounding in ways he had never experienced.
"Excusé moi," the woman murmured her voice rich and throaty from her heavy accent. "Qu'est-ce que tu fais içi? Est-ce que tu veux aller avec moi?"
Morfin just gave the foreigner a blank look, incomprehensive to a word she had said.
Clearly understanding the lack of communication, the woman pursed her lips and struggled to translate. "Ahhre you... uh, qu'est-ce qu'on dit... lost?" she attempted, the blush on her face becoming more prominent due to the uncomfortable situation.
The man, knowing he wouldn't be able to respond in an English - let alone human - tongue, just shook his head. The woman's face fell slightly, and he immediately regretted his response. "Ah, vell…" she started, gazing sorrowfully at Morfin through her eyelashes, "If you need someone to… ah, show you everywhere, tu peux… ah, say to me.* "
A hard lump formed in the man's throat as the woman stroked his matted hair and he tried to swallow around it. Morfin found himself entranced by the woman, his dark, watery eyes locked with her wide green ones; like prey trapped in the alluring gaze of a snake. As a warning, the serpent coiled around his finger let out a low hiss, breaking the wizard's trance as he glared down at it in annoyance.
Perhaps, he could spare this one muggle; humour her like he had never done before. Yet, when he glanced back up to comfort her – or was it her comforting him? He wasn't sure – she seemed to have disappeared. As he glanced at the milling crowd, he felt a trill of fear. Where was she, the beautiful muggle woman? He pushed himself from the wall and slouched down the road, snarling at the drunkards if they got too close.
The swish of skirts, red curls glinting in the lurid lamplight, signalling the woman's departure as she dashed into the nearby pub. He called out to her, yet it came out as a hissing noise that earned him wary looks from the passing locals.
In his haste, Morfin didn't acknowledge his 'little friend' slithering under his filthy sleeve and up his arm, only to peek out from his collar and murmur (or hiss, in the snake's case) words of caution into the man's ear. They were brushed off like a cobweb as the man ran a hand through his greasy hair – which didn't go well, for it was so tangled he had to spend a few moments extracting his fingers from the grimy tendrils.
His gnarled hand caught the rough wooden door before it could swing back on its hinges, yanking it open so he could get a full view of the fleeing woman. Stares bore into his head as he cast his searching gaze for the muggle. He strode farther into the dingy building, the rotting soles of his shoes scuffing across the well-trodden floor. He was absolutely clueless to why he was following this muggle, yet despite the roiling thoughts in his head, his feet still trudged onward out of their own accord.
Obeying his heart was something Morfin had never done before, and he wasn't quite sure if he enjoyed the experience. It was almost as if he was helpless, unable to do anything but stare and hope and dream; things that were discouraged by his father. Apparently, independent thought wasn't something that purebloods were allowed to do, but even now, the man considered that it was his father's philosophy and no one else's.
Hand out-stretched, his grimy fingers grazed the soft skin of the fleeing woman and tingles shot down his arm. She turned and stared at him with wide eyes, before gazing composure and smiling seductively at him. She grasped his wrist with surprising strength and towed him up a flight of stairs and into a gloomy bedroom.
Before he knew it, Morfin was pushed down onto the bed with the woman's small form lingering over him. "Vat is your name?" she whispered huskily in his ear while her fingers ventured under his threadbare shirt.
"Morfin," he replied softly, starling himself as he slipped into English. Then her lips silenced his and there was no need for speaking for the rest of the night.