Orange tongues of flame dance about in the gaping fireplace behind me. I am coiled comfortably around the top of the high backed armchair at the head of a long, polished wooden table. All along its length other chairs are filled with witches and wizards garbed in long black robes. They are silent. No one speaks. The crackling of the fire resonates throughout the whole drawing room, and the glow flickers on the walls in vivid hues.
And then, after a long moment of tense stillness, someone speaks: one of those gathered further down the table. I can smell his apprehension, his nervousness, his fear. My tongue flicks out lazily, and I settle my unblinking eyes upon him. This does not improve his mood, and his words come forth in stutters. I cannot understand what is spoken, but I care not.
The man continues his report for several more minutes, and my attention diminishes. My master is seated in the high chair which I am perched upon, and I glance down at him. Nothing can be read from his disinterested expression. But I know. I can sense a growing irritation. I shift my coils so that I can reach out my neck and lower my head onto my master's shoulder. For a while I lie that way, watching the firelight glint off the metal frame of a picture hanging upon the far wall.
Then suddenly, there is a commotion. My gaze snaps upward again to catch sight of the man's startled face as the assemblage laughs and jeers. There are many mocking calls, and the sound of someone thumping the table. My mouth parts to emit an annoyed hiss, and I glare around at the congregation. Finally, my master raises his voice and addresses them. The disturbance instantly dies, and anxious eyes are turned our way. There is thinly veiled anger in his tone, and I understand one word I have heard very frequently the last few days: Potter.
I contract my coils round the top of the chair, and then relax them as I try to settle myself once more. As my head returns to my master's shoulder, he peers down at me and strokes my flat snout with one of those pale spidery-fingered hands. "Nagini." I can still feel a lingering frustration in the touch, but the Parseltongue is soft and soothing. "Did you hear? Soon enough the boy will be mine. Soon he shall be dead, and I will give to you what is left."
I flick my forked tongue into the air in a contented reply as I return to my nap. Soon. Soon enough. And all the while, the orange tongues of flame dance behind me.