His Only Friend

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fan Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Deep in the woods, a man meets a new acquaintance... Harry Potter related

Submitted: July 16, 2012

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Submitted: July 16, 2012



His Only Friend

A light gentle breeze
Respites the stingy air,
Yet a penetrating chill
Settles o'er the inky night,
Obscured by the sinister
Melancholic clouds above,
That descend further to
The hard, frozen earth,
Covered with dry, deadening
Leaves, abandoned by
Their last master,
Naive to their predestined

A shiver sparks
Throughout the scattered
As a lurking shadow-
More ghost than
Substance- glides o'er
Their unsettling position,
Only for this unwelcome
Presence to collapse-
No, dissipate- onto a
Nearby ghoulish tree.
It is then that the
Unfortunate leaves realize
That the wintry night
Has transformed to witching hour,
And the air, once stale,
Freezes still, abandoning
The now vile and ominous place...
And Time itself, though immortal,
Shrivels, recoils from
The infernal, hellish figure.

A hollow silence hushes
The deadly scene
But naught for long.
A delusive sound splits
The coalish night
Like that of Hades' fire
Spitting, raging from
Sprays of holy water...
Like that of bristling
Straw in the dun
Crow's beak...
Like that of hell born
Wind, deceitful and sly...
The sound draws, slithers
Slinking over the dry leaves,
Rustling like spare parchment,
Scales gleaming in some
Unknown illusory light,
Coiling like a monstrous halo
Meant for a devilish fiend.

Her viperous, supple body
Slides eerily, yet powerful
And undulating in its
Serpentine nature.
Again, she hisses, her
Sleek words so cold-blooded
And calculating,
For she senses
With her forked tongue
The remnants of
An expired man
Barely holding his own
Against the twisted,
Nightmarish tree.
Her sibilant voice
Spells blessed doom;
His torment is almost
More than his torn
Soul can bare, ripped
From what tied him to
Life, but he does not turn
Away from the scaly creature.
Rather, his sharp intake
Of icy breath
Reveals awe more than
Morose fear...

He ignores her desire to kill,
To sink her venomous fangs,
For he knows what
She does not.
A strangled sound escapes
His mouth, subtle
But snide
And soft, raspy, as though
His voice has ne'er been
In use.
And she stops cold,
Lifts her ugly triangular
Whips her diamond patterned
In cunning curiosity.

The night looms on,
Inky black, a dark
Ne'er ending abyss,
And yet she has
Found new purchase
With the elusive man
Whose slick tongue
Has spoken, uttered
Her own slippery language.
Flickering her tongue
She tastes his frozen
Sweat, he is a beautiful
And he continues to hiss,
Poison dripping from his tone,
His pupils, not unlike hers,
Flash scarlet red,
His silky voice a notch
More dangerous
As he seethes with twisting anger
O'er what he lost.

And the grave night
Darkens, contorts
Into the blackest of
She almost purrs,
Comfort found in this
Scheming, snake-like man.
He almost laughs,
Muggle men in India
Boast of charming these
Reptilian creatures
To dance, to sway
With their strange
Whittled flutes...
But he is the true
Snake charmer.
The basilisk- the cunning,
Green, massive serpent-
Had proved his worth,
And now she lay
Coiled by him,
Crafty and deadly,
Yet smitten...
Persuasive and suave,
That was he...

She fixes him with
A penetrating stare,
And he strokes her
Smooth, scaly
Head with what
Is left of his flesh
And bone...
The inky nights
Have ne'er been kind,
And there is no
Warmth- just ice-
In her undulating body.
But still the same,
He has found respite
In a creature so like
His only friend...
She understands him,
A subtle jibe
To the Muggle Indians,
But he is the true
Of the snake,
Of power,
Of magic,
Of death...

The air is stale,
But hush
He can wait it out.
The scattered leaves
Come to abandon e'en
The frozen ground,
Yet does he,
The meanest ghost,
Continue in his refuge,
His only friend
A sly, crafty devil
In the form
Of a cunning
As the hollow silence
Reigns once more...

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