Serpentine [T.M. Riddle]

Interlude VI: Phobos

He follows her from branch to branch, diving between copses of trees and gliding under the cover of canopies. As if he were her shadow. Always there, always silent.

His brother, Deimos, follows with him, twice as quiet, twice as anxious. The other human with her is the one causing anxiety. Makes him hop and peer down at his pale face as if he were an immediate danger. A leopard or a snake in the grass about to strike their master.

Crows don't have masters, not really. They choose who to serve with extreme prejudice, and Phobos and his brother are no different. But they don't know a word for what she is to them. To his brother. They could call her many things. Provider. Mother. Teacher. Bruja. None of these titles really matters because they know no language. Know no names (only the noises that leave her mouth when she calls them). When they speak, they only crow. Murr. Click. A form of communication that is often lost on humans, but never a witch. At least, not a witch who is worth her salt.

The bruja is speaking with her pale companion: another witch whose magic makes Phobos' feathers ruffle and stand on edge. Deimos has the right idea to be anxious, his aura is strange to them. Clouded. Polluted. As if the boy tried to cover the scent of a rotting carcass with sweet perfumes from flowers. Fruits. Phobos doesn't understand why the bruja doesn't sense it. Why she can't smell it off of him.

He caws over to his brother, and Deimos responds in kind. He's watching. Waiting. For the other witch boy to slip up. To lay a hand on their keeper and give them both an excuse to defend.

The witch boy does not give one. He is all teeth and soft voice, as if he were coaxing a hiding cub from its den. But Phobos knows the mouth of a predator when he sees it. Any familiar worth their salt knows.

The two humans speak to each other in melodies that do not register in Phobos' mind, but he knows they are talking about him and his brother.

"There are crows in this part of Mexico?"

"No."

He puffs up and contemplates swooping down over the witch boy's head to scare him, but his guard is always up. As if anticipating an attack. The witch boy has seen conflict and is hardened by it. Phobos suspects that little scares him. Like the jaguars that prowl the darkness further south of here. Smug in knowing that they were the most dangerous thing in the jungle.

Phobos crows again, this time to the bruja, who clicks back softly at him, twice to call him down to her. Phobos flaps his ink black wings and lands comfortably on her shoulder. He can feel the witch boy's stare, heavy on his feathers. He can feel the bruja's gentle fingers on his head as she coos.

"That's a carrion crow."

"You know your birds."

"They're not native to the continent."

"Many things aren't."

The bruja feeds him. Little seeds that she keeps safe in the depths of her pockets, just for him and his brother. She never seems to run out. Deimos doesn't animate himself to come down with him, he's still watching the witch boy warily. Waiting.

"Did you bring him with you?"

"He followed me."

She scratches under his beak and he purrs happily as she speaks her human tongue in dulcet tones to him. The witch boy's stare grows heavier. Sharper. Envy.

Phobos preens openly.

"Is it the same one from Hogwarts?"

"One of them."

The witch boy's magical signature is pulsating. Twitching and flickering like a flame. Phobos can feel it wiggling closer to the bruja, but never touching. Just lingering. A hesitant prowler.

Phobos hops once on her shoulder and directs his crow to the witch boy, a call out. Accusatory and demanding. He can sense his brother's flittering nerves up in the trees. Deimos avoids conflict. Phobos attacks it head-on.

The bruja shakes her shoulders in amusement, suppressing laughter. Her companion doesn't find it as funny. The pasty boy recognises a threat, Phobos can tell. His body language is on the defensive. His magic suppressed. Good. He should know that this bruja has familiars. Protectors. If the witch boy hasn't proven himself a threat, it doesn't mean he'll rest around him.

"No seas así." She scolds, bopping the tip of his beak. Phobos clicks back defiantly. "Hosicón."

"Does he understand you?"

"Not like you or another person would."

Phobos nips at the bruja's finger, not enough to draw blood. It's playful. He wants more seeds.

"There's no Parsel for birds?"

The bruja pauses a moment. Phobos knows her mind is somewhere else. He grooms her curls.

"Maybe. I don't know."

Phobos picks out a stray leaf stuck in her hair from the grapefruit tree outside of the salon. He decides to keep it for his treasure hoard.

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