Seven Devils ★ T.M.R ★

Chapter Forty-Four

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MAY 2ND
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CW: quite a bit of murder, blood, etc.
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TOM FROWNED AT the place where Marina had just vanished. Her expression had been very curious indeed, a wide-eyed panic mixed with reckless resolve. Something about it made him feel uneasy; she'd been behaving strangely for the entire duration of the farewell, but that final moment had been exceptionally odd.

It made him wonder. Marina knew things, after all.

He turned away dismissively and lifted his wand again. Whatever it had been would have to wait until their next meeting, he rationalised, since he couldn't ask her to clarify there was very little to be gained from dwelling on it until then.

Riddle House vanished from around him and gave way to the sharp bite of a clear, cool night, the cloudless sky bright despite the waning moon. Insects whistled apprehensively from the distant trees, and a ghostly peacock wailed at his sudden appearance. Malfoy Manor lay ahead, jutting up against the sky and flanked by a vast expanse of lavish gardens and grounds that Tom had never once seen anyone actually use. The house itself was composed of near-seamless stone bricks and hard angles, stretching skywards just to leer back down at him.

Tom thought it looked like a gravestone.

He deftly stowed his wand as he made his way up the long gravel drive, his mood souring considerably with each step; it was a grim alternative to what he had left behind in Riddle House. Tom frowned again as he forcibly diverted his thoughts away from the evening he had spent with Marina, inexorably aware that making himself stop once he had started would be no mean task.

The inside of Malfoy Manor was silent and shadowed, save for a few candles flickering in silver fixtures on the walls, the lights glistened on the metal as if each an eye, watching him as he quietly wound his way through the corridors. He felt the latent chill of the place settling against his skin, his expression freezing into a rigid mask. He was well-practised at submerging his inner thoughts, reducing them to a current moving far beneath a thick, frigid layer of composure, unable to be sensed at the surface.

The dark wooden door of the drawing room swung open as Tom approached and he stepped without hesitation into the delicate silence within. Every heavy, lavish chair positioned at the ornately carved table was empty, save for one – the significantly more opulent chair at the end of the table directly in front of the fireplace was occupied by a tall, black-robed figure with a waxen, pale face fixed in an aloof, inimical fleer, whose eyes gleamed red even at a distance. Tom's stomach twisted. The face disgusted him as much now as the first time he had seen it.

"Tom," Voldemort said softly, waving a white, long-fingered hand at the seat directly to his right. "Come."

Swallowing his revulsion, Tom stepped forward and took his place at Voldemort's side, watching the figure closely. This close, he could see the distorted, inhuman features with even greater clarity, and far beneath his composure, the disgust roiled again. Not for the first time did he wonder how he had ever been on a path that led him to become such a thing.

"What news from the Ministry?" Voldemort asked, steepling his fingers before him. For the briefest second, the action almost reminded Tom of Dumbledore.

"The Muggle world remains ignorant of the true nature of the war," Tom replied calmly, "but there appears to be a growing contingent of Muggle sympathisers among our enemies who are attempting to spread the truth to the Muggle media... at present they are ignored as conspiracy theorists and eccentrics, but if the efforts continue..."