For the Greater Good || Tom Riddle ||

Chapter Sixteen: Spoons and Shrines

"I'm warning you, mate. It's not good."

Abraxas shook his head at Theodore Nott. "I wouldn't say that aloud if I were you."

"Go check for yourself," the brunette tossed from his spot on the couch. Mulciber sat next to him, drinking a strong-smelling liquor.

He was terrorizing the house-elf, telling it to go back and forth and bring him a new drink as soon as it appeared.

After the eighth time, with the annoying snapping of fingers and nearly spilled drinks, plus a dizzy-looking elf, he had had enough.

"Stop that," Abraxas chided with a snarl.

"Oh, Malfoy!" Mulciber laughed as he raised the martini to his lips. He played with the olive on his tongue and swallowed it with one gulp. "You're so soft. This is what they're made to do!"

It was clear that the rapid and frequent disapparation was beginning to disorient the creature. It stumbled into the small decorative table, its gazes crossed and woozy. Abraxas rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. I don't care."

"Be careful, mate!" Theodore called after him.

"Twat," Malfoy mumbled under his breath as he crossed the marble threshold.

Leaving the drawing room, he made his was to the grand staircase. The upstairs had also been remodeled from what his original childhood home looked like. It was hard not to recount memories of his mother and father standing on the balcony for a portrait sitting as he made his way up the stairs.

They were both dead now. The house was his.

Lord of Malfoy Manor.

Except he wasn't, at least not really.

He approached the master bedroom door cautiously and left only the lightest knock. Theodore had warned him against intrusion.

He had the Crucio shakes to prove it.

"My Lord?" Abraxas asked tentatively. "May I come in?"

There was a pause before the door slowly creaked open. A low voice answered.

"If you must."

Abraxas slowly walked into the room.

A figure with a head of wavy dark locks sat a large desk facing the ornate south-side windows. Looking closely, Abraxas noticed his white dress shirt sleeve was stained with splotches of black, like constellations dotting the expensive fabric—undoubtedly ink.

His grey eyes surveyed the room a discreetly as possible. Papers were crumbled everywhere, some haphazardly attached to the walls, others burning in the fireplace. There was a creak, a shift of weight in the antique chair, and Abraxas immediately turned his attention back on the man in front of him.

"My Lord, do you need anything?" his voice was tight, higher pitched than usual.

Again, there was a pause, too long of pause, the kind of pause that made him jumpy. Worried. Nervous.

Scared.

Tom Riddle twisted the glinting signet ring on his thumb. "Did you happen to bring a paper?" he drawled.

Abraxas hurriedly grabbed his wand and summoned The Prophet to his side. "Our recent endeavors haven't been picked up on by the papers. No one noticed the muggle missing and no one linked-"

"That's not what I'm interested in," Tom hissed lethally.

He still did not turn around.

Abraxas didn't breathe. He didn't dare move. These kinds of moods were rare, very rare, actually, apart from their onset several weeks ago. Most of the time, it was pleasant—pleasing even—empowering, to serve a wizard such as Tom Riddle.