Miracles don't exist || Theodore Nott

Chapter 11: Home not so sweet home

The sun is shining brightly with not a cloud in the sky. A soft breeze sways the leaves on the trees which tower over the manor. And despite that sunny and happy weather outside, you feel dreaded entering the house.

The pointed roofs and gothic architecture never looked so menacing as now. The perfectly manicured lawn looks like it has thorns and skulls as flowers while the white peacock in the distance looks like an omen of death.

Both you and your cousin stand at the end of the long driveway, your luggage floating towards the front door. Aunt Cissy motions for the two of you to hurry up.

Glancing at each other, Draco gives your wrist a reassuring squeeze before marching up the gravel path. You linger for a while longer until you can't.

It's quiet when you enter the manor. More than usual. All sounds, even those from outside, seem to have disappeared. No creaking of the house, ticking of clocks, nothing.

Your aunt turns to you, a sorrowful look on her face. "The Dark Lord is expecting you in the library."

You want to shake your head. Scream, cry, yell that you don't want to see him. You're scared. So fucking scared to meet him. But, you don't have a choice.

With a meek nod, you turn on your heels and make your way towards the library. You ignore Draco's shaken look as his mother hugs him and leads him to the other side of the house.

The floorboards under your feet creak as you stand in front of the double doors of the library. You raise your fist but before your knuckles make contact with the wood, the doors swing open.

He stands in front of the large windows that oversee a part of the gardens, his back turned to the door and his hands are clasped behind his back. He is almost as pale as a sheet, blue veins running over his bald head.

When he turns around, you have to bite back the gasp of horror you want to let out. His face can only be described as snake-like. Two slits are where a nose should be and icy blue eyes set in a too-pale face.

He is nothing as you imagined. You once or twice have searched up the name Riddle in the school records to look at the picture of all the prefects. At that time, Tom Marvolo Riddle was a handsome seventh-year boy. Dark hair, high cheekbones, and a proud look on his face.

Tom Marvolo Riddle is obviously gone and in his place is Lord Voldemort.

You don't know whether to bow or nod, so you look at the ground once he catches you study him.

"My Heir." His voice is breathy, almost whisper-like. He opens his arms, "come here."

Your feet move with a mind of their own. You scale the size of the room and stop in front of the imposing figure. He wraps his arms lofty around you. A chill spreads through your body as a cold hand presses against your back.

Taking a step back, you try to even your breathing. "My Lord." The title comes out in a whisper. You're utterly terrified of what this man will do, will say.

He tsks disapprovingly. "When we are in company of each other, you may call me Father, my Heir."

"Yes... Father."

Voldemort nods approvingly. He studies you once again, his icy eyes trailing every inch of your face and hair. "I've been told you are sorted into Slytherin. Naturally."

You nod. "Yes, Father." You don't know what else to say. But it seems like he is expecting more. "My studies are going well. I am staying out of trouble and keep with our own kind."

It's the safe answer, one you know satisfies him. And it does. He dismisses you with a wave of his hand and you don't know how quickly you have to get out of the library.