Camaraderie of Hellions [Tom Riddle]

XVIII - Murder Most Foul

BELLCHANT HOLIDAY HOUSE
September 18th, 1948
Elven, Morbihan, France

WARNING: murder and graphic gore

The unexpected snowfall had proven itself to be quite burdensome.

The furs were draped halfheartedly over his towering frame as glistening flakes of snow fell from the skies and soaked into his clammy cheeks, and the thick wool pants grew unpleasantly wet as fur boots trudged through the deep piling of the pale sky's lacy blanket.

He huffed deeply and watched as his breath drifted into the air, particles dancing and spiralling before they vanished without a trace.

Ungloved, trembling hands bordering on reaching a lethal purple hue reached up to tighten the furs around his body, then went to dig in the deep pockets of his underlying coat until he waved his wand with drowsy limbs and a sudden wave of warmth caressed the whole of his being for what felt like a fraction of a second, before the chill made its way through the weak magic and tormented him yet again.

He cursed loudly as he shoved his wand back into his coat, swiftly rubbing his hands together as he waited for far longer than he had anticipated.

Cerulean eyes squinted as his vision blurred, but he persevered, looking up at the sky despite the flurry of snowflakes only adding to his troubles.

For Aldean Krafft knew he would be arriving soon, and when he did, Aldean would surely know.

Krafft gazed back at the wooden shack in the distance, eyes trailing his footprints that had been imprinted in the snow as he walked a mile from the back door all the way to the end of the clearing. The snow slowly vanquished his imprints, and he began to lose faith on whether or not Tobias Krall was truly coming to pay him visit.

He thought of his sons, lanky and considerably on the verge of adulthood, still utterly helpless in a cold climate. He scoffed softly as he pictured them lounging in the warmth of the shack they had been told to stay in, near the outskirts of Tyrol.