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THE MOONLIGHT emitting from the egress window laments in its path, the velvet curtains pulled almost entirely to shun it from entry. Particles of dust are apparent in the narrow stream, wispy and full of jubilance as they twist and soar before disappearing into the darkness swallowing the rest of the parlor. Shadows loom in the corners, some of the noble architecture that adorned the ancient room, and others of the crows that zipped past the window. Their presence augmented the eerie scene, coaxing discomfort into the delicate silence within the four walls, particularly between Keres Debussy and Tom Riddle.
Keres occupies the green divan before the unlit hearth. She could very well concoct a fire with the elm wand clasped in her hand, although Riddle refused the light and he refused the heat. He longed to wallow within the cold room resembling an abyss in the large manor. As he lies perpendicularly from Keres, his breath a cadence born from a symphony she'd conjured up in a distant illusion, the witching hours of night elapse deliberately. Briefly, she wonders if he would still be lying in his disdain of mirth by morning's arrival; if he wished to seclude himself from a new day arising out of the ash of all the yesterdays he'd exhausted.
His vulnerability was seldom shown, though something about Keres's introversion made it easy for him to strip away the gaudiness of his authority for even just a few moments, if not an entire night given the magnitude of her company. Within the darkness, Riddle's presence is a strange juxtaposition. His skin contrasted the somber scene, pallid with the exception of the purplish hemicycles beneath his eyes. Even his irises are a rainforest impeded by monochromic undertones, for Keres could see them looking at her—seemingly through her—from where he rested on the chaise lounge.
She shifted under his scrutiny, diverting her attention to the vacant hearth. No reminiscence of ash or wood fragments remain, as the manor they were currently in had been abandoned for well-over a century. It was presumptively a relic, and Keres knew well that Riddle praised vintage architecture, thus making this the most viable spot for them to rest. "Them" including the few Death Eaters inhabiting the other side of the residence for the night, or however long their luminary wished to stay. Since the moment of their union in the spring, they'd been venturing into towns dilapidated after Muggle genocides. Now winter had arrived anew, amplifying the difficulty of the necessary refuging.
The scent of smoke kisses the sable-tinged atmosphere, and Keres turns to see that the incense stick resting on the coffee table is ignited. They both watch as tufts of ash arouse from it, following an aroma as that of what Keres recognized to be jasmine trees.
The smell was blinding, to say the least, and even Riddle's expression soured in distaste as he hissed 'Reducto', ricocheting fragments of the incense stick into the darkness where the dust particles had trailed into.
"Sleepless?" he inquires. His voice is as deep as a river stone, although imbued with a coarseness like the walls of a ravine. The single emittance alone breaks through the insufferable tension; the waiting game of who's to speak first, as Keres knew she never could. His voice fills the walls, flowing into her eardrums and alleviating the tightening nervousness in her head. However, quickly the next wave of anguish thrashes over her, the notion that she would have to respond to him and engage in what could potentially be a conversation that ruins her life. Riddle was always so astute, recycling every word spoken to him into excuses for his malice. If her antiphons were not of the melody he longed to hear, so easily could she be another contribution to the genocidal statistics battering the current state of the world.
