Puritas Vincit - Part II
Tom Riddle was neither a desparate or careless man.
Abraxas was careful to not react when his Lord extended a hand his direction, asking what seemed impossible, and watched with growing anticipation as each digit curled in with sweet satisfaction, grasping the sleeve of his robes.
"My Lord..." Abraxas huffed, lips parted.
Those ghostly fingers stilled against him and he mourned the sudden loss of touch. The falter was momentary, and he dared to glance up at his Master's face. Strong dark brows swept over eyes he'd become a willing servant to. The hand not grasping his arm raised to his mouth, resting there to silence him.
"I'll not have you speak before the appropriate time, dear Abraxas." His voice slipped between the buttons of his jacket, pooling into the recesses of his pores, causing his pulse to increase. "Your magical consent is sufficient."
Crashing outside of Abraxas' study jarred the men who's pricked fingers were moments from meeting. Painful, though it was, to detach himself from his Lord, the urge to protect him was far greater. A robed figure all but fell into the room.
"Lord Voldemort!" panted the repugnant shoe-licker, Amycus Carrow, as he interrupted the private audience.
Abraxas held no qualms training his wand steadily at the expendable imbecile. He took a breath, but a steadying hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Amycus, who have you brought before me? The time for my audience has passed."
Lines appeared along the younger man's cheeks as trails of sweat riveted through dust from the cellars. Moving his weight from one foot to the other with indecision, Amycus then knelt before Lord Voldemort. His Lord knew, he always knew.
"A girl, she breached the wards somehow. Alecto and I were in the East Wing..."
"The honeymoon suites? Those were sealed years ago."
Amycus continued on, only acknowledging Abraxas had spoken with a flicker of his gaze. "We were preparing rooms for the guests from Ukraine, My Lord, and she was in the mirror."
The next words of protest died in Abraxas' throat.
His grip tightening, Tom leaned closer to his consort and asked the last question Abraxas wanted. "The pier glass? You affirmed it could not be activated?"
"My Lord, I assure you it cannot be the mirror. I would sooner forfeit my magic than withhold it from you."
Abraxas did not take notice of the lump of man waiting for further instruction. He leaned back further into Lord Voldemort's embrace, but the chill of rejection rushed his veins as the man, the god who'd almost been his, swept from the room.
Astoria couldn't discern if it was the room, or only her vision that rocked like a boat at sea.
The air of the room was warmer than what she'd left...through the mirror, no less. She chided herself repeatedly at her own lack of self-preservation after encountering the shifting pier glass. Uncertainty gripped her as tightly as the incarcerous spell around her arms, holding her in an ornate chair that was familiar, but she brushed the disturbing thoughts aside.
Vertigo, she convinced herself. I have vertigo and a house elf will certainly fetch me a potion for it.
After calling the names of a dozen house elves she knew were within the Manor, the dread coiling tighter than the whale bone corset of her wedding gown, stark white in the gloom of the bedroom. This dread was another tone than her post-marital realization. A darker tone, reminding her of cobblestoned corridors and dodging hexes. The hooded figure who'd dragged her into whatever room of the Manor this was, nearly a duplicate of the suite she'd attempted to ensconce herself in, hadn't returned, but she swore she'd recognized the voice. Male, breathy with an onion tang, which fit into the puzzle seamlessly.
Amycus Carrow. A man, who was supposed to be incarcerated in Azkaban, another Pureblood forced into a Dementor's Kiss and lying catatonic in Azakaban, was in the Manor. His incarcerous reached up to her throat, restricting her from speaking louder than a whisper. Calling the names of the house elves abraded her throat painfully, so she was certain calling for help or sounding an alarm would have far worse consequences.
The vertigo was worse than she thought.
