Chapter Nine
Hello again my dear readers, I come with good news… HAPPY 100 PAGE DAY! I always find the 100 page hallmark exciting, more so than 200 or 300. If I reach 400 for this part, which I didn't quite manage in part 1, I'll create 400 Page Day, too.
A few of my old OCs back this chapter, which has been like diving into a glass of champagne! Also a couple of new characters, so please welcome them (I feel like Dumbledore at the beginning of a school year, introducing the new kids). I was getting so bored writing from Harry's POV, so this chapter is honestly a breath of fresh air for me.
I'm dedicating this chapter to mochisung_pwark because they read WIR three times over during quarantine alone, which I think is super impressive, and I felt a need to acknowledge this in some way, so this one's for you!
The door flew open, slamming against the adjacent wall with a splintering crash.
Margot bolted upright in bed, grasping for her eye mask and tearing it off her face, hair flying in a disarrayed, yellow halo around her. A quick glance sideways through the tall, arched windows across from her revealed that the moon was still riding high in the sky, sending soft beams into her bedchamber to mark glowing tattoos in the floorboards.
A slim figure in a dressing robe stood in the doorway, wand raised, a light shining from the tip.
Margot relaxed, falling back against her pillows.
"Marcellus," she said. "Don't scare me like that."
The figure advanced into the room, seizing Margot's dressing robe from the end of her bed and tossing it onto her lap.
"Put this on," he said – there was a note of urgency to his voice. "And please hurry. It's happening again."
Margot sprung to alert, throwing her bedsheets aside and slipping into the pair of boots she kept at her bedside. Dragging the dressing robe on to ward off the night chill, she grabbed her wand and muttered, "Lumos," before, "Tell me when it started."
She and Marcellus hurried out of the room and down the long, echoing hall of Malfoy Manor, their darting footsteps soft on the polished floorboards.
"I'm not sure," said Marcellus. His face, so lovely in the daylight, was now set in shadow. "We went to sleep close to midnight, and I woke up a couple of hours later to find him like this again. I couldn't wake him, not properly. It seems to me that you're the only one able to get through to him when he's like this."
Margot shook her head and said solemnly, "He probably hasn't been listening to my advice. Has he been meditating before he goes to sleep?"
Marcellus shook his head, and Margot scoffed. "Of course he hasn't been. Meditation is something that needs to be practised every day, how could he possibly expect to achieve a clear mind if he doesn't… he's such as stubborn, proud man, it drives me up the wall."
Marcellus didn't reply. He didn't need to.
Glancing around to make sure that nobody had followed them, Margot pushed open the bedchamber door Marcellus had led her to and stepped across the threshold.
"Lock the door behind us," she ordered him, "and sound-proof the room while you're at it."
She pointed her wand at each individual lamp on the walls, each blooming to life with small, dancing flames so that the room was soon well lit – or as well lit as was possible, in this perpetually dim house. She approached the large, four poster bed and cast the curtains aside.
Tom Riddle was turning to and fro, his head thrown back to bare his long, white throat, the Adam's apple prominent. He was whimpering and whispering words that were unintelligible to her. His eyes were screwed shut and his face was pale, shining with sweat.
Calmly, Margot kneeled by his side and placed a hand across his damp, feverish forehead, and closed her eyes.
A vision of bright green eyes flashed across her inner eye, like the sun briefly catching on the side of a well-polished knife. It was sharp and searing, and she snapped her eyes open again, hand skittering off his forehead as if she had been burned. A headache began to pound against her left temple.
Marcellus was standing across from them, his arms clutching his robes tightly against his body and his brow furrowed, silently watching the scene.
Margot pressed her lips together, hand quivering as she extended it again, her palm once more making contact with his forehead.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," she said, loud and clear as a bell. "Wake!"
The effect was instantaneous, as it had always been.
Riddle fell still, his eyes flashing open and his chest heaving with forced breaths.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows and stared at Margot, the panic scrawled across his face dispersing at the sight of her crouched there, bags drawn under her eyes.
"Again?" he whispered.
"Again," Margot agreed grimly. "Do you remember what you saw?"
Riddle dragged himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his palms into his eye sockets as if he could erase the sights that he had seen through sheer physical force.
"Bits and pieces," he murmured. "It never makes any sense. But it's always the same. I see snow, and a dragon. It's so cold, yet my chest feels warm. Then there's a rainstorm, and a girl, dying – I can't remember her face. And a boy. There's always a boy, in my arms. I always feel like crying."
He had removed his face from his hands and was staring into the distance, into a world that neither she nor Marcellus could see. The silence around Marcellus became brittle – the change was almost tangible. He was staring at the back of Riddle's head, burning holes.
"That's a sight I'd like to see, you crying," said Margot briskly. She wasn't here to get in the middle of some lovers' spat, or whatever these two were. "Was it the boy with the green eyes again?"
"Yes," Riddle whispered. "Green, like the killing curse. Beautiful."
Marcellus cleared his throat. He was no longer trying to hide the fact that he was mightily pissed off.
"Beautiful eyes aside," he said tetchily, "do you have any idea who he is? Him, or the girl?"
"No," Riddle returned, sounding equally pissy, as if he had just be drawn from a particularly nice memory. "It's like an itch in my brain that I can't reach but is always there. Why can't I just remember?"
He shoved himself up into a standing position and began pacing, the moon shining white across his bare back as he stalked back and forth across the chamber – a panther woken from his slumber – dragging a hand through his thick, dark hair.
It occurred to Margot then that she and Marcellus were the only ones who would ever be allowed to see this man in such a vulnerable state. It was uncalled for that anyone else might witness it.
"It's at Hogwarts," Riddle said abruptly, turning to Margot who was still kneeling on the floor at the bedside, watching him quietly. "I've always thought it was at Hogwarts, but I'm not sure why. A gut feeling…"
"Have you been back to Hogwarts recently?" she asked.
"Not for five years. Dippet told me to wait before I return, and so I have waited. I will not beg for a position there. I will accept an offer graciously, then Dumbledore will no longer be smiling…"
Hatred burned mean in his voice. Margot had never understood the relationship between Riddle and the Transfiguration professor. The animosity between them appeared to have arisen out of thin air, as far as she could tell.
Margot stood, brushing hair out of her face. She had no interest in Riddle's politics, and she had no interest in becoming one of his sycophants. She had her role to perform, and she would perform no more and no less. Besides, she could tell things could quickly become awkward between Marcellus and Riddle, and she had no desire to hang around to witness it.
"Unless you have any other information of importance," she said, "then I'd best be off before Abraxas is alerted of this gathering. Good night to you all–"
But before she could brush out of the room, Riddle seized her arm, bringing her to a standstill, his grip like steel. The towering shadow over her was a stark reminder of how much taller than her he was. She turned rigid as he bent down and brought his lips to her ear.
"And what of you?" he asked, as soft as a breath but no less dangerous. "Have you seen anything of late that you are withholding from me? Because if you are, I'm sure there's no need for me to remind you how easily I can rip your mind to shreds, as easily as flimsy wallpaper."
Margot turned her face towards his, baring her teeth at him. "Let go of me."
He didn't, instead continued in a deadly whisper, "Remember what you owe me."
Margot wrenched herself out of his grip and glared at him, despite how much her hands shook when confronted by his quiet, unstable menace.
"I have seen nothing new," she hissed. "It's as I have told you, and it's the same every time – you will die, and it will not end in grandeur, but in silence."
Riddle scoffed and turned his back on her, dismissing her from his sight.
"I have taken precautions," he said, "and nor am I done with my safeguard. What you say is an impossibility."
Despite her desire to remove herself from the same room as him as swiftly as was humanly possible, she couldn't help but demand, "Why do you want me here if you never wish to listen to what I have to say?"
"Because you've only recently come into your skillset," he responded. "I believe that you're inexperienced and misinterpreting what you've seen."
Margot's jaw worked, contemplating a furious retort, but Marcellus saved her the effort.
"You're both tired," he said, clearly attempting to patch up the tension that had built between him and Riddle. He stepped over to the taller man, reaching out to massage his shoulders soothingly. "I'd recommend everybody retire for what's left of the night."
Riddle brushed him off, ignoring the small noise of offence his actions elicited from the other.
"I'm going into Borgin and Burkes," he said, crossing over to his trunk to begin changing. "I have a meeting with a potential customer in an hour."
"At three in the morning?" Marcellus demanded, disbelieving.
Sensing that her presence was no longer remembered, Margot unlocked the door and slipped out, back into the cover of darkness.
Malfoy Manor was unusual in that when morning light draped itself across the outside world, it never seemed able to pervade the ancient building's walls. There was a constant chill in the air inside, despite the low flames that burned within fireplaces in the various rooms, tended to by house-elves that Margot never seemed to see. Throughout their various stays here, she had learned that the Malfoy servants were exceptionally well trained in the art of neither being seen nor heard.
A bell rang from the dining hall, resonating throughout the halls, indicating that breakfast was being served.
Margot fetched a deep blue dress with matching outer robes from her trunk, which she never bothered unpacking considering how often Riddle moved, and dressed herself before seating herself at the vanity to make herself presentable in the esteemed company of Abraxas Malfoy.
Her pale, heart-shaped face watched her in the mirror as she powdered her face, darkened her lashes and pinched her white cheeks and lips to bring colour to them. While she was performing her morning routine, Marcellus strode into the room and sat down on the end of her bed, watching her.
She glanced into the mirror and met his piercing cognac-coloured eyes.
"Marcellus," she acknowledged, returning to plaiting her hair.
"Margot," he said. "I don't know what to do."
"You should let me add some makeup beneath your eyes," she responded, winking at him in the mirror. "Your bags are even worse than mine!"
He brushed her off. "I mean about Tom."
"Hm." Margot held up a few pins. "Help me here, would you?"
He came over obediently, helping her to pin her plaits up into an elaborate bun on the back of her head, silent the entire time. Then she said, "What's the matter now?"
"I've been with Tom since I left Hogwarts," Marcellus said quietly. "Even at Hogwarts, I was always watching him, wanting to be a part of something bigger than me. And I sense that something's finally happening, yet I have the terrible feeling that he's slipping away from me."
"But isn't that just the way he is?" Margot asked, swivelling around on her chair to face him, taking his hands into her own. "Granted, I never had anything to do with him at school, and I've only been around him for five years now, but I think that this is who he is. He's cold, he's doesn't experience emotions that same way that you and I do. That's the only way he's managed to do what he has so far."
"This is different," Marcellus said, and his voice broke painfully in the middle of the sentence. "He… he used to hold me. But he barely touches me now, and he looks at me as if he's not seeing me. Since those dreams of his started becoming more frequent, he's started to think of nothing but them. I can tell. It's like an obsession… the boy with the green eyes… Margot, I don't want to lose him."
Margot couldn't deny it. She'd seen these same changes in Riddle.
"Hey." She stood up, cradling his warm cheek in her hand, brushing away a stray tear with her thumb. "Don't cry. Never cry over any arsehole man, they don't deserve it. And don't give me that look, Riddle is an arsehole, and you know I've always thought so. He's an absolute bastard, and you deserve so much better than him. But if you continue to insist to stay by his side, remember, I'll always be here for you. We'll get through this, alright?"
"Alright," Marcellus whispered.
"Brush away those tears," Margot said, smiling at him as much as she could bear, brushing the soft material of his velvet robes. "Don't let Abraxas see you like this, or you'll never earn his respect back. Now, how does breakfast sound? I'm dying for a good cup of tea."
Marcellus drew a deep breath in, shaking his head and blinking hard. "You're right. Of course you are. Thank you, Margot."
By the time they entered the dining hall, Marcellus's face was the picture of a stillness. Abraxas was already seated at the head of the table, helping himself to a platter of small, speckled eggs.
"Ah," he said, looking up as they walked in. "There you are. I was wondering when I would be graced with your company, Miss Greengrass, Mr Selwyn."
"Excuse our tardiness," said Margot, extending a coy smile towards the wizard she loathed almost as much as Riddle. "The two of us were caught up having a chat in my bedchamber."
"I trust your quarters are to your liking?"
Margot allowed herself a small laugh. "Goodness me, Abraxas, why the formalities? I have been given the same room every time Riddle and I have passed through here for the past six years."
Abraxas gave a polite smile, though it was tight, as though he couldn't believe she still had the nerve to refer to Riddle by the surname he had rejected. As a matter of fact, Abraxas's equal dislike towards her shone clear. Margot knew that few people beyond Marcellus did more than tolerate her presence within the hierarchy of the so-called Death Eaters, the new name greatly popular among Riddle's sycophants. Most of them had known her in school and were aware of her disdain towards them, and many were acquainted with her parents, who had intended a different fate for her. But they all knew she was important to Riddle, even if they didn't know the deal that had been struck between them. Whispered words were all that were exchanged behind her back, harmless enough. She was a tougher nut to crack. Besides, her standing as a pure-blood from the family of its name offered her an even wider circle of protection among these witches and wizards.
"And what of you, Mr Selwyn?" Abraxas inquired, turning towards Margot's companion with greater levels of warmth than he had showed her. "How did yourself and my lord find your quarters? I trust you received the mulled wine I had the house-elves deliver last night? It reached an exceptionally cold temperature…"
"Yes, thank you, everything was perfectly satisfactory," said Marcellus blandly. His public face was such as different one from the one that Margot saw behind closed doors. She was always astounded by what a spectacular actor he was. He was cracking open a soft-boiled quail egg now, barely sparing Abraxas a glance.
Margot poured herself some earl grey, summoning the cream and sugar cubes with her wand, all the while watching Abraxas from the corner of her eye. He was eating with a measured pace, though he was clearly on edge, glancing at the door every few moments. At long last, he said, "Is my lord going to be joining us this morning?"
Marcellus paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "He was taken away by a business call early this morning."
"I see." Abraxas deflated. He brushed his long tail of white-blonde hair over his shoulder and stood, throwing his napkin upon his half-finished plate of food. "Well then, I'll be in my office should you wish to find me. Good day."
With that, he swept out of the room.
"Good riddance," said Margot, relaxing in her seat. "He's such a stuffy presence, I hate that we stay here so often."
"I don't believe Tom is particularly fond of him, either," said Marcellus, ignoring the tongs on the table now and grabbing a piece of toast with his fingers. "But Malfoy Manor serves as excellent headquarters, it's large enough to house a big audience and is of prime location. And there's no better library, besides Hogwarts, or so Tom likes to say." His upright posture immediately slumped as he said the name. "Sweet Morgana, I'm too sober to think about him right now."
He snapped his fingers, and a house-elf cracked into sight by his side. Dressed in a rag, with big, droopy ears and tennis ball-sized eyes, Margot had always found them to be hideous creatures, but they were undeniably useful and of far greater levels of intelligence than most gave them credit for. They were also – and Margot rarely spoke of it, but her magic sensitivity never lied – vessels of far greater levels of magic than most witches and wizards possessed. This she had to respect.
"Master Marcellus, sir, called for Dobby?" the house-elf asked in his high, piercing voice.
"Yes," said Marcellus, and he lowered his voice conspiratorially, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening at the door. "I was rather hoping, Dobby, that you still have some of that mulled wine on hand?"
"It's eight in the morning, Marcellus!" said Margot, scandalised, while Dobby giggled into his hand.
"No one need ever know, if no one speaks of it," returned Marcellus, giving her a significant look. "What say you, Dobby?"
"Dobby can sort something out for Master Marcellus," the elf squeaked, but then he noticed Margot and he passed a worried glance to Marcellus.
"She won't tell," Marcellus said, winking, and he lifted his finger to his lips, smiling, his eyes briefly flickering towards the door again as if expecting Abraxas to dive through it at any moment and accuse him of alcoholism.
Dobby imitated the pose, grinning all the while, which was when Margot saw it. Marcellus must have seen it, too, for his face fell and his eyebrows dipped. "What happened to your hands, Dobby?"
Dobby glanced down at his bandaged fingers, and his ears drooped, eyes lowering to the ground in shame. "Dobby was a bad elf. Dobby served Master Abraxas tea that scalded his mouth, so Master Abraxas told Dobby to go scald his hands. So Dobby put a poker in the fire and when it was good and hot, Dobby held it in his hands and Dobby cried, but Dobby was bad to his master so Dobby deserved it–"
"Never say you deserved it!" Marcellus hissed, making Margot jump, and his eyes burned bright and furious, like the embers of a fire. "I don't care if you dropped a whole bloody tray of tea on his head, no one deserves what you did to yourself!"
"But Master Abraxas said–"
"Master Abraxas is a fuckwit!"
Margot took a sip of tea, watching the entire scene play out before her eyes. Marcellus was on his feet now, his mouth trembling, and Dobby looked petrified, cowering on the ground.
"Dobby made Master Marcellus angry, Dobby needs to punish himself–"
"No." Marcellus sliced across Dobby's words, like a hot knife through butter. His voice softened, though his eyes were still smouldering. "You didn't make me angry, Dobby. Abraxas did. Do you understand? Now, would you let me see your hands? Maybe Margot here can heal them for you, she's very good at things like that."
But Dobby hid his hands behind his back. He looked no more reassured than if Marcellus had threatened to bite his head off. "Dobby will leave Master Marcellus his mulled wine in his room," the elf said, his voice barely a whisper, then Disapparated with another resonating crack.
Marcellus dragged a hand through his dark hair and threw himself back down into his chair. He was breathing very fast.
Margot took another mouthful of toast, chewing as she watched him thoughtfully while he poked at his plate of food, his mouth forming a straight line. While she didn't treat house-elves with scorn (how could she, knowing how powerful they truly were?) but she was never able to muster the levels of care that Marcellus did. He was a true rarity, that one. How in Merlin's name Riddle kept catching these hearts of gold for his own, she did not know– her thoughts came to a screeching halt. She stopped chewing.
Kept? As if he had ever caught more than one. She cast her mind back, desperately fishing for whatever line of thought had brought her to form that sentence in her head, but she came up blank, a net dragged out of the water which had snagged nothing but kelp.
"Nothing with magic should be treated with such contempt," Marcellus announced. His breathing had evened out, though his voice still trembled. "I hate men like Abraxas Malfoy. Men without sympathy."
Margot quirked an eyebrow at him, her thoughts reading clear on her face. Men like Tom Riddle?
"Oh, he has sympathy," said Marcellus, and added darkly, "in his rarer moments. As I said before, I'm too sober to deal with this right now. Join me?"
Margot waved him away. "I don't drink in the morning."
"It's not like we have anything else on today, besides waiting for Tom to get back from wherever the hell he's nicked off too."
"There's something I want to do," she said. "Something I need a clear mind for."
Marcellus sighed. "More crystal ball gazing? Well, suit yourself."
He stormed out of the dining hall, no doubt making a beeline for the place he would find the mulled wine to drown his sorrows. She would have to make sure to check on him when she was done to make sure he hadn't done anything regrettable.
But in the meantime, she had a thought to chase. Abandoning the now empty room, she passed through the wide, dark halls of Malfoy Manor, pausing every now and then to watch a peacock preening in the well-tended grounds outside. Other than the occasional peacock, she encountered not another soul on her journey back to her room.
In her bedchamber, Margot ensured the door was shut behind her before she moved to her trunk and rummaged through it on her hands and knees, searching for the instrument that made her invaluable to Riddle. With a small grunt, she unearthed the heavy glass orb and clutched it to her chest as she brought it over to the vanity, perching it on its three golden clawed feet.
Humming, Margot polished it with a cloth so that it shone bright in the dim light, making careful sure to not make contact with her skin before she was ready. Satisfied with her work, she wiggled herself to the back of her chair, pressing her spine against the soft, cushioned backing, and wrapped her manicured fingers around the crystal ball, gazing deeply into the haze of mist that warped within, twisting like clouds carried by wind in the sky, forming figures without faces and sounds without voices, dragons and knights, trees and rivers, streams and storms.
There was Riddle, dead upon the ground, she couldn't see his face yet she knew it was him, cloaked in robes of black. They were cheering, and how loudly they cheered, for the tyrant was finally defeated…
Margot cast her mind further in, chasing the tail of the thought she had lost, for surely it would reveal itself here, in the world without sense, but it evaded her reaching fingers, fluttering around corners before she could reach it, never fully in sight… it was fading fast now, she could no longer quite recall what it was that she was meant to be chasing, like a dream she had once had but no longer held a memory of… soon the memory that there had ever even be a dream would be lost, too…
A ghostly stag appeared, unbidden, in the mist, followed by a searing vision of eyes which fractured the stag into shattered pieces. "TOM."
Margot released the ball with a scream, standing up so fast that she knocked the chair out from under her, for she had been so certain those eyes were staring into her very soul. Gasping for breath, she grabbed her dressing robe – the closest thing she could reach – and threw it over the orb to remove it from her sight.
Those eyes. Again. Since Riddle's dreams had been plagued with them, it now seemed that they were leeching into her crystal gazing, too. The very same, she was sure of it, for who else had eyes the exact same shade as the killing curse? It made no sense, there was no context within which to place those eyes. As if they just zapped into existence from nowhere, having never existed before… it was unlike anything she'd ever seen before. And now, the vision was paired with a voice. Distinctly male, and crying out – Tom. Surely a reference to Tom Riddle.
She glanced out the window to see the sun had moved from where it had been perched last she looked. Time had elapsed without her sensing it, so contained in the world of the crystal ball, and then her thoughts.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the door swung open and Riddle came striding into the room at that moment. His face was white, his jaw tight. He was wearing his travelling cloak, indicating that he had only just returned.
"We're leaving," he said. He paused in his tracks, just for a split second, when he took in the chair knocked to the ground and the dressing gown thrown over a round object on the table. His dark eyes narrowed and moved to Margot, but the sight of him had driven a sliver of understanding into her.
"Tea," she murmured, skirting around the chair and past him, dashing out the door. "I need to read your tea."
"What did you see?" Riddle demanded, following her out the door. He only had to take one long stride to maintain pace with her darting footsteps as she hurried back down the hallway.
"I don't know," she said breathlessly. "Well, I do know, but I need to confirm– just follow me!"
Sensing that she was on the verge of a breakthrough, Riddle did not argue, for perhaps the first time in his life, but Margot was too lost in her own head to be able to savour the moment of finally winning over him. Pity.
Back in the dining hall, the long table had been cleared of the breakfast things, except for a tray holding a teapot, several delicate china cups, and a tier holding finger sandwiches and pretty little pastries arranged into swirling floral patterns.
Accidentally disturbing the tier in her hurry and its immaculate styling, Margot quickly prepared a cup of tea with shaking hands and shoved it into Riddle's, who was standing behind her, looking very pinched.
"Drink," she demanded, "but not all of it."
Grimacing against the bitter taste of tea leaves that Margot had burned in her haste, Riddle downed the cup like a shot of strong alcohol, passing it back to her when he was done.
Wiping sweaty strands of hair out of her face, she swirled the cup and the remnants of tea leaf mulch at the bottom of the cup, squinting hard at it to decipher the various shapes forming, dismissing the irrelevant ones and seeking the ones that made any semblance of sense.
"Well?"
"Shush," Margot said distantly, gazing down at the beautiful mess at the bottom of the cup. "There's a five-pointed star… something to do with returning home… and someone searching… for you."
Margot snapped her eyes up to meet Riddle's. His were deep blue and still, like the surface of a lake. She couldn't tell what was hiding beneath.
"The one with the green eyes," she said, this time with as much certainty as when she spoke of his eventual death. "He's searching for you."
If it was possible, Riddle's face drained of whatever colour was left in it. He may as well have been made of porcelain. Wandlessly, he summoned a chair from beneath the table and sat down heavily, unbuckling his cloak from his throat and letting it drape around him.
"A stag came to me." His voice was abrupt.
"A stag?" Margot asked sharply, recalling the split second image she had seen in the crystal ball.
"A Patronus," Riddle corrected. He closed his eyes, as if summoning the memory to the forefront of his mind, envisioning the spectre that had presented itself. "It spoke, in a voice from long ago. I was instructed to meet him at King's Cross Station."
"Have you a date and time?"
"Tonight, at midnight. Alone. To ensure no interruptions."
Margot frowned at him. "Are you going to go?"
Riddle opened his eyes slowly, lazily. Even despite his obvious weariness, his stance was still that of a predator, lounging back as if he hadn't a care in the world. He propped his elbow against the armrest and inclined his head to rest his cheekbone against his knuckles. "It could be a trap," he said.
"Which is precisely why I'm asking."
Riddle's lips curled into a smile which didn't reach his eyes. She had never seen his eyes anything but cold. "Consider me astounded that you're not encouraging me to go. I always thought you'd have rather liked to see me ambushed."
"Don't doubt that I would," countered Margot, equally cold. "I couldn't care less if your throat is slit while you're away. However, I have my own doubts about that ever happening, since your throat is perfectly intact in the image I see of your cold, dead body."
The smile slid off Riddle's face. His handsome mouth was now as icy as the rest of his face. "I am going," he said, standing. "But I shall not be going alone. You'll accompany me, Greengrass –" he ignored her noise of protest "–as will Mulciber."
"Mulciber." Margot actually groaned aloud, despite how unladylike a sound it was. It wasn't as if Riddle considered her a lady, anyway – she needn't bother in his company. Besides, Cassius Mulciber was worthy of a groan. Riddle's second-in-command and one of the members of his original school gang, he was no better than Riddle himself in how bigoted he was. Merlin, how she loathed the lot of them. "Where even is your darling Mulciber, anyway?"
"In Peru," Riddle said, without sparing her a backwards glance as he swept out of the dining hall. "He's meeting on my behalf with a group of wizards who are sympathetic to our cause."
"And you didn't wish to meet with them?" Margot panted, hurrying after him, lifting her skirts to allow her easier movement. "That's rare, I thought you usually handled the recruitment process."
"I do." Riddle swerved around a corner, ignoring the way Margot tottered behind him. She never understood how he moved with such grace so quickly. One thing she had learned about Riddle – he didn't run, he glided. "However, there was a new customer at Borgin and Burkes who I couldn't pass up meeting. She claimed to hold many rare wizarding artefacts. Unfortunately, she was all talk. Now, I want you to pack your trunk. I have my doubts that we'll be returning here for a little while."
"I never unpacked it," said Margot indignantly. Riddle rarely remained in one place for longer than a handful of days, and she was usually forced to follow him, imprisoned on a ridiculously short leash.
"You've learned well," returned Riddle, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "You're to meet me in the front hall in twenty minutes. We depart immediately."
He was already disappearing down the hall opposite the one that led to her own bedchamber. Before he could vanish, as he was so excellent at doing, Margot called after his back, "What of Marcellus? Will he not accompany us, too?"
Riddle paused. "He will not. He can remain here if he wishes. Abraxas enjoys his company enough."
If only Marcellus reciprocated that sentiment.
"Marcellus is worried about you." She immediately bit her tongue, wishing she hadn't said anything, because the look Riddle cast her was one of ice.
"Marcellus is soft," he said. "He has grown to expect things of me that I cannot offer. I wonder whether it's time to direct him down a new path."
Margot felt as though she had swallowed a brick. It sank, heavy, in her stomach. "Don't do that," she said automatically, despite how much she disapproved of their relationship. It would break Marcellus's heart, and she worried he would never be the same afterwards.
But perhaps her reasoning was more selfish than that. She was, after all, accustomed to guarding her own back. Without Marcellus by Riddle's side, nor would he be by her side, and then she would truly be alone.
The sardonic twist of Riddle's lip did not reassure her. "Meet me in twenty minutes," was all he said, then he was gone.
Please don't spit all over Marcellus for his history with Tom. I have hopes and dreams for him as a character