Frigus . Sirius Black (Mortem BOOK 2)

chapter eighty-eight

a/n: literally what the fuck, america? (more of that at the end of this chapter) 

March 18th, 1981 - Nott Manor 

Tom Riddle was sitting in the principal study of Nott Manor, once occupied by Thestian Nott, who had gladly given it up when his manor became the official headquarters of the Death Eaters. 

He didn't like the study, in all honesty. He found it ugly and the air stuffy, but it was far enough away from the core rooms of the manor for him to get some silence and not feel everyone's thoughts weighing down on him. 

They never voiced it, of course, for fear of losing their lives, but he could feel it nonetheless: the weight of the prophecy, the fear it struck in his follower's hearts. Not so much at the thought that he could be defeated by a mere infant, more so the thought of who that infant could be. Two possibilities, both equally worrying. Harry Potter, or Neville Longbottom? 

Either way, both families were close to Nephera Winchester, and everyone in the manor knew what that meant. If they thought the girl was ruthless before, they had no idea what was coming their way now. Riddle could hear them whispering, talking amongst themselves, he could feel their unease and their fear practically seeping off the walls of the damned place, and he could not blame them. 

He could only pity them. No one was ready for what was to come their way, not now, that the war had officially been waged against the very family of the one girl capable of bringing them all down. He knew, he knew better than anyone what was to come their way, he had seen it that day, back in the girl's seventh year, when she had taken her revenge against him for killing two of her friends. He had seen the way her eyes shown, the way she took pleasure in watching the inferni tearing apart the three unfortunates who had not had time to escape her clutches. 

He slammed his glass down on the table harshly, not caring when the amber liquid inside spilled on the parchments laid out on the table. They were useless, anyways, full of people claiming they knew the location of the Potters and the Longbottoms, Tom wasn't naive enough to believe any of them. 

Nephera Winchester herself had been in charge of hiding those two families away, why those petty people thought they could locate them, was truly beyond him. 

In a way, the prophecy was both a blessing and a curse. He had always been haunted by the thought that it would be Nephera who killed him, who stopped him, now he knew that wasn't true. Now he knew that the only person standing between him and total domination was an infant, a child not old enough to weild a wand yet. Any other circumstances, and he would have been elated, if only that child didn't happen to be the godchild of Nephera Winchester herself. 

Someone knocked on the door, and Tom instantly knew who. After all, only one person in that home felt comfortable enough to interrupt him during this hour. 

"Enter, Castiel," he drawled 

Tom and Castiel's relationship had always been a complicated one. Castiel had been the last one to trust him back in their school days, the toughest of the group to crack, and yet over the years he had become his closest confidant. 

It was the first day of their fifth year, Tom had been named a prefect, a fact which he did not mention yet basked in the compliments it brought him. 

Malfoy approached, holding two glasses of whiskey, "Congratulations are in order, I believe, Riddle," he said, handing him one, "Although I dare say we all expected it," 

Riddle nodded, his eyes filtering across the room, "And what of... our other issue?"  he asked 

"Armando Dippet has received a sizable donation for a new Quidditch field, he also has been informed of Dumbledore's recent opinions against Slytherin house, opinions which of course offend the Malfoy family more than anything..."