The grand Manor, the lush garden, and the large living room, wrapped in the twilight of evening and candlelight; a small spirit of celebration in the form of a fir tree and a blazing fireplace. Narcissa, politely, with the tact of a lady, greeting the Death Eaters that appeared in the doorway every few minutes, invited by the Dark Lord himself for the Christmas holidays.

Tom pressed his lips together, squinting his eyes: dozens of different figures worshipping him like a church to its God. Families whose history and blood should have been cause for fear, but on the wizards' lips was another name: Tom. Are all puppies obedient? They should know better than to bite their master's hand, but he's clearly aware of his position—the fewer apostates now, the better.

Your appearance makes the corner of his lips twitch in almost amusement—a Russian beauty in the midst of dreary gloom. Your fur coat, red lips, and faint accent dissolving into the air along with the scent of perfume. Graduated from Koldostvorez with top results, the cause of mass fluctuations in magical society, the cause of the possibility of a future revolution existing like a fire in the Kremlin.

"You've arrived," he comments first, quicker than Narcissa, taking you by the elbow; but there's no honey or sweetness on your lips, just a familiar coldness. "Grateful. Your presence will be most welcome."

All he needed was for you, with your enigmatic charm, to help gather information from his minions: a conversation here and there until he knew the names of all who would go against him. And who better to fill that role than you? A pureblood, Lady from the heart of Siberia itself, outside the circle of Death Eaters. Still, it's not just a calculated act; a measured trust—strong enough not to look for reasons for it.

"We're going to have a week of pleasantries," Tom comments carelessly, taking the fur coat off your shoulders. "How are things in Moscow?"