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Abraxas Malfoy, Tom Riddle decided at this instant, deserved none of the fame his name wore.
When he had first heard about the rise of a new Dark Lord, Tom’s curiosity had immediately been spiked. For a rumour to have travelled so far, all the way from England to Greece, it needed to have some truth in it. At the very least, a percentage.
Twenty-three per cent, if Tom’s calculations had been right. And he never made mistakes. Never.
Except that, perhaps, today he had.
But Tom had not been able to resist the need to come, see it for himself. A Dark Lord, in England.
There hadn’t been a Dark Lord in Europe since Grindelwald had fallen. Tom remembered his disappointment then, his awe turning into disdain, into disappointment. He had hoped (and he knew he should not have, he knew it) for Grindelwald to change things.
Grindelwald had been a half-blood in a world of purebloods. One that had realized the danger of Muggles, one that had wanted for every wizarding child to be taken from them, to be protected. Tom remembered desperately hoping, the wails of the orphanage’s infants surrounding him, and even more, did he remember when the owl had arrived.
Gellert Grindelwald had been defeated, the news had said. Beamingly so, ecstatically. Albus Dumbledore, winner of the duel. Albus Dumbledore, extraordinary wizard.
Tom had screamed until his voice had given up. The matron had called the priest then; and he remembered how they had thought him possessed, how they had yelled verses at him. He would have laughed then, if he hadn’t been so filled with rage.
A Dark Lord. Tom had caressed the thought of it, so many times. He had dreamed of taking the reign, his word made law. But those had been nothing but dreams.
No one in Slytherin had been willing to follow a mudblood.
And thus Tom’s dreams had faded. Disappointedly perhaps, but such was life. He had turned himself to other purposes, other desires. Finding a job in the wizarding world had been a risible idea, laughable even. For all their talks of equity, of Tom’s talent and all the opportunities he had, no one had been willing to give a job to a mudblood.
And- Tom remembered with a wince – even after begging.
Tom had left England then. He had gone to the Continent, where no one knew of the blood in his veins, where a few spells helped him to rob muggles blind. Tom had always found empathy to be a very overrated notion. He had made his way through Europe, from the Netherlands to Italy, to Greece.
And not once had he returned, in the eight years since his departure. Not once, for he had sworn to himself not to.
But. Because there was always a but, especially when promises were made.
A Dark Lord, Tom had thought, deserved for his word to be broken.
Especially one as commanding as Abraxas Malfoy was said to be. The tales spoke of a man, made of iron, one of raw power and that no curse ever touched. They spoke of a man who inspired such fright in others that they dared not speak his name; that even the faintest whisper of him was sure to call him, the rumours growing and growing to the point of morphing him into a bogeyman.
Abraxas Malfoy, Tom had thought, deserved his word to be broken.
He lifted his eyes.
There was a silence.
Abraxas Malfoy beamed. It blinded him. Tom blinked.
He did not know what he had expected, requesting from Avery to make him meet Abraxas Malfoy.
Perhaps a man who would have scrutinized him in silence, his features haughty and imposing. One who would have twirled his wand between his fingers and examined Tom, one who would have settled the tone for the conversation with a wandless Unforgivable.
Abraxas Malfoy was none of those things.
The first thing that had crossed Tom’s mind had been a very surprised: colourful.
Abraxas Malfoy had strode through the room with flying bright blue robes; pink watermelons sketched on them. Ugly watermelons. Although Tom wasn’t certain if watermelons could be pretty, those certainly weren’t. It had made Tom’s mind freeze for half a second; wondering if he was in the right place. The man had been nothing like he had expected- terribly dashing, a long blonde ponytail bouncing with each step, a bright grin and grey eyes that twinkled. Twinkled.
Tom had only ever met one twinkling-eyes man before, and that man had left quite the bitter memory on his mind.
“You are here!” The Dark Lord (was he?) had cooed, and his grin had stretched even further. Tom had been in half a mind to ask if he was not afraid for his skin to snap; but Abraxas Malfoy had plopped in the chair in front of him and stared.
Stared. As a child discovering a present under his Christmas tree.
Tom’s brain had short-circuited. “Wot?” he had asked.
And now, five to six seconds later, he still was trying to reboot his brain.
“You have a very pretty face,” Abraxas Malfoy told him.
Tom blinked again.
Again, a voice he had not expected. Warm, almost… cheesy. Cheeky. Tom was not sure of the right word. His brain seemed to have left for better places.
“Thank you?”
“Very pretty eyes too. It reminds me of chocolate,” Abraxas Malfoy continued, crossing his legs. He had long legs, very nice, Tom absently noticed, then fustigating himself for such a thought. He had come to meet a Dark Lord, not gaze at legs. “Did you know that there was a Museum of Chocolate in Vienna? They are also very kind of the most delicious tart, which, if my memory serves me well, is called Sachertorte. Have you ever tried it? It is truly exquisite. It melts on your tongue and leaves you wanting for more.”
Abraxas’ piercing grey eyes settled on him, and he winked. Winked. “Are you in the habit of wanting more?” he questioned.
Tom gave him a pinched smile. He did not know what else to do.
“I am.”
No other sentence. His mind was a cloud. Minds were not supposed to be clouds. Were they? But Abraxas Malfoy did not seem to mind, clasping his hands together with a delighted exclamation. “We have something in common then! So am I!”
He leaned forward then, and with an air of conspiration, added:
“You know, I did not believe Constantin first. Tom Riddle, he said to me, wants to have an interview. No way darling, I said! No one knows what he is up to those days. Probably lost somewhere, cursing his way through the world. That’s a man of taste for sure, I said. But-” Abraxas Malfoy shook his head and flashed him another grin, revealing white pearly teeth. There was a price in a newspaper for this, wasn’t it? “-here you are!”
Tom swallowed. He crossed his hands on his chest, because he was not certain what to do with them.
“I am,” he said. “I thought you might have a use for my knowledge. I travelled far, and for a long time.”
Abraxas Malfoy lifted an eyebrow. It was perfectly epilated.
“Oh?” Abraxas Malfoy asked, pleasantly unsurprised. “So I get it right, you came asking for a job?” He chuckled delightedly and clasped his hands. “And you say you want to teach me things? I love it! How presumptuous, mon chou! What makes you think that I do not already possess your knowledge?”
Nothing, in truth. But Tom had not come that far, not broken his promise to see himself refused.
And, because he was Tom Riddle, he was actually quite certain to be more knowledgeable.
“It is not something to be learned in books,” he murmured. “As expansive or rare they might be. What I learned, I got it from witches and wizards themselves, in parts of the world no other would ever think to look in.”
Abraxas laughed. He had a very bubbly laugh, Tom thought. One that suited the man.
“And now you insult me! No other, you say!” He laughed even harder. Tom tensed. Would the man choke in front of him? He hoped not. He only knew Heimlich in theory. “Oh, mon chou, how terribly unaware of the social rues are you. A true disaster.”
Tom’s jaw clenched. “If you do not want me to join you-”
“No, no!” Abraxas fanned his hand. Wait. Were his nails manicured? “Do continue, please. I love it. Tell me more, Tom Riddle, what have you thus gathered from your travels?”
Tom marked a pause. He could not, for the life of him, understand this man.
He spoke, although, for Abraxas Malfoy was growing to be more and more intriguing. And, Tom thought, his gaze riveted on the blonde man and his cheeky grin, nothing fascinated him more than a mystery to unfold. “The ancient curses of the Greeks, writings from Alexander the Great himself and the lost spells of Babylon. The Habsburg’s works of witchcraft and forbidden rituals. Many, many things.”
Abraxas Malfoy studied him in silence. Then, suddenly, snapping his fingers. “Reveal me something then.”
Tom frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Reveal me something,” Abraxas insisted, still grinning. Tom suddenly felt like an ill-prepared-to-death mouse. “Something of importance that I do not know. You say to be able to enlighten minds. Enlighten me. I am to be enlightened. Can you enlighten people? You said you could.”
“It depends on what subject you wish to be enlightened about.”
“Ah, but here is the trick, mon chou!” Abraxas wiggled his eyebrows. Tom had never before seen a grown man do such a thing. “Take a guess at what I could be ignorant about.”
The man was still grinning. It was as if he could not survive without it. Was he more man or more grin? Tom was not sure to know.
Tom looked at him, and under the pressure, the incomprehension, the stress building in his chest, found himself blurting out. “The Galapagos’ tortoises can live until one hundred years.”
There was a short silence, and then- Abraxas Malfoy’s eyes widened. “They do? Merlin, that’s longer than some of us! What else?”
“They’re the biggest tortoises in the world and can go a full year without eating.”
“No?”
“And they’re rather peaceful fighters,” Tom once again found himself adding. “You will not risk much in a confrontation.”
Abraxas laughed. It was a very loud laugh. “Delightful, mon chou! I hadn’t thought when waking up this morning to know more about the Galapagos tortoises than muggles but here we are! Oh, you are just positively endearing.” He rose then, shaking his head. Tom’s eyes followed the movement, attracted despite himself to the blonde locks. Scientific curiosity, he told himself. Like butterflies went to light. “Constantin was so very right.,” Abraxas Malfoy continued, his voice fading to a murmur. “We will immediately go to retrieve him, I am afraid I have bit quite unfair to him.” He beamed, again. He seemed to be a beaming kind of man. Tom was not. “Welcome to my ranks, Tom Riddle! Ah! Delightful, just delightful!”
Ah, yes, Tom thought, blinking, still lost about what just happened. That was precisely the word all had used about him.
Endearing.
Delightful.
~*~
Ugly tears were flowing down the man’s cheeks.
Tom pinched himself. Fuck. It hurt him and left him in the same position.
He was not dreaming, then.
But then again, he absently thought, it would have been a rather distasteful dream. Tom did not tend to dream of others, much less see them in an even poorer than usual form. The only dream he had ever had about a person had left him rather nauseous, choosing that day to never go to bed without a Dreamless Draught.
It, if his memory served him well, had involved Albus Dumbledore in drag, Mrs Cole, pitchforks, and Tom being chased through the woods.
“Please!” Constantin Avery wailed. “Please!”
Abraxas Malfoy hummed. He bent down to stare at Avery, then, pivoted to face Tom. “Isn’t it amusing how easy it is to remember this word? It is forgotten so many times, and yet, as soon as a little… ah- pressure is involved, one finds himself knowing it very well. Ainsi va la vie.”
Tom said nothing.
Instead, he stared.
Staring, he had heard, more often than not helped to realize things.
And here, if his eyes were not playing pranks on him (not that he would have allowed any part of his body to be treacherous to him) Constantin Avery was being hung from his thumbs. How fascinating. He had not been aware of such thing to be possible, how were they even supporting the weight of his body?
The man was crying, ugly sobs that trailed down his cheeks. Blood had begun to flow down his palms, his wrists, creating a small poodle on the ground.
Disgusting. Tom had not enough money to replace his shoes.
Be proud Avery, Tom thought, you who have been useless your entire life, you are now an active contributor to the room’s decoration.
“What was his offence?” Tom then murmured, taking a few steps forward to scrutinize the deformation of the thumbs. Interesting. It seemed the left one would be torn off before the right. Had Avery muscled one hand more than another?
He shivered. He didn’t want to know that, all things considered.
Abraxas shrugged. Then, tilting his head to the side. “Well… None I suppose!”
Tom smiled. It was a very pinched smile. “Pardon me?”
“Well,” Abraxas said, his own smile still dancing on his lips. “I thought him to be lying, you see. Tom Riddle, back in England! C’est insensé.” He shook his head, murmuring something that Tom did not hear. Perhaps it was for the better. “So I hung him.”
“So you hung him.”
“Mhh, yes. First, I thought of honouring Ravaillac and quartering him. But then I realized I did not want for his blood to stain my horse’s epidermis. They are very white, you see. I would not affront them like this. It would not be nice.”
Tom nodded. It made sense.
“Then,” Abraxas continued, humming. “I realized that it was all very eighteen century, and if there is something you need to know about me, mon chou, it is that I am a modern man!”
“Hanging a man by his thumbs is all very modern, indeed.”
“Exactly! I’m glad you see it too!”
Tom’s eyes darted back to Avery. He was still crying. It was very undignified. Especially when the man was such an ugly crier, his cheeks reddened by his tears. Tom briefly wondered if his own skin would adorn the same colour, should he cry. He wouldn’t know.
“And why did you bring me here?”
Abraxas frowned. There were no wrinkles on his skin. Tom felt jealousy stir in his stomach. “For a man of knowledge, you ask many questions.”
“How then would I have acquired my knowledge?”
A silence.
“True.” Abraxas’ frown did not last long; for his seemingly eternal cheer immediately returned to his features. “Ah, I do not regret asking you to join me !”
“I was the one to reach for you,” Tom pointed out.
Abraxas nodded, and gave him a strange look. “Yes,” he told him. “That is what I just said.”
Right.
Abraxas tilted his head to the side, then. It made the light shine just so on his cheekbones, and Tom surprised himself to think that the pureblood knew it very well. His eyes trailed on the offered skin, for a second, and when he rose them again, there was a glitter in Abraxas Malfoy’s eyes that had not been there before.
Next to them, Avery was sobbing.
It was all very loud. Tom sent him a wandless Silencio. Sometimes silence was to be favoured. (always)
His eyes darted back to Abraxas Malfoy, half hesitant about his reaction. And indeed, the Dark Lord was frowning, his forehead wrinkled (or it would have been if his skin had not been devoid of them-)
“Tom Riddle,” the Dark Lord murmured. His tone was soft, in the way Tom had always used at Hogwarts, the very often predecessor of a threat. “You told me to be all knowing. Tell me then…”
Tom’s stance did not falter.
Pale blue eyes found his.
“How the hell am I going to get him down from here without staining my walls?”
~*~
“Tom! Crucio!” A complaint. Then, a scream. Lower-pitched. Not Abraxas then. “Tom!”
Tom apparated in front of Abraxas.
The Dark Lord was stomping his left foot on the ground; lips pinched and eyes blasting bolts.
In front of him, Mulciber was pitifully wailing; his voice rendered hoarse by his screaming.
Tom lifted an eyebrow.
“Tom!” Abraxas exclaimed again, relief piercing his tone. “Do kill him, please,” he sighed. “I already had my killing quota for the day, and I swore I wouldn’t go over three. It’s bad for my skin, then. It makes it tingle. You don’t want my skin to tingle, don’t you? ”
Tom sent an Avada to Mulciber. His body jolted one time, two times- he resembled a very large caterpillar, Tom thought. One that would not have been graced by beauty nor elegance.
Though caterpillars were not often very graceful creatures.
“What did he do?”
“He kicked Robespierre. My best peacock!” Outrage was lacing Abraxas Malfoy’s tone. “He kicked him, mon chou! Do you imagine?”
“Oh my,” Tom deadpanned. “What an affront.”
“Is it not-!?”
“A crime worthy of death.”
Abraxas fiercely nodded, arms crossed. “I appreciate your agreement.” He turned to Mulciber’s body then, jaw tightening. It did not take anything from the handsomeness of his features. It was all very unfair. “The nerve of this man! To believe himself allowed-“ then, pivoting so fast that Tom swore to have heard a muscle snap. “Tell me the truth, Tom. Am I not being respected? Are my words not worthy of being listened to, of being ordered?”
Tom looked down at Mulciber. The body was still convulsing. Would it manage to wiggle until the door?
He looked up, then.
Abraxas Malfoy was staring at him in expectation. He had chosen vibrant purple robes today, adorned in small tulips. It almost blinded Tom.
But then again, Tom had seen him.
In the two months since he had first begun to work for Abraxas, that fateful day in the pub, Tom had grown to learn why it was that his reputation grew so strongly.
Abraxas Malfoy, like most venomous beasts tended to do; blinded your sense of precaution with mirth, bright colours, and free given laughs. He flashed smile after smile, tied his long hair in a high ponytail to draw your attention to his neck; to strong muscles that testified of hours of Quidditch; and you found yourself believing in his harmlessness.
And then- then, something would happen. Bad news, a failed mission, or something else entirely- a visit of an ambassador; and his demeanour would shift. Still as cheerful, still as beaming; but with a glitter added to his eyes; piercing intelligence that revealed itself to the light of day.
Abraxas Malfoy, Tom had found, hid his game under laughs and mirth.
But then, he would ask something of Tom, a precision on a matter, and curiosity would shine in his gaze; and his questions would be precise and pertinent, and Tom would surprise himself to let his gaze trail, and he would think about Abraxas Malfoy and the toned arms under his robes-
Tom gritted his teeth.
No. He was better than that. He was a wizard. He was not a muggle; as close as his blood might be to them, and he would not fade to bestial instincts.
“You do,” he said, truthfully.
Abraxas laughed, loud and pleased.
“Ah, mon chou! Ever the charmer!”
No, Tom thought, eyes riveted on Abraxas. You; ever the charmer.
~*~
Being Abraxas’ right hand meant interacting – more than he would have wished to – with his Death Eaters.
Commanding them, more exactly.
They had called him a mudblood at first; refusing to answer his orders. Tom had said very few words, but the most notable of them, Crucio, had made his point very well heard.
“And why I am the one with the infiltration mission! Nott’s uglier, no one would notice his face!”
“Because,” Tom stressed out, gritting his teeth. “Theophile Nott is required for his negotiation skills. Do you have negotiation skills, Rosier? Do you?”
“As if! Nott’s been lying his ass off since Hogwarts- he’s useless, it’s his twin who’s the one doing every- aw-ouch-fuck!”
Tom swiftly hid back his wand.
He smiled.
No one else did.
“Any questions?” Ah, blessed silence. “No? Perfect.”
~*~
“Tell me again,” Abraxas whispered in his ear, so close that Tom shivered. “What are his thoughts?”
His nails were dancing along Tom’s arms, and Tom blinked, finding concentration to be a very overrated quality.
“I have been wondering about his position for months,” Abraxas continued, his tone hardening. “He is very… slithery. I would have praised him for such, if it wasn’t at my detriment. Do inspect him, please, mon chou. I want to know more before making my move.”
They were at a dinner; one held by the Minister himself. Abraxas Malfoy had been invited – for no politician in his right mind would not have done so – and he had immediately clasped a hand over Tom’s arm, commanding him to accompany him.
Tom had, not very begrudgingly, said yes. He never said no to a free dinner. Relents of his childhood, perhaps.
Money as he had found, semantics aside, did very much not grow on a tree.
Alas, Abraxas Malfoy had been trying to pass a law – the legal way; and Tom had blinked first at the news, for- why? – and the Minister’s stance about it still was distastefully blurry.
If it is not working, Abraxas had told him in the garden, when Tom had been feeding Robespierre and Danton (and fearing for his life while doing so), we will raid St-Mungo.
Tom had shrugged. He had never been very fond of the hospital.
Too many stupid opinions and too less effective results.
Tom’s eyes went to the Minister. The man was laughing, that false way those politicians laughed, loudly and over-exaggerated. He murmured a spell, something unnoticeable, light enough to not be tracked, but strong enough for the Minister to be compelled to look at him.
“Very good, mon chou,” Abraxas praised in a murmur.
It made his skin tingle, in a way he did not want to think about.
“Attract his attention. Make him think of you,” Tom told him.
Abraxas rose a hand and waved it.
“Nobby! Hey! Nobby!” he cheerfully (and loudly) exclaimed. All eyes went to them, recognized Abraxas, and darted back. It was a normal evening amongst purebloods. There were a few rules for them to abide by. Make more money. Preserve Blood. Ignore Abraxas Malfoy’s shenanigans. “I just acquired a new peafowl! Would he be best named Marat or Vieuzac? I feel Marat would help him build character! But Vieuzac on the other hand…”
The Minister’s eyes went to him. There was a small second where his thoughts flashed on his face, horror colouring his gaze. A very sensible reaction, if Tom’s opinion was asked.
What- abraxas Malfoy- shit, fuck, the bill- I can’t approve it- I wouldn’t get my funds- it is not Malfoy who’s going to cause me a problem- I’ll take the chance-
“So?” Abraxas immediately whispered as soon as Nobby Leach escaped from their conversation, turning to Tom. “What says he?”
“Are you free Tuesday afternoon?”
Abraxas frowned. It made his lower lip pout and Tom’s eyes lingered on it. “I believe so. Why?”
Tom smiled. It was the kind of smile that parents warned their children about.
“Because,” he said, his voice soft. “Tuesday, we’re burning St Mungo.”
~*~
Abraxas Malfoy, Tom had learned, carried few matters to heart.
But when he did. Oh. When he did, it was best to not step between him and them.
“Who is the cutest of them all?” he cooed. “Who is making Daddy proud? Who is the most handsome of all? Mmh? Who is it?”
Tom, very wisely, did not answer.
First, because (and he had learned it the strong way) the words were not destined for him. Secondly, because Tom had not wished to entangle himself in a situation that he continuously chose to avoid. Ran from, more exactly. In the most literal sense possible.
The peacocks cooed back around Abraxas.
They could understand them, Tom thought, cautiously keeping them in sight. They could. He was certain of it.
There were times when he gazed at them and they gazed back; intelligence flashing in their stares, and Tom could have given a left arm in swearing them to understand their surroundings. Not his left arm, though; he still had a few uses for it.
“Tom, look! Isn’t Robbie just delightful? He is brighter than last time, he is!”
“Peafowls does not get brighter.”
Abraxas crossed his arms on his chest. “Mine does.”
“It doesn’t- it doesn’t function like that, Abraxas.”
“I know, mon chou, that you are wise on many subjects.” Abraxas marked a pause. “Or instructed.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I know that you are instructed on many subjects. But between you and me, who is the one knowing them the better, mmh? Who has spent days surrounded by them?”
Well. Wasn’t that an unquestionable logic.
Tom said nothing.
Abraxas laughed. He had a very nice laugh. Or perhaps it was beginning to grow on him. Tom wasn’t certain about it.
Oh no; he thought.
Tom hadn’t been raised in a cave, as resembling to it as the orphanage had been. He knew what it meant when he began to find someone’s shortcomings appealing.
He was going to court the Dark Lord, wasn’t he?
You are not forced to, something murmured in his mind.
Abraxas laughed again. He clasped his hands in delight; that childish way he had of expressing his emotions; and for the life of him Tom could not know what had provoked such mirth.
The pureblood turned to face him, the traces of his laugh still lingering on his features. It brightened them, in that sunny aura that seemed to eternally surround Abraxas.
No, he told his inner voice. No, I’m going to.
~*~
Because Tom did not know better, he asked the Death Eaters for advice.
“Offer him flowers,” Travers shrugged.
Orion Black was not better. “Another peafowl?”
“The corpse of Dumbledore. That’d bring a smile to his face.”
Nott rolled his eyes. “Yeah and why not the siege of the Minister and the moon on top of that? You got any brighter ideas, Da Vinci?”
“Chocolate?” Rockwood proposed a little while later, after everyone had stopped glaring at each other. “There’s this new shop on Diagon Alley, they’re doing those little golden hearts with pumpkin purée in it, it’s to die for.”
In front of their stares, he stressed out, agitating his hands. “Not to share too much but my wife is not really that much of a cook, and a man had his needs! She says things like macro-nutrients and health, and that’s all very good; but I’m not a rabbit, for god’s sake, and if I want chocolate, I eat chocolate!”
Travers snickered in his beer.
“To kill for, you mean. So that’s why we couldn’t see you on the last raid! We were all wondering if you’d gotten yourself killed by an Auror and you were stuffing your face! And what then? You’ll send tarts to their face instead of Avada's?”
“Well you’re making fun of me but I'm going to shove a slice of pound cake down your throat so you won't be so smart! We'll see who you'll stumble toward when you turn purple! You rascal!”
“He’s not wrong,” Nott chimed. “My grandmother she makes these cinder blocks instead of pies, we always try to spit them in the plants when her back is turned. But she is a vicious one! She turns around and plays tricks on us! Just like that ! And by Merlin’s underwear when she catches us, she doesn't have a dead hand on the Cruciatus!” He shook his head, his mouth twisted in a grimace. “It builds character from what she says.”
“Well she’s not wrong per se. I always said it helps build resistance to pain.”
“You’re a consistent pain in the ass and we haven’t built anything-” Travers sniggered again, and Black shot him a hex, sending him tumbling backwards.
“Fair,” Travers mumbled as he wobblingly rose to his feet again. “You arse.”
“The Dark Lord’s gift,” Tom very pointedly said. He refrained from sighing. It had not been his greatest idea to come here.
“I don’t know,” Orion shrugged again. The man loved to shrug. Then again, marrying Walburga tended to do that to a “How about a coupon for free torture?”
“Technically speaking it’s already free for him. Or what you’re going to go to him and say, well that was nice, wasn’t it, it’d be thirty galleons?”
“He could pay, he’s rich enough-” Rockwood pointed out.
“Well we know what you’d do with it,” Rosier scoffed. “It’s supposed to be funds for the cause, not to indulge your food-porn whims.”
“Everyone’s like me!” Rockwood shouted, jumping to his feet. “Are you saying you never took free time from a raid? Never ever?”
There was a silence.
Tom cleared his throat. “Yes, very interesting. Now, if you would not mind, Abraxas Malfoy’s gift-“
“Alright, I’ll say it first. I wasn’t taken by the Order last week, I was hiding because I had a hungover. There. It’s said. I’m laying myself bare for you. Now throw me stones.”
“A-ha!” Rockwood jabbed a bony finger at him. “Thank you!”
A muscle twitched in Tom’s jaw. “Pardon.”
They what, now?
“Well excuse me if they’re so fucking long,” Travers protested. “There’s a time in life where a man ponders on his past choices and realizes that he’s not fit enough to shout spells for three hours straight.”
“I have a lumbago,” Nott chimed. “I have an excuse note.”
Rosier shrugged. “I’m not a field kind of wizard. I’m better, uh- in the theoretical aspect. Motivating the troops, all that. I’m in the reserve team.”
“We don’t have a reserve team?”
“Well, we do now.”
“A gift, for the Dark Lord,” Tom tried. His fingers twitched on his wand. “I would appreciate a thought on it.”
“What? How the hell did you get an excuse note? I tried to get out of it last time because it was the funeral of my cousin on my adoptive grandmother's side and it was not accepted! There were bat-filled petit fours to top it off!”
“Wilkes got a friend at St-Mungo, for three hundred galleons and an invitation to Dorsia, he got me enough notes for the whole year.”
“What-!” Black shouted in outrage, jumping to his feet. “That’s favouritism! I protest! Judas!”
“The Dark Lord’s gift-”
“Sucks to be you,” Rosier snickered.
“Pardon me-?-!”
Tom sighed. Again. Perhaps he could offer Abraxas a cursed object from his travels. Or perhaps he could grant him an even greater favour and do some cleaning work.
Get rid of some pests.
~*~
“You spent an awful lot of time outside of the Manor, mon chou,” Abraxas told him a few days later. He was scrutinizing Tom. Was that jealousy? No, it couldn’t be. Tom had not yet finished his courting. “Why is that?”
Tom thought of the last few days. He thought of the Death Eaters.
“I really am not sure.”
Masochism, perhaps.
~*~
Tom tried then to ponder alone on what he could offer Abraxas.
Abraxas most evidently had other ideas. For some unknown reasons, he had taken to calling Tom much more often than usual.
At three a.m :
“Tom! I was wondering about the side-effects of a prolonged Animagus transformation and I couldn’t sleep; would the features of the beast merge with those of the man?”
At two p.m :
“Mon chou! Would begonias be a suitable bouquet for the Diggory’s wedding?”
At five a.m:
(Tom had no clue what he asked then. He was not an early riser. He was not. He considered cursing Abraxas. Dark Lords were very overrated. He did not in the end, but it had come very close to.)
At twelve a.m:
“Tom! Would you dine with me? I specifically imported your favourite ratatouille.”
This time, Tom was not upset. Instead, he sat, and ate the ratatouille with Abraxas.
It was very good indeed.
And if Tom had not noticed Abraxas’ satisfied gaze on him the entire meal, Abraxas was certainly not going to voice it.
~*~
Tom gifted Abraxas a hand-sewed robe. He had first tried to bribe Orion Black to get the sewing machine; then when upon receiving a blank look, had used the first Unforgivable to get enough galleons for it. And if Tom had taken a little more than necessary, funding six more books he had been wanting to get… Orion would not remember it.
Obliviate, Tom found, mixed so very well with the Imperius.
“A… robe.” Abraxas’ reaction had been… mild. “Ah. Thank you, mon chou. What warrants me a new garde-robe?”
Tom had not bulged. “Try it on,” he had insisted.
Abraxas had given him a smile. Those kinds of smiles one gave when one was not going to be particularly sympathetic. Like parents when receiving noodle-based necklaces.
“I have an image to uphold, you know,” Abraxas had said. Pointedly so. “Criteria to oblige upon myself. The brightest smile according to Witch Weekly. Bordeaux Wine from 1867. A very good wine year. Weekly training of Fiendfyre. Thesis on arithmancy. About that, would you please send Travers to, ah, retrieve Elphias Bagman? Yes, the mudblood. No, I do not wish to bring him to the Manor, what would I do with him? It is not a Hotel, mon chou. Yes if you would be so kind as to remind him that Divination would never get the hold on Arithmancy? Yes, perfect. No, I do not want him to lose both of his hands, Tom! How would he write then? Just one hand shall do.”
Tom had stared. His stares, he had been said, were very unsettling. Perhaps it had something to do with the red eyes. “Try it. Please.”
Abraxas had sighed. He had sauntered until Tom to give his left cheek a kiss, and then- “Very well. Because you insist so much, I shall sacrifice myself for you. But I want you to remember the hardship I have undergone for you.”
He had tried the robe. And then, when it had begun to sparkle and change colour, reacting to the thermo-dynamic activity of his body, in the same way that those muggles rings did, he had let out a squeal of joy.
It had been very well worth the crushing hug Tom had received the very next second.
~*~
When Tom and Abraxas entered Borgin and Burkes a few days later – the shop had just received the tunic of Nessus and Tom had vaguely expressed an interest in it- there was another witch in the shop.
She had riveted her eyes on Tom as soon as he had entered the shop.
When they left, Abraxas’ fingernails were sinking in Tom’s forearm and the witch had begun to cough blood.
She would pass away three days later, and Abraxas would be more joyful than ordinary upon feeding Danton and Vieuzac.
~*~
Chocolates, then, because, as stupid as Rockwood might be, the idea had not been entirely useless.
Upon discovering that shapes could be formed, Tom had requested something very particular.
“It’s Robespierre!” Abraxas would delightedly sob a day later; recognizing in the chocolate the wound on its wing where Mulciber had kicked him. “I love it, mon chou! Your mind is truly a wonder!”
~*~
There was a new book on Inferi on Tom’s nightstand. Strange, he thought; he had not asked it of the house-elves.
Perhaps it was a mistake.
He very carefully kept silent. Tom had never been one to let go of things he judged to be his.
~*~
“How long do you think this little game is going to last?” Rowle asked.
There was a collective shrug.
“Knowing the Lieutenant, years wouldn’t be out of the question.”
Another silence.
“Do you think they’re going to realize it? That they’re both courting the other?”
“No, none of that! That’s very reductive of you!” Lestrange chirped. “They don't have to fit into social boxes! Nobody has to be! You see love between two beings as an obligation to put words to it, to create a situation for! Boxes, Rosier, boxes! Are you a bird-?-! ”He pounded his fist on the table, getting excited all by himself, and jabbed a finger at Rosier. “Are you a bird?! No! Then no boxes!"
"No boxes!" Goyle repeated confidently.
“Yes, very good, Alistair,” Rowle murmured. “Next day we’ll be learning how to formulate thoughts by ourselves. Tell me again, what comes after three?”
Alistair Goyle narrowed his eyes. “Are you mocking me?”
“I wouldn’t dare.” Rowle smiled. “I only jab at those too stupid to understand sarcasm.”
“Mmh.” Goyle threw him a suspicious look. “Good.”
Travers cleared his throat.
“Wonderful, but if we could go back to the subject. The Lieutenant and the Dark Lord.”
Orion Black looked up from where he was inspecting his nails. “And whatever for?” he wryly asked. “I say let them figure out by themselves what they are doing. It means more work for them and less for us. I have no time for this, I purchased a new boxing ring and I plan to train my elves. The future is in underground matches, I am telling you!”
Nott’s eyes lighted up. “And do you organize bets?”
Orion frowned.
“It usually comes with it, yes. Why?”
“Well, it’s the birthday of my goddaughter next month and I am a bit short on money; you know how I said that the Macedonian Seeker was going to win, well that fucker decided against, so I, uh, I lost it.”
Rowle’s eyes narrowed. He had placed all his funds on Theophile Nott’s predictions.
“How much is it?”
“Uh. Not much.”
“How. Much.”
“-our galleons.”
Rowles twirled his wand between his fingers.
“One hundred thirty-four galleons.”
Four exclamations were shot. “What?!”
“Money is a very subjective thing,” Nott began to explain, smiling. “I find that nowadays we focus a little too much on it and we lose the real value of things in life. More important things! I decree that from now on I detach myself from what is money. I refuse to live my whole life centred around what is, in fact, only gold coins. Gold coins that are extremely precious and which allow you to afford a lifestyle. No, sir. I want something else. I want real values. The joy of living, the simple pleasure of it! Killing mudbloods, ripping off their arms and legs so they look like shrimps.” A pause. “They're very underrated, the shrimps.”
Orion sighed. “How much do you need?”
Silence. Then, beaming. “One hundred thirty-five galleons, if you’d please.” A shrug. “What? I do need to offer something to my goddaughter.”
“And for the Master and the Lieutenant, what do we do?” Rockwood questioned.
Four or five shrugs.
“Let them sort this out by themselves. They’ll eventually manage to.”
“Mmh, yes.”
“They’re not very capable, are they?”
A wave of agreement.
“They’re lucky to have us, that’s for sure,” Rosier remarked.
~*~
Flowers did not elicit the same reaction.
Tom found Marie-Antoinette and Robespierre munching on them the very next day.
No more flowers, then.
A pity, Tom had already ordered fifty-three bouquets.
~*~
What Tom did not know was that the best gifts were those unplanned.
~*~
Spells were flying over their heads.
Tom barely dodged a curse; spinning on his heels to send one of his own; a purple light that hit the auror right in his chest. The man fell backwards; the second long enough for surprise to colour his face, for his partner to scream in rage-
“CRUCIO!”
Three curses flew over him, so close to each other that their colours mixed; that Tom laughed, high-pitched, and delighted, and the rush of adrenaline that was running through his veins; strong enough for him to feel invincible, to run and dodge, to threw hex after hex-
Another auror fell. Followed closely by a Death Eater.
A pity. Well. They had more than enough of them.
“Break through their ranks!” someone shouted. “For fuck’s sake, break through their ranks!”
He didn’t know if it came from their side of the other; his eyes riveted on a silhouette far ahead.
Abraxas Malfoy was facing the head auror and three of his subordinates. Tom had tried to make his way through the chaos; without success. He could only dodge and curse; waving his wand in ample movement to build Protego after Protego; a dagger firmly clutched between his fingers.
Something blasted in the distance; loud enough for Tom to stumble and feel something hot run te length of his ears.
He lifted wobbly fingers to brush it, bringing them back covered in blood. Fuck, fuck, he thought, he was not going to die, he was not-
“Sectio! Sectio!” someone yelled.
Tom jolted out of his thoughts; just in time to see a body fly backwards, come crash into a wall. His heart missed a beat. He stumbled backwards; drops of sweat blinding his sight-
“Lieutenant! You’ll daydream later! It kind of urges now!” Travers shouted; running past him, two other spells fired from his wand. His hood was slashed at the end, his eyebrow hairs singed, and blood was dripping from his right wrist.
Tom’s hand tightened on the dagger. His eyes were still riveted on Abraxas; on the curses sent to him, so narrowly avoided that it made his pulse race. “Cover me,” he breathed.
“What?”
“Cover me !” Tom all but screamed. “I’ll swear, Travers, cover me or you’ll be wishing to have been killed by the Aurors! I’ll rip off each of your fingers and feed them to you! IT IS AN ORDER! COVER ME!”
And, without waiting for an answer, Tom charged.
His wand slashed through the air, slicing throats, and he was barely aware of the deflagrations behind him, of Travers’ shouts and the curses that rebounded on his shield, because there was a wand movement of one of those Aurors, a purple spell, and Abraxas faltered-
“AVADA KEDAVRA!”
The curse hit the woman just below the navel, and her mouth opened in her last silent scream. She tumbled to the ground like a fallen doll, and the head auror whirled; wand raised-
“Mon chou!” Abraxas was panting. His blonde locks were pressed to his forehead by sweat; but never did he so much resemble the sobriquet he had taken. Broken bodies surrounded him, some burned, some missing limbs. There was exhaustion on his face, but pride and relief too; something twinkling in his gaze. “I had the situation under control!”
“Did you?” Tom’s teeth gritted. “Diffindo!”
The head auror’s right hand fell to the ground with a spongy sound and he screamed.
“Crucio! Avada Kedavra! Crucio!” the other auror yelled; eyes bulging.
He was very frog-like, Tom fleetingly thought-
“Look at that! TOM ! Look at that!” Abraxas’ laugh was raw and desperate. “They’ll be killing us now! What happened to work ethic-?-! You took oaths of protection! You are servants of the law! Liars! Liars, all of you! What happened to-”
A bright orange hex hit him in the shoulder and he shrieked.
Tom saw red.
His hand moved without his own accord. Just a second. For something supposed to be so small, it was funny how much it could change things.
One instant the head auror and the man next to him were blasting curses at them.
The next, they were not.
Tom's hand sliced through the air.
There was a moment of silence amidst the chaos. One where their eyes crossed, Tom's enraged, insane eyes, the desperate ones he was meeting.
And then, a gurgle. Blood splashing from the throat. The head auror stumbled forward, one hand pressed against his throat- trying to speak, only to spit blood.
It was he who fell first. His subordinate then; trying to reach for him.
Silence fell on the battleground.
Terror, then. Shouts of joy, Morsmordre shot in the sky. Tom felt numb. His skin was tingling. He was panting. He could not breathe. Funny. He had escaped death only to be unable to breathe. Aurors, from everywhere, trying to apparate away. Hitting the wards, falling, screaming.
Dying.
Cut the head and the body will fall, Tom numbly thought.
And, amongst the chaos, a laugh.
A small laugh, low and choked.
Tom lowered his eyes.
“That-” Abraxas was wheezing. Blood spluttered from his mouth, ran along his chin. “That, I swear, mon chou, might be the best gift you have ever given me.”
He was still chuckling, that idiotic man. He had been hit by a curse and he was chuckling.
The courting had lasted long enough, Tom thought.
And when he bent to kiss Abraxas’ bloodied lips; those infuriating laughs were promptly swallowed.
~*~
“-welcome my consort, Lord Riddle!” Abraxas Malfoy, Dark Lord and Ruler of the Wizarding World, Winner over Albus Dumbledore, and Winner of Witch Weekly’s Best Smile Award for the sixth time, beamed on that very day.
It was a nice speech, all things considered.
Golden robes had been put on for the occasion; and upon inauguring the speech, an equally golden crown had been gifted to their Lord. Travers had thought it to be quite heavy, but their Lord had not faltered, receiving his well-earned prize with a triumphant grin.
But then, then, he had said it.
“I knew it! I knew it!” Travers furiously whispered. He cheered louder than the others, his fist raised to the sky. He knew it!
Lestrange; next to him, looked much less cheerful.
And for good reasons, as he had just lost a bet of seventy-eight galleons three noises and a Niffler.
In front of him, their Lieutenant – well, consort it now seemed – stepped forward.
“Thank you,” he first murmured, his soft voice trailing on the crowd. “It is an honour for me to stand there-”
Yes, Travers thought, as Tom Riddle continued his speech.
All was well.