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A soft popping sound interrupted the still silence of Tom’s office. He was perusing the newest edition of The Profit – useless gossip as usual – with a cup of tea halfway to his lips, though he only glanced up at the house elf as it bowed.
“Lord Slytherin, Sir, Lord Black is in the foyer and requests your presence.” The elf kept its eyes downward as Tom took a sip of still warm tea. He only replied after setting the teacup down on its saucer.
“Send him to the sitting room, I will be with him in a minute.” He said evenly and measured, finishing his skimming of the last page. There was a murmured ‘yes sir’ before another pop rang out and the room returned to still solitude.
It was a constant in Tom Slytherin’s life. After Hogwarts he had shed his muggle name and rebuilt himself as the Slytherin Lord and member of the Wizengamot. A somewhat slower path to reaching his goals for Wixen, he can admit, but compared to all out war he found it more worthwhile. This, mostly because he had yet to solve his problem with death, yet to overcome it. Horcruxes would never give him immortality and political power at the same time, he would have been a fool to attempt it. The only real positive to the delay, is that he no longer fears death as he once did. More so, resents its overshadowing presence.
Regardless, Tom stood from his seat, having set the paper down. He would not be returning to it. He left the room, and walking down the hall, he recalled why Orion might have visited. A week ago he had requested a specific book that – after following the old money trail – found the most accessible place a copy might lie is with the Blacks. It is, after all, among the darker subjects of magic. It was also his final lead to the ‘Master of Death’ legend, and hopefully not a dead end.
The manor Tom had built was large, though not Malfoy manor large, it still took a couple minutes to make his way down to Orion. When he did, however, he wasted no time in strutting into the room and taking his place at the large green armchair. Orion had already made himself comfortable on the couch across from Tom, or as comfortable as a pureblood lord could get.
“My Lord.” The young man pitched his head forward in a slight bow and Tom reciprocated with a soft nod. No need for anything more as he was within the inner circle of death eaters. “I have acquired the object you requested. Forgive me for the wait, it was unusually safeguarded separately from the main library.” Tom merely waved off the apologies, before accepting the book from Orion’s reaching hands.
“As long as you deliver, Orion.” Tom crossed his legs as he stared down at the brown leather cover. An old tattered thing, clearly hand bound and perhaps even made in some hut. However, it was thick, and drowning in new information vital to Tom’s studies. He could feel his lips twitching into an almost smile, a rare real one. A soft cough, or clearing of the throat, tore his gaze away from his prize and back to his ally staring at him. Tom lifted a brow in question.
“May I ask, my Lord, what this project of yours is?” Tom stopped his absentminded caressing of the rough cover to consider the question. He figured Orion should get a bit of a reward for his helpfulness thus far.
“If I plan to overtake our political enemies I must first do so with the greatest among them. I plan to defeat death.” Tom said it with full confidence, ending off his explanation softly, almost offhandedly. Despite this, it was clear to Orion how serious his friend was. Tom could see the surprise in the widening of his eyes, but also the awe. It was good to know he was a follower that would believe no matter how outrageous.
“I await the day you leash death.” Orion said with a smile. He stood under Tom’s watchful gaze and gave a proper bow at the waist this time. He could feel Tom’s excitement by now and knew not to keep him any longer.
“I shall Owl you with the news.” A clear dismissal, and Orion left the room as Tom returned his gaze to his lap. This time though he had opened the book to begin reading.
—
Mere weeks later, Tom had found the answer. He had had to abstain from sleeping for a night or two but the text was clear. A ritual already fully drafted out that would place him above even death itself. He would admit risk. But in his eyes the risk was in no way near as bad as it had been with the Horcruxes.
Most of the book had been translated from an old language, one that was completely dead unlike Latin, which he was fluent in. In fact there were no records of it and translating spells had no effect. Despite this, it was still made up of old translations, only including sparse quotes in the original language. A very thin and loopy looking language.
For Tom, this did not matter. The pro’s were too great. Even better, it accurately stemmed from the original legend of ‘The Three Brothers’ that led him down this research path. All he really needed for this ritual were the Hallows: the Elder Wand, Invisibility Cloak, and the Resurrection Stone. He was already in possession of the wand, having won it off some near squib with astonishing luck, and the stone was already running in the Guant family line and was easy enough to steal from a corpse. Only the cloak had proven difficult, since it was a precious heirloom held by the Potters. Of course, that hadn’t stopped him, and though it took cashing in a few favors and some very illegal acts, he now held the shimmering fabric in hand, along with the other treasures.
Tom was visibly giddy as he strode through the rich halls, though no one was there to witness it. He had a few things floating behind him, the book – of course – and a number of supplies for runes to complete the summoning.
The house elves had been instructed to not disturb him unless explicitly called on, so he would have ample time unimpeded to complete his project. It was long over due and Tom did not like being late.
He only allowed himself to walk down the narrow stone staircase slightly faster than usual, but he would not allow his enthusiasm to overtake him anymore than that. Said staircase opened up into a large ritual room, a very dim and empty space but still clearly custom made by the detailed pillars along the walls of the round room and the vaulted ceiling. He reached out with his magic and set the torches alight to properly brighten the room. Then he shut the door behind his floating tools and set them down near the centre of the workspace. With a heavy intake of breath he got to work, every detail would need to be precise as he had a zero tolerance for mistakes.
Tom drew up many runes in multiple circles within each other. There were runes for death and life, ones meant for requests, and some specifically for welcoming. They were odd, placed together in this context, but he had taken some time to review what the possible implications could be. To his understanding there was no negative connotation to them and they would still lead him to the ‘Master of Death’. The life rune heavily supported this theory.
Once done he stood back, brushing a hand through his sagging curls. His legs ached somewhat from the long hour of crouching, but he hardly noticed, too caught up in his element.
Though technically done, he was meticulous, and would not continue to the next step until he had triple checked his work. Every stroke had to be perfect, and a few runes had to be redone in his blood. A more binding effect took place this way. Once that was done, Tom allowed himself a grin. This goal which had seemed so out of reach only two months ago was now within his sights, he could see the finish line and almost touch victory. He felt exultant, but he reigned it back in quickly. He could not feel so triumphant when he had not actually achieved his goal, there was still room for mistakes. He had to stay focused.
Sending all other used materials against the wall, he summoned the book for reference and opened to the marked page. He also summoned the three gifts of death and laid them to rest next to him. The cloak to his right, the wand and stone to his left, and the book in front of his kneeling form.
He had placed himself at the very centre of all the circles and now only had to recite the text. Easy enough as it was in a mix of English and Latin, a unique alternating pattern seemingly done with little reason.
Tom began, and at the same time pumped the room full of his magic. His deciphering of the ritual suggested he had to make the call loud to attract attention, but it could also be a show of power to attract the God of Death. This, of course, would not be possible without the Hallows, as they emitted their own bit of magic – Death’s – to mix with his; it made the call all the more specific when paired with the runes.
A message and a speaker to air the call.
It was a paroxysm of magic, but Tom only breathed it in deeper, finding it intoxicating and overpowering at the same time. His smile returned in full force as he hunched over the book, having been forced to hold himself up by his hands. He was simply trembling. Goosebumps threaded their way along his skin and shivers ran up and down his spine. He found himself slowly losing the ability to think as the magic spilling out of the objects became more concentrated. But he forced his mouth to keep pronouncing the words even if he no longer knew what he was saying.
It was all too much.
But abruptly, it was gone, and Tom found himself almost mourning the loss.
Now though, he noticed how heavy his breathing was, rattling his now faint body. Despite his unnerved skin he forced himself to look up, not knowing what to expect but knowing that he could not have failed. What he saw would have caused any undignified man to yelp, Tom only felt his arm twitch weakly toward his wand.
A lithe figure draped in pitch black robes. Robes which seemed to float off his body and dissolve into the surrounding air. He had pale skin, only comparable to the dead bodies Tom had seen long after their passing. But the eyes. Somehow darker than his robes they held no pupils or even an iris, just a pit of darkness. Or perhaps a disconcerting window into the afterlife. Though Tom viewed him as a male, he was unsure if the term was accurate. He was oddly feminine for a man, highlighted by his pretty features and long raven hair. Hair that he could not discern the length of as it too looked to be melting into his robes.
“Hello.” Death spoke, a drawling sound that, though deeper in tone, held a soft ring to it at the same time. “You have summoned me.” He grinned unnervingly, staring at Tom’s unmoving form. He was still trying to comprehend the situation, and recover from the previous plethora of sensations.
Tom’s lips parted ever so slightly as the being began to walk toward him, though he seemed to float, to be more accurate. He approached Tom’s right hand side, eyes raking down his body. He was still breathing unevenly when he felt a featherlight touch against his jawline, dragging up to his ear before disappearing as death circled to his other side. The touch had forced a sharp breath through his nose, and though cold, his jaw tingled. Unknowing of such effects, the God continued moving and leaned forward unnaturally as if gravity did not apply to him, placing them near eye level.
“You are quite beautiful, 20’s maybe?” A seemingly rhetorical question as death barely paused. “It has been hundreds of years since someone has requested my judgement, and never as young as you.” He said, stretching his lips into a smile that finally got Tom out of his trance.
“Judgement?” Tom knew he had not added such a rune to the ritual, and he was beginning to worry. Both at the cold presence of death itself and the apparent miscommunication of the book. Death, oblivious or not so oblivious to his thoughts, looked to be laughing quietly.
“That, at least, is usual. You humans never seem to understand what the ritual is for when you enact it.” He moved back to stand in front of him, though still uncomfortably close, and lowered himself into a mock sitting position.
“I read the book multiple times, and the runes mention nothing of judgement. This is a ritual for the ‘Master of Death’.” He spoke with snark, mostly there to mask his anxiety, he needed answers desperately. Needed to know that he had not made a grave mistake for all his confidence.
“That book is old, and the translations reflect the old ideologies of Wizards.” Death didn’t even glance at the book as he said this, still staring at Tom. The being even reached forward to tug on a stray curl sticking to his forehead from sweat.
“It was quite clear on ‘Master of Death’.”
“Yes, but master, back in the day, would often be used in different contexts.” Death tilted its head staring at Tom’s exposed neck over the collar of his white shirt. “For example, a husband might refer to himself as his wife's master, just as he is the supposed master of the house. She might even be considered his possession.” He said slyly, licking his lips.
Tom instinctively felt his heart skip a beat, but despite knowing what that might mean he still wanted to hear it clearly.
“What is a more accurate translation then?” He asked softly, not scared, more so astonished at the situation he had stumbled into.
“Death’s mate.” At the admission, Tom’s lips parted once more, and in response – seemingly unable to control himself – Death’s hand reached forward to caress his bottom lip lightly.
“Wha—” Tom started, dislodging the hand, but he was quickly interrupted.
“As per my judgement, I declare you suitable, to stand at my side as my equal and mate for eternity.” At the declaration Tom felt a surge of magic rush through him, with his chest as the epicenter. It caused him to fall back, landing on a cushioning charm with his legs folded awkwardly. He blinked and death was already crowding him once more, this time floating above him even closer than before.
“What was that?” He questioned breathlessly, though still attempting to sound in control. Death smiled with an almost childish excitement as he undid the first few buttons of Tom’s shirt to reveal the cause of his discomfort.
“My mark. The symbol for Death.” So close to the other being Tom could just barely cant his head down to glimpse what death was staring at. It truly was the mark of Death, the very symbol etched into the stone not a foot away from him.
As Death ran a finger reverently over the mark Tom felt a shiver run through him in response to the cold touch.
What had he gotten himself into?