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Abraxas Malfoy’s school years had been a relentless parade of shocks, each one more unsettling than the last.
His first was in his first year, when he found out that a no-name mudblood was sorted to Slytherin. It was the only thing anyone spoke about for weeks. As though this disgrace was something to be admired rather than corrected. A filthy mudblood sorted into the house of the great- even the other houses whispered about it with poorly concealed pity.
His second was that the said no name mudblood was in fact, the heir of Slytherin. The orphan boy had claimed a title he had no right to. Yet he managed to enforce it in a way that even the oldest families bent their knees. Abraxas found himself groveling under the mudblood’s- his lord’s- feet in no time.
But nothing could have prepared him for the sight that awaited him in his sixth year.
“Are you seeing what I’m seeing,” Orion whispered, his voice low and tight, “or has the Black madness finally claimed me?”
Abraxas could only shake his head, horror tightening every line of his face. He wasn’t sure. Maybe the blistering sun overhead was playing tricks on their eyes, warping reality into some cruel mirage. Though he quickly dismissed it.
Illusions of that kind did not affect two people at once, and Orion’s wide-eyed stare mirrored his own disbelief too perfectly.
Or maybe Alphard had conjured one of his ridiculous illusions again, yet another prank to irritate them. But even as foolish as the younger black cousin was, he knew that it would be a step too far.
Because if it was neither of those things, then the impossible was true.
Their lord- Tom Riddle was standing in the quidditch bleachers. That was a surprise by itself; the heir of Slytherin had never concerned himself with such plebeian frivolities as he liked to call it. But the real surprise is what he was wearing.
Even under the waxy sun, their lord was clad in a Gryffindor red scarf and a matching red pin on his robes, an easy smile gracing his handsome face.
He turned to Orion, his face still etched with shock. “A curse,” he said, his voice trembling. “A curse has been placed upon our lord!” His voice rose, tight with strain.
Just as Orion was beginning to reply, his words were swallowed almost instantly by the roar of the crowd. The Gryffindor team had arrived.
They burst onto the pitch in a perfect V formation, scarlet robes blazing against the green. At the front, flying with undeniable confidence was their captain and Abraxas worst nightmare- Harry Potter. He flew with an ease that bordered on arrogance, like the sky had made an exception for him alone. Potter’s usual awkwardness gave way to startling stealth and conviction; it was no secret that he belonged in the sky.
The noise from the stands was deafening. Scarlet banners whipped as the Gryffindors roared Harry’s name like a messiah. Abraxas felt his ears burn.
This was supposed to be Slytherin’s day, their victory. But as he stood there with his fingers curled around his Cleansweap-two ready for take off, he felt the last ounce of courage left in him drain.
The whistle had not yet blown, but Lestrange’s scream came first. “Slytherins!” It was their well practiced take-off signal.
And so it began. One by one, in a fluid sequence, they kicked off from the ground. Lestrange first, his broom slicing upward with grim precision. Then Rosier, Mulciber, Alphard, Avery, Orion, and finally Abraxas himself. Together they rose into the air, forming a sharp line that cut across the pitch.
They circled once, a mandatory lap around the stadium. Cheers from the crowd increased as the players demanded for more enthusiasm. The Malfoy heir saw his teammates wave to the crowd, encouraging further chaos.
But Abraxas barely heard it. His ears rang with something else entirely.
From the corner of his vision, Abraxas caught sight of Tom in the stands. The scarf blazed scarlet against his dark robes, and his lips curved- not in annoyance, not in disdain, but in a playful smirk. Abraxas’ head snapped left, desperate to see what could possibly provoke such a mood in his lord.
He had braced himself to dislike whatever he found, it was expected considering the whole Gryffindor scarf situation. But the sight before him struck harder than he imagined.
The person Tom was gazing at as though they had strung the stars and moon for him, was none other than Harry Potter. The Gryffindor captain was easy to spot between the waves of red. He was, after all, the cockiest of them all.
“Eyes forward, Malfoy!” Lestrange barked, snapping him out of his disgusting findings. He steadied himself on his broom, bringing his focus to the game.
The lap had ended and within seconds, the whistle blew. The game was alive.
Abraxas leaned forward on his broom, the wind rushing past his ears as Mulciber shot ahead to seize the Quaffle. Alphard was already angling to flank him, their formation free but precise. Lestrange hovered before the Slytherin hoops, his jaw set like stone. Rosier darted higher, eyes scanning for the Snitch. Orion and Avery held the middle ground, swinging their bat lazily and waited for the bludgers to come their way.
Their formation was flawless, drilled from Lestrange’s obsessive study of past matches. He had promised the Slytherins that this match would leave the lions scared for their entire life.
But the Gryffindors did not seem to be bothered. As Abraxas observed them, he noticed that their formation was chaotic, less rehearsed and much more sloppy.
Weasley was already shouting at Thomas, Johnson was drifting too far and their beaters seemed more interested in smashing the bludgers than protecting their chasers.
It was everything Slytherin was not. It should fail, it deserved to. But he knew not to underestimate them. Especially after last year's devastating loss. Ever since Potter had mysteriously turned up at Hogwarts two years ago, Gryffindor had been winning every match.
Abraxas locked his eyes on the quaffle being passed to him. His body leaned forward, almost merging with his broom as he advanced forward. The thick air cut around him, howls and cheers fading into mere background noises as his hand reached forward.
The quaffle was close, so close. One more thrust and it would be in his hand- a clean goal was waiting with his name in it.
But the Malfoy heir’s eyes betrayed him first, causing him to lose track of the red ball. Through his peripheral vision, he caught sight of his worst nightmare. Tom Riddle was looking intensely, but not at him or the rest of the Slytherins. His gaze was fixed upwards, eyes wide with amazement.
Abraxas’ head snapped up. He spotted a blur of red and green streaked across the sky. The seekers had spotted the snitch.
“Malfoy, what the hell! It was right in front of you!” Mulciber’s voice cracked across the pitch. The Quaffle slipped past his grasp- an error he would have corrected instantly, had his attention not been… diverted.
In a split second, all their attention shifted. A golden flash darted between the players, wings beating ferociously. Potter was already diving at a dangerous speed, eyes focused and determined. Rosier followed closely behind, the match was at its peak.
Orion tried to cut him off, Rosier pressing in from the opposite side. But Potter flipped effortlessly, diving below them with eyes still locked onto the snitch.
The Gryffindor chasers- Weasley, Johnson and Thomas- capitalised the distraction, weaving past Alphard and Mulciber to score twice as much in quick succession. Lestrange blocked the third attempt with a quick save, his hand aggressively slamming the quaffle away. But the damage was done.
The Slytherins were slowly beginning to lower their own banners, already accepting the defeat. Potter was faster and more agile, the outcome was to be expected.
Abraxas’ stomach dropped further when he saw that his lord was on his feet now, scarf blazing and screaming encouragement in a thick cockney accent he had not heard him speak in ages, as though he had shed years of refinement in a single breath.
Mulciber and Alphard were still locked onto the game, teeth bared as they fought to regain control. Avery smashed a bludger towards Johnson, forcing her to lose direction. But when Malfoy looked to his right, he saw Orion in the same boat as him. He wasn't watching the game; he was watching their lord, mouth agape.
“I've never heard him be so… crass. I've almost forgotten where he started from.” Orion muttered. Talking about Tom's past was forbidden to the knights. And to be honest, they never had a reason to talk about his odd manner of upbringing. Until now.
Abraxas was sure it was a curse now.
Tom had his fists rolled up and screamed impossibly loud, and so did everyone else. The golden snitch darted between the stands, leading to both seekers' ultimate battle of dominance.
Rosier had closed the distance with impressive speed, his broom pushing beyond its limits. For a fleeting moment, the two of them flew side by side, their shoulders nearly aligned and gazes locked ahead with identical intensity. Determination burned bright in both of them, sharp and unrelenting. The rest of the match had narrowed into this single pursuit.
With two boys in the same head level, Rosier needed to act fast to throw the other seeker off the chase. But much to everyone's surprise, Potter shifted first.
It was subtle enough that anyone less focused might have missed it entirely. A slight calculated lean, and then his shoulder brushed against Rosier’s with deliberate force.
The contact was not enough to send him spiraling, but it was far from accidental. Rosier’s broom wavered under the impact, the brief disruption forcing him a fraction behind.
Abraxas felt his jaw tighten. He could feel tension grow among the rest of the Slytherins.
So that was how it was to be.
Potter had started playing dirty.
Rosier recovered quickly, his expression darkening as he urged his broom forward once more. But that single moment had cost him.
The delicate equilibrium between them had been broken, and Potter seized the advantage without hesitation.
Ahead of them, the Snitch flickered wildly. As though sensing the mounting pressure of its hunters, it made a sudden and unpredictable movement.
It dropped.
Not a gentle descent or measured glide, but an abrupt plunge toward the earth, its golden body streaking downward like a falling star.
A ripple of gasps spread through the stands.
Potter reacted instantly like he had expected this.
His broom tipped forward in one seamless motion, his body following without resistance as he committed fully to the descent. There was no hesitation, no pause to reconsider the danger. He chased the Snitch with the same reckless certainty as before, trusting entirely in his skill and broom to keep him from the ground.
Rosier followed a heartbeat later, though the delay was enough to widen the gap once more.
The wind screamed louder as the ground grew closer with alarming speed. The pitch expanded beneath them, the green stretching wide and unforgiving, promising disaster.
The Snitch darted again, zigzagging unpredictably, but it did not rise.
It kept falling.
Potter leaned further into the dive, his form tightening, every movement precise despite the chaos of the descent. His hand stretched forward, fingers reaching and closing in-
A second.
A second more.
Another second… before Potter collided into the ground with brutal impact. His broom struck first, the wood skidding violently against the grass before his body followed, momentum carrying him forward in a rough tumble that tore through the pitch.
The stands gasped in horror.
“Has he lost his mind,” Orion breathed somewhere to his right, his voice thin and strained with disbelief. Abraxas wondered the same thing. Despite his best efforts, his eyes snapped instinctively toward the stands. He found Tom almost immediately.
The expression on his face was unlike anything Abraxas had ever seen before. Surprise had carved itself sharply into his features, but the horror that accompanied Tom's surprise held Malfoy still. The still lasted only a second before all his attention returned to the pitch.
Potter was still limp against the freshly mowed grass. The seconds that followed stretched unbearably, each one heavier than the last.
The stadium that was so recently alive with noise, had fallen into a strained and suffocating silence.
Abraxas felt it too. A strange, unwelcome tension coiling in his chest. He disliked Potter- vehemently so. Yet he felt like death was a bit excessive, even by his standards.
Then, at last, there was movement. It was slow at first, but very noticeable.
Potter’s hand pressed against the ground, fingers curling into the grass as he pushed himself upward. His movements were unsteady, marked by the clear aftermath of the fall. But there was something undeniably stubborn in the way he forced himself upright.
A murmur rippled through the stands, out of relief and disbelief. Potter rose to his knees, then to his feet.
Scratches lined his face, thin streaks of red cutting across his skin, mirrored by similar marks along his arms. His hair was a mess and so were his robes- dirty and rumpled
And yet-
He was smiling.
Not weakly or with relief. But with something bright and unmistakably victorious. Slowly, he lifted his hand.
Nestled securely between his fingers, wings stilling at last, was the Snitch.
For a heartbeat, the stadium remained suspended in shock. Then the realization struck. The eruption that followed was unlike anything that had come before. The Gryffindor stands exploded into sound, cheers crashing over one another. Students leapt to their feet, banners whipping wildly as Potter’s name rang out again and again.
The Gryffindors flew down, hugging and lifting Potter in praise. Even some of the younger Slytherins in the stands had begun to congratulate him. Abraxas did not join them.
He could not.
He remained where he was, hovering in the air, his grip tightening painfully around his broom handle.
They had lost. Yet the loss itself barely registered.
Because when his gaze drifted, almost against his will toward the stands, he saw Tom. Not standing with composed indifference or watching with detached approval. He did not seem disappointed that his house had lost.
He was clapping.
Worse, he was smiling.
___________________ _
The heat of the changing rooms pressed down upon them like a physical weight.
Steam curled thickly through the air, rising from the rows of showers that lined the stone walls. It turned the already cramped space into something almost suffocating. The scent of sweat, damp fabric, and hot water clung stubbornly to every surface, settling into skin and lungs alike.
Abraxas sat rigidly on one of the benches. His robes half removed and hair damp at the temples. His broom lay discarded at his feet, forgotten in the wake of defeat.
No one spoke at first.
Until Rosier broke the silence by throwing his gloves onto the bench with force. “Pathetic,” he muttered, words carrying venom and disappointment. Mulciber let out a dry, humorless laugh. “We had the advantage. We should have won.”
“You had it,” Avery cut in, his tone edged with irritation. “Until certain people forgot how to hold onto a Quaffle.” Abraxas did not rise to the bait. He did not trust himself to speak without betraying the turmoil twisting beneath his composed exterior.
The tension grew till an overwhelming urge to throw up took over. But it was suppressed when laughter spilled in, the victorious kind.
The lions were here.
The door swung open with little regard for those inside. A rush of red flooded the room. Weasley entered first, his grin wide and unrepentant; followed closely by Johnson, Thomas and finally, Potter.
“Well,” Weasley drawled, dragging a hand through his damp hair, “I expected you lot to have slithered into your burrows by now.” Mulciber scoffed, pushing himself upright. “And miss the opportunity to watch you celebrate like fools. Hardly.”
Johnson snorted, folding her arms. “You say that like we do not have a reason to celebrate.” Rosier stepped forward, his expression sharpening. “Celebrate all you like. It does not change the fact that your win was questionable at best.”
Weasley’s grin faltered slightly. “Oh?”
“The field,” Rosier continued, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. “It was tampered with. And Potter’s broom as well. There is no other explanation for that display.” A murmur of agreement followed from the Slytherins, low and simmering.
Across the room, Potter stood apart from his teammates, a towel draped loosely around his shoulders as he ran it through his damp hair. He had not joined in their mockery, had not indulged in their victory with the same loud enthusiasm.
But after Rosier’s accusations, Potter paused. Then he looked up.
There was no anger in his expression, no visible irritation; as though their accusations barely warranted a reaction. “Not everyone has to buy their way in,” he said calmly. “Some people are actually talented.”
The insult settled heavily in the room.
Mulciber’s hands curled into fists. Avery took a step forward, his jaw tightening. Even Orion, who had remained largely silent, straightened with visible tension.
Abraxas felt a sharp flicker of anger. Though whether it stemmed from the insult itself or the quiet confidence with which it had been delivered, he could not say.
Before anyone could respond, the door opened once more.
Tom Riddle entered.
His presence shifted the atmosphere instantly. The hollering Gryffindors were now quiet, and so were the snakes. He had barely taken two steps inside before his expression altered. His nose wrinkled faintly, his gaze sweeping across the steam-filled space with poorly concealed distaste.
A few of the Slytherins shifted, discomfort flickering across their features. Tom moved further into the room, clearly enduring the environment rather than accepting it.
Then his gaze found Potter.
The change was subtle, but unmistakable.
His distaste did not vanish entirely, but it gave way to something unexpected. His lips curved, not into the cold, practiced smile they were accustomed to. But into something edged with amusement. “Well,” Tom said, his voice smoothing into conversation, “I suppose even chaos can yield results, under the right circumstances.”
All eyes turned toward Potter, who did not seem surprised or affected by the sudden remark.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. “Careful,” he replied, his tone light, almost teasing. “Someone might think you are impressed.” Tom’s gaze sharpened, though the hint of amusement did not leave his expression. “Do not mistake observation for admiration.”
“Wouldn't dream of it.” With each word Potter said, he had moved an inch. An inch towards Tom. He lowered the towel from his shoulders, letting it fall onto the bench behind him, eyes never leaving Tom. Then he took a step forward, a step far larger than an inch.
Everyone expected Tom to recoil in disgust. Like standing so close to the Potter bastard personally offends him. No one voiced their expectations aloud; but Abraxas knew what the players thought. But Tom did not retreat, his gaze locked with unsettling curiosity
“Do you plan to win every match by sheer arrogance or was today just luck.” Tom retorted, chin tilted down to meet Potter at an eye level.
The room seemed to have held its breath, everyone as still as a rock. Perhaps this is the true Gryffindor vs Slytherin match the day had been leading up to.
Everyone knew Potter was proficient in wand work, but no one was as good as their lord. Abraxas anticipated a fight to break out, he prayed for it. But what happened was a literal page from his book of worst nightmares.
Potter seized Tom's robes, as though he had entirely forgotten his place. It looked as if he was going to punch their lord in a degrading muggle way. Yet, that was not what happened. Potter pulled him close before crashing his lips onto Tom’s.
The room echoed the gasps of many, but neither of them stepped away. In fact, Tom welcomed it. The distance between them vanished, as his own hand came up and grasped the nape of Potter’s neck.
Weasley’s jaw slackened visibly, his earlier grin vanishing entirely. Johnson’s eyes widened, her expression frozen somewhere between disbelief and poorly contained laughter. Thomas let out a sound that might have been a choked attempt at speech, though no words followed.
Among the Slytherins, the reaction was far less contained.
Rosier stared as though he had been struck with a cutting curse, his face draining of color. Mulciber’s expression twisted into something unrecognizable, caught between outrage and sheer incomprehension. Avery looked as though he might speak, might shout, might do anything to shatter the moment, yet no sound came.
Orion simply stood there, his usual composure utterly absent, his gaze fixed on the scene before him as though trying and failing to make sense of it. Abraxas felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath him.
This was not a misstep, not a misunderstanding, nor something that could be explained away with logic or dismissed as illusion.
This was real.
When Potter finally pulled back, the distance between them was slight, their proximity unchanged in any meaningful way. Tom did not move away. Though slowly, his lips curved.
“Well,” he said quietly, his voice lower now, “that was unexpected.”
Potter’s expression softened, close to amused, “I couldn't think of another way to shut your pretentious arse up.” If that insult came from any one of the knights, it would've resulted in a strong cruciatus. But at that very moment, Tom laughed.
For the first time that day, certainty settled over Abraxas that left no room for doubt. Whatever had taken hold of their lord could not be dismissed as a mere curse or some passing jinx. Tom Marvolo Riddle was not under enchantment.
He was possessed.