A/N: Hey guys. Some of you may have read the other fiction that I posted a couple of months ago, 'A Sickle For Your Thoughts.' Unfortunately, I have been experiencing a long bout of writer's block for a while now and have not been happy with what I have been writing to update that little story. This is something that I started a while ago too and for some reason, lately I've been finding myself straying towards this story more than ASFYT. That does not mean I'm abandoning the other. But what I do hope is that for the time being, this fiction will suffice. It's only the first chapter and of course, it's also an AU. Unfortunately, the world of Tom Riddle and all of the artistic possibilities that world possesses has a dangerous pull on me that I cannot deny. That being said, this is only the beginning and constructive criticism is always welcome =) Hope you are all well, stay blessed!
Chapter One: She sleeps peacefully.
It was a cold evening. The surge of snow that continued to fall from the dark, obscure sky displayed no indication of stopping anytime soon. Hogsmeade was silent, a picturesque vision of thatched roofs and cobbled buildings delicately coated with patches of white. Two young men found themselves seeking refuge inside Hogs Head, the miniature town's elderly pub house. They had arrived approximately half an hour before their scheduled meeting and though being early would never grace them with any favours, being late equated to suicide. Flames of vivid orange crackled in the large fireplace of the pub house, its amber rays magically enhanced to lick the skin of all the inhabitants inside. It was because of this that the two wizards had discarded their outer robes and were sat in their tailored dress shirts and slacks. The owner, an aging wizard with a greying beard so long that its end was plaited and expertly spelled so as not to come undone, was known for keeping to himself. Nothing that happened in Hogs Head really left Hogs Head and the piercing gaze of its owner was not really that intrusive once you got used to the hypnotic cerulean blue.
"It's been lousy. Fucking lousy. He isn't going to be happy at all."
"You know, I reckon if we sell it right, he won't be too annoyed. Which you know. We can do. Sell it right I mean."
The young wizards glanced at each other momentarily before breaking their gaze. Blond and large, Abraxas Malfoy was sure that there was nothing you could sell to Tom Riddle if he didn't want it. Which in this case he wouldn't. Abraxas's companion, Felix Lestrange, always had a ridiculous surge of optimism whenever they had to confess to a failed mission. It annoyed Abraxas to no end. Failure to achieve what you had been told was failure regardless of how you tried to sell it. And when Tom heard, he would squash Felix's hope for reprieve as surely as his cruciatus would hold promise of delivering excruciating pain. It was a cycle that repeated every six months or so. After all, it wasn't often that they managed to not get something done. But whenever they did, Abraxas apologised and Felix waffled. Tom hissed and cursed. At the next meeting, the incident would be forgotten – a merciful amnesty to allow the offenders' dignity to heal, their pride certainly still bruised but respectfully permitted to repair.
"Riddle's a scary bastard Lestrange. When you'll get that in to your head I don't know."
"We're scary bastards Ab. Yet I call anything brunette in a skirt pretty and you shag Lucilla every weekend."
Abraxas groaned.
"I don't even want to know how that fucking applies but stop with the useless comp–"
"It applies because we really fucking are scary bastards too Ab," interrupted Felix earnestly.
Glancing around pub house, Felix determined whether their conversation ran any risks of being overheard. Aside from themselves, Hogs Head was empty apart from the old wizard who somehow managed to look appropriately busy despite the lack of customers. Felix lowered his voice until it was a mere whisper.
"We torture and we kill. Yet when the situation calls for it, for example when we both want to get laid, we can be nice. You get me?"
Abraxas's large hands rubbed his eyes profusely. Grabbing his wand, he non-verbally placed a thin barrier to shield their voices with flourishing movements.
"Riddle doesn't want to get some from us though does he you pillock," he quipped.
Felix shook his head at Abraxas's negativity and took a swig of the fire whiskey in front of him. It burned deliciously down the length of his throat.
"No but he knows that it was a ninety nine point five percent chance of failure. He knows that we're two of his best knights and that sometimes firing arrows blindly into the night – because that's exactly what this mission was Ab, it was a shot in the dark - means we were un-fucking-likely to hit the bull's eye and get actual results. Scary bastard or not, Tom can be errr - rational, if the situation calls for it."
In spite of himself, Abraxas grinned. It was a crooked smile, one that revealed a full of set of teeth despite the anxiety that still lingered in his face. A brief spark of humour reached his large eyes.
"You sure you don't want to recite an ode Lestrange? Or perhaps a Petrarchan sonnet?"
Felix bared his teeth.
"I heard off Knott that he bumped into you carrying a bouquet of roses in Diagon Alley last Thursday."
"Ah for fuck's sake, Knott has the biggest mouth-"
"Tell you what, if Riddle is as unhappy as you say, when it's over, I'll buy you some flowers ey?"
The abrupt return back to their impending engagement quelled the fleeting light hearted atmosphere. Abraxas refused to comment any further, focusing his eyes instead on the dusty bottle of his butter beer. There was something about being in Hogsmeade that seemed to reach into the cavity of his chest and clutch at the twisted stems of his heart. Something that made him feel nostalgic; a reminder of long nights in his old house's common room with hidden crates of stolen butter beer. It was an oddity for someone of Abraxas's calibre to find pleasure in something as mundane as a small, next to nothing village. But when one was faced with the possibility of spending the night crouched into a protective ball and undergoing creative methods of torture, Abraxas found himself clutching his butter beer as if it held the very solution to the answers they sought.
The bell jingling as the door opened broke the asphyxiating bout of silence that had settled up on Abraxas and Felix. With it, a cold gust of wind managed to penetrate into the warmth of the inn, its icy tendons sharp and vicious. It was a fitting combination with the figure who entered. Dressed in robes of the deepest black, thick and made of expensive wool, Tom Riddle's hood was drawn above his head and lowered enough to cover his eyes. With the flicker of a careless hand, the door swung shut. The demonstration of minor wandless magic did not surprise his awaiting friends nor the old wizard who continued studiously to wipe a large tumbler with a filthy rag and appeared not to have noticed. As Tom approached, he walked right through the invisible barrier which really only prevented sound from escaping from its anointed perimeter but did nothing for physical shielding. Not that a physical shield would have even matter. Both Abraxas and Felix made to stand up but were stopped by the gesture of a pale hand.
"Malfoy. Lestrange."
They countered by placing their palms upon their hearts, bowing their heads accordingly. Tom pulled off his hood, his ebony waves drawn back by a thin ribbon of black silk to sit at the nape of his white neck. His skin looked waxen, chiselled cheekbones a cutting threat themselves. The effect was immediate. Tom Riddle was unapologetically raw power. His magic toyed with others, a constant presence waiting to strike and dominate. Always dark. Always cruel. Abraxas briefly remembered thinking that there was once a time when he had believed that Tom was simply too pretty for the type of wizard he actually was.
They had met at the tender age of eleven at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Slytherin house table to be precise. Even then Tom had been handsome. Exceedingly so. Now however, at the ripe age of twenty six, Tom's cheeks had further hollowed and the hair he refused to cut had somehow taken that boyish Hellenistic beauty and sculpted it to create a visage that screamed chilling power. Tom Riddle was a basilisk - a combination of angular edges and curves that were too sharp, toodramatic and entirely other. Gone were the days where witches simpered and quirked their chins at the sight of him. Cruelty dominated his every feature and lined the sinews of his hard form. Tom Riddle was death and darkness – magnificently so. His splendour had enhanced over the years, progressing until it actually transcended appropriate strictures of masculinity. Tom's lips now appeared a shade too red and his hair acridly, fiercely black. There was an aura that followed Tom, an aura which vibrated with a dark energy that made a witch, or even a wizard, daring enough to want to lean in closer just to see if such an enigma was possibly real before disapparating somewhere far, far away.
Raising a brow at Abraxas's blatant appraisal, Tom took a seat across from his companions. Felix cleared his throat.
"The usual?"
Tom nodded. Felix stood up and made his way to the bar. Tom took the opportunity to calculatedly watch Abraxas who in turn had fixated his gaze at his own fingers. As Felix returned with a fire whiskey mixed with a shot of goblin-made rum, he resumed his place once more next to Abraxas. Abraxas braced his shoulders and looked up. Stormy grey met murky brown. The brief contact was more than enough.
"You failed."
They were simple words but the deep baritone voice that commandeered them sliced through the air as a sharpened knive would cut into flesh. Felix winced. Abraxas licked his lips before speaking.
"Yeah… Yes. No I mean, we did."
Tom did not answer. He had expected it. This was true. But failure always rubbed him the wrong way. Felix made a valiant effort at sparing Abraxas from Tom's discerning eyes.
"We tried. I mean, we scoured the records. But there aren't any of her. At least nothing we haven't come across before."
Tom gripped his glass hard, the faint hues of pink appearing in each knuckle displaying his frustration. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he looked away, his head turned forcibly towards the fire as he struggled to maintain his composure. It was a rare sight to behold. Tom was rather skilled in the arts of deceit and pretence. After all, it had been a necessary attribute for anyone in Slytherin. And though years had passed since they had graduated from Hogwarts, Tom still remained every bit Slytherin. Abraxas and Felix chanced a glance at each other warily, unsure of how to react. Abraxas huffed once, twice, before reaching over to his discarded winter robe to pull out a packet of cigarettes. It was a habit he had adopted after spending a summer in France. Fourteen years old and infatuated with a half blood whose grandfather was muggle, Genevieve Deveroux had had tits too large for her tiny form and a bad habit for muggle drug abuse. The drugs Abraxas had wrinkled his nose at, after all, he wasn't a lowly half-blood but the cigarettes had somehow managed to work their way into his system. All of his fellow knights despised the habit yet Tom had never bothered to reprimand him for it. Lighting up a stick of Benson's, Abraxas put the cigarette to his mouth and inhaled deeply.
"I'm sorry."
"We're," interjected Felix. Scratching at a piece of mould latched on to the table, Felix spoke again.
"We're sorry. Both of us that is."
Tom continued to stare into the fire. It started off slowly. His magic became irate, angry, brutally so, and cascaded into a whirl wind of energy until it became a palpable force in the air. From his peripheral vision, Tom saw the old wizard shifting uncomfortably from behind the bar.
"Leave."
It was barely a whisper but the command was followed immediately. The screeching of chairs being pushed back and the hasty chorus of 'of course' that were thrown over shoulders hurrying to leave the vicinity in case Tom changed his mind scarcely registered in the frenetic storm of his thoughts. Tom sat for a minute. Or perhaps he sat for a century? He did not know, the ache in his chest a crippling pressure reminding him all too fucking clearly that two horcruxes under his belt meant absolute bullshit when he still had the affinity to feel heart break. Because that was what Tom was feeling. His heart was breaking and he was no closer to fixing it than he had been when it had first broke over four months ago. He had thought there would certainly be a lead in Hogwarts. It was why Tom had forced Abraxas and Felix to polyjuice themselves as students and find their way in among the hordes of students leaving and returning from the quarterly Hogsmeade trips. Yet they had come up with nothing. Nothing he didn't already have.
Tom stood up abruptly, his knees knocking over the table. All of a sudden he was furious with himself. He needed to stop being so weak. He needed to stop. He had to get a grip on himself. But how? Tom had done it all as far as he was concerned. Reached far beyond the boundaries of magic and tore apart systematic statures that could even class him as human. But how did one stop themselves from feeling? He was becoming disgustingly weak but the thought of being anything other, anything without her, was impossible.
Tom stalked out of Hogs Head and walked in the direction in which he knew to be the castle. His beloved home. It was not until he reached the great gates did he stop. It truly was magnificent. Turrets and turrets shooting high into the heavens. His home. Tom had not been allowed to return here. Dumbledore had denied him and stripped from him that deep, ardent desire. Taking in the sight of Hogwarts, Tom felt the erratic beat of his heart slow and his mind followed suit. Finally in control of his emotions, Tom took in one long look at his beloved Hogwarts and dissapparated. He appeared in front of a different set of gates altogether, huge and constructed of wrought iron. Tom simply passed through as if the barrier was nothing more than an intangible illusion. The walk from the gates to the mansion that lay ahead was short but he felt his heart hardening with each step. Alas Tom found himself inside. He continued to stalk through the great hall and up the great staircase until he arrived in private chambers extravagantly decorated in the plushest silks, velvet and Italian furnishing. Palest pinks embraced flirting flourishes of blue and blushing strokes of terracotta conquered away at large walls of plaster.
Medi-witches littered the expanse, each bowing low as they saw Tom approach. Scurrying to open a set of large double doors, the medi-witches all bore frightened looks that concurred appropriately with the atmosphere of agitation. All at once, Tom found himself standing beside a large bed. In it, she lay, her thick curly hair a messy array and her caramel skin a tantalising mix of white chocolate and toffee. Her eyes remained close and she appeared to be in the deepest sleep. Tom knew the answer but it had become religion for him now to ask it anyway.
"Any changes?"
A medi-witch scurried from next to the doors, bowing once more before replying.
"No my Lord."
Tom remained as still as marble, the only sign of life being the vein that pulsed in his temple.
"My Lord?" the medi-witch murmured weakly.
Not bothering with a retort, Tom ambled back out of the chambers, the restlessness of his mind and heart back in full momentum. The hurt he felt was like a pendulum, swaying back and forth between hope and anger. The medi-witches watched him go and resumed their places in their stations. There had not been any signs of improvement in the past four months. Exactly when their Lord would accept defeat was beyond anyone's guess.
Alphard Black sat hunched over the mahogany desk in his office. The dark clouds that haunted his under eyes gave him the appearance of a zombie, a deathly apparition who walked, talked and ate but utterly soulless. Alphard was tired. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt the slightest semblance of peace. Couldn't remember the last time he had woken up looking forward to the day that lay ahead. Couldn't remember the last time he had smiled, genuinely smiled without a proverbial fist clenching tightly inside his sternum and reminding him all too fucking clearly that there was nothing to smile about. Alphard rubbed his eyes before sitting up to stare blankly at the cluttered array of textbooks placed in a paradoxically organised mess all over his desk. Stray bits of parchment with minute, scruffy writing lay strewn everywhere, accompanied by balls of discarded thoughts that had been thrown against the blank wall in front. A bell rang, Alphard's floo network alerting that him that he had a guest. Alphard did not bother to move to check who his visitor was. These past few months, his visitors consisted of members from a certain circle he had spent the majority of his youth steering away from. Now he no longer had a choice.
"Black."
Abraxas Malfoy was a wily bastard. At least Alphard thought so. From his peripheral, Alphard watched as Abraxas lowered himself in the plush armchair, the poor thing groaning under the young Malfoy's weight. Abraxas was built of thick, muscular limbs that were a result of strenuous workouts every morning. He was large and he was athletic. Swivelling in his chair to face his uninvited guest, Alphard remembered that one time in third year when a fight broke out on the quiditch pitch. A sturdy beater, Alphard and the rest of the Slytherin quidditch team were captained by Abraxas. One morning, the Gryffindor team found themselves on the same pitch as a result of double booking. Arthur Nichols - the Gryffindor captain - drew out his wand in typical Gryffindor brashness but Abraxas managed to slam his fist clean into the boy's jaw before any spells could be cast. Alphard could still picture with clear vivacity the resulting crack that had stilled everyone's movements before the Gryffindor team rushed forward to help their captain back on his feet. However, Nichols had been in no state to move, laying there on the cold grass out cold with his jaw practically unhinged, his eyes closed and blood seeping from the corners of his slacken mouth. The uproar was inevitable and the Malfoys had paid a hefty sum to keep Abraxas from being expelled.
"Why am I always graced with seeing your girly face every two fucking days Malfoy?" Alphard growled.
Abraxas laughed lightly and relaxed into his seat, his large bulky arms flexing as he clasped both hands behind his head.
"And hear I thought you and I were almost dating."
Alphard pushed up from his position stretching his arms before leaning down touch his toes.
"I don't date pale princesses who think working for a sadistic sociopath is the way forward in life."
Abraxas laughed lightly, amused.
"Ah but see here Blackie boy, knowing as I do of your affinity to fuck wizards, I find myself believing that if I went that way – and I really mean this by the way, if I went that way then why, you would be the first person I'd consider. Tell me Black, you're so high and mighty for not believing in blood supremacy. You make sure everyone in our social circle is aware of your beliefs yet you hide your precious, ah, preference, away as if it's a dirty secret. Why?"
Alphard stood up, his anger a visible force as he chewed furiously on his tongue.
"Fuck you."
Shrugging his shoulders, Abraxas reached a hand into his robes to pull out a cigarette. Lighting it with his wand, he placed it in between his mouth and motioned at Alphard to sit back down.
"Relax. I couldn't care less who you fuck or how you do. Talk. Now."
Not one for being told what to do in his own house, Alphard summoned himself a glass instead and rummaged between the drawers of his desk. He poured himself a drink without bothering to offer one to Abraxas. Abraxas smirked at the show of defiance but said nothing. It wasn't until Alphard had drained half the glass did he decide to speak.
"She's in limbo."
Abraxas sucked in his breath.
"I've been pouring over everything I can find on the subject and I'm pretty damn certain that she's in limbo."
"Will she be sane when she wakes?"
"If," corrected Alphard, leaning on the edge of his desk. "If she wakes. She's powerful. Her mind must have closed down when it felt the intruding force. It's taken her somewhere beyond our reach. That is why her body functions but she does not show any improvement. I suspect she cannot find her way out. If she even wants to. Find her way out that is."
Abraxas narrowed his eyes at the indirect remark of disrespect.
"Be careful. People have been killed for much less."
Alphard smiled grimly.
"I don't doubt it. You don't have to tell me how she got in this situation. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out. But the bottom line is, she was too vulnerable for that sort of intrusion. We at St Mungo's knew it so no one attempted to heal her in that manner. Your beloved fucking Lord knew it too. But he tried it anyway and someone who is both vulnerable yet unaware of the extent of their magic at the same time? They do accidental magic. As a youngling would. She protected herself in the best way her magic knew how. She took herself elsewhere, or at least, her consciousness elsewhere."
Abraxas stood up and started pacing.
"Her mind… If what you're saying is true. Then her mind isn't damaged. She just needs to wake."
"Why the fuck would she even want to?" countered Alphard. Before Alphard knew it, Abraxas had shoved him over the desk, a wand shoved under his jaw.
"Do not speak about that which you do not know. I won't tolerate any disrespect towards Riddle. Or his private affairs."
Alphard pushed Abraxas off with stupendous effort. Clenching his own wand in his left hand, Alphard stood with his feet planted wide apart, the alcohol in his system magnifying his courage.
"She was my friend and your fucking boss," Alphard spat the word as if it had personally offended him, "he broke her as if she was a toy."
"Enough."
Chest heaving, Abraxas pointed a shaky finger towards Alphard.
"You do not give your opinion. You research and you fucking research until you find a medical cure. That is all. You give me daily reports and I tell Riddle. But do not," Abraxas paused, his breathing sharp, "fucking speak about her as anything more than a patient. She has all the reason in the world to wake."
Alphard inclined his head.
"Tell me Malfoy, does Riddle know that you're in love with her? That the only reason you want her to wake is so that she can fucking look upon your pasty face? Or does he really believe you're that fucking loyal to him, you would be this ah, what shall we call it, this concerned, for his chippie?"
Silence followed.
"Crucio."
Alphard didn't get a chance to raise his wand to defend himself. He screamed.