Tom/Lord VoldemortxDracoNon-AU. Modeled on and extended from a wonderful, wonderful ficcy by Ginzai, found here or on my favorites page, with her permission. Thank you so much! The story of Tom Riddle and his puzzlings over life, death, leadership of the world, and that irritatingly fascinating Malfoy boy. VERY MUCH NC-17. Lemons, limes, possible BDSM, dubious consent, powerplays, backstabbing, and all that jazz.
A/N: I loooooove you, Ginzai! ...and you too, ReRe. Even if you did go make me post on the Archive From Hell, which, now that I mention it, ALL OF YOU SHOULD VISIT. It's at community(dot)livejournal(dot)com(slash)AIIKSTUKO.
IMPORTANT NOTE: Prologue taken entirely from the original Énigmes: Nox with minor differences.
Prologue
Tom Riddle had never thought of himself as "Voldemort". It had always been a title more than anything else, a way to differentiate himself from his detested Muggle father, and later, when the Death Eaters had begun to address him as 'master', a way to differentiate himself from them as well.
Mages, the lot of them, with pureblood pedigrees longer than their egos were large, the sons and younger cousins of the boys Tom Riddle had attended Hogwarts with, years before the fall of Grindelwald and of himself. He hated them, hated their sniveling, their whines and protests, and how they prostrated themselves, bending knee to their lord and ruler, whilst continually plotting behind their masks about how to best rid themselves of him.
They'd never intended for him to return. Even Lucius, who, above all the others, he'd held close and informed of his secrets, Lucius, to whom he'd entrusted the diary that held his younger soul, even he had betrayed and abandoned his lord at the first sign of peril.
Perhaps that was why he was so free with the Cruciatus curse his first night back, and in the weeks that followed. It might even have been the reason that he, half desperate with hedonistic need, had selected of their sons and daughters those to take and form into an inner sanctum. Tom had thought that the younger set might have more strength than their parents, but this was not the case. If anything, they were even more cowed than their parents were, and they averted their eyes when Tom entered the room, refused to meet his gaze when he spoke to them.
He hated them more than he did their parents, and so, when he took them, he cared not for their cries of pain or pleasure, and sought only his own.
His latest was a pretty thing, the eldest Parkinson girl, Marie. She had a younger sister; he vaguely remembered a mop of dark curls and screaming yelps when she'd been presented to him back before his fall. Marie was slight, and had her sister's dark hair and eyes, but was cold and nervous in bed. Maybe the sister would be warmer.
As if she could sense his thoughts, Marie shivered by his side. Tom ignored her. She'd brought his attention back from his ruminations, and he cast his eyes about the room, lazily taking in the twenty or so hooded figures that lined the walls.
One of them stood slightly apart from the rest, the slow languid tones he employed identifying him even more than the slight curls of silver hair that had escaped cloak and mask. Lucius always was a bore. Tom sneered at him, and Lucius quelled, falling silent in his report on the activities of the old Muggle-lover that they called a headmaster at their old alma mater.
Tom glanced about, the room completely silent now save for the shifting of feet and rustle of fabric over nervous frames. Everywhere he looked, faces turned just slightly down or away, looking over his shoulder instead of at his face, refusing to meet him stare for stare as he desired. Not for the first time, he regretted the decision to employ masks as a standard part of the uniform.
The new recruits stood behind their parents, and it was there that his gaze fell next. Their faces were visible, having not earned the right to wear the full mask or mark of the true devotee as of yet. Marie's sister was there, somewhere, and he peered about for her. It didn't take long to find the girl; the Parkinsons all shared the same unfortunate pug nose. Her hair was short, but she was pretty enough as well.
He raised an eyebrow; the girl, Gloria or Petunia or some other ridiculous flowery Victorian name, was clutching one hand on the robe of a boy. He didn't seem in the least concerned that he'd just attracted the attention of his dread lord and master. Instead he seemed to have fixed his entire concentration on attempting to remove Petty's -Pansy's, that wasit- hand. He was failing miserably, and the look of sheer vexation on the boy's face was a delight to behold.
It had been ages since he'd seen any emotion on a follower save for fear or pain, and Tom found himself...interested...for lack of a better term.
Pansy had noticed the attention on them, and paled. Everyone seemed to have noticed where Tom was staring, save for the boy himself, and it wasn't until the girl, panic stricken, whispered fiercely "He's staring at you!" that he deemed to look up.
The boy met Tom's eyes without hesitation. If anything, he seemed irritated that he was being pulled from his activities. They were grey, and now that he was facing towards the front of the room, Tom could see silvery hair floating to the nape of his neck.
This was Lucius' boy, he realized, and found himself intrigued. He'd barely been a year old the last time Tom had seen him, but he had to be seventeen at least now. He remembered the boy being presented, a pale scrawny thing that no one had expected to live past his first year, and he remained in many ways the same. That same pale skin, that same small frame and pointed, elven chin, the same cloud of moonlight hair. The only thing that seemed to have actually changed were the eyes; the baby Tom remembered had the blue eyes of his mother, not a set identical to his father's.
Those eyes were still watching him, that pointed face turned to one side, one hand still idly trying to remove that of the Pansy girl. A smooth eyebrow rose, a silent query regarding the nature of Tom's stare, then just as suddenly, he dismissed Tom and returned to the task of getting rid of Parkinson.
Tom heard the shocked gasps of the Death Eaters surrounding them, astounded by this lack of respect, but for the time being, ignored them.
That arrogant little bastard.
Tom felt himself laughing at this, thrilled at this smarmy brat who dared to look him in the face. The boy didn't look up at this, but out of the corner of his eye, Tom could see Lucius stirring uneasily. Afraid of what might befell his spoiled son, is he? Tom thought, still rather amused. He should be.
Marie tensed under his hand when he stretched it forth to stroke at her curls. Under his fingers, they felt rough and coarse, and he found himself wondering what silken straight strands would feel like, and whether smooth, pale skin would flinch away from his touch, as all the others did, and just what it would take to cause those grey eyes to avert themselves out of fear and not dismissal. He wasn't entirely certain.
He intended to find out.
Énigmes: Nox
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Chapter One
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"...and e'er in the midst of night,
velvet-soft and silent,
lying in bed, not yet quite asleep,
one ponders the darkling
enigma that is the whole, vast Universe...
for what is Night, but a time
for mystery and blackness to entwine?"
-Excerpt from "A Study of Night-time" by Azul
The way things worked on the Death Eaters' side of the war was quite simple; you obeyed the Dark Lord and Master, you did not get in the Master's way, and, above all, you did not anger the Master. If you followed the directions, good for you. You got to live another day. Usually. If you were lucky. Defiance was the crucifix borne by too many Light-siders as a matter of choice, and their puny efforts at retaliation often amused the Dark Lord for a while before beginning to annoy him. The amusement was a good and bad thing for the Light warriors, depending on whom you asked, because the reward for entertaining him in such a way was an extension of several months of life once captured and imprisoned, during which the Death Eaters in charge of the captives came up with many more imaginative, excrutiatingly painful torments than they might have otherwise. The torture-masters of the Lord's dungeons, of course, thought it was a very, very good thing. The prisoners that had amused him? Not so much.
Such was Lord Voldemort's Golden Rule: All rewards and punishments for good and ill were decided and doled out by him, and thus any reward for doing right could be just as painful (if not more so) than a punishment for doing wrong. Therefore, when Lucius Malfoy received a summons from his lord (via Dark Mark) after a particularly successful raid that had been carried out under Lucius's command, he was understandably apprehensive and cautious, first mentally taking note of all of the Dark Lord's actions earlier in the day to determine his most likely mood, and then garbing himself in a complete set of protective, curse-repelling, bespelled, dragonhide clothing, purchased at a price so high that his private bank account had taken a significant blow, before finally leaving to answer his lord's call.
When he arrived at what served as the unofficial audience chamber, it was empty, and the imposing ebon chair (more like a throne, really) at the far end was vacant. Lucius scanned the room to ascertain that there truly was no one there (it would be just like Voldemort to cast a Concealing Charm to lure his underling into a false sense of security, after all), then cast a Locator Spell and found that his lord was in the extensive rabbit's warren of rooms that he had occupied in the castle the Death Eaters were currently utilising as a base. He scowled fiercely. Now he would have to go to the Dark Lord's own rooms, and he was not happy at having to do so, mainly because Voldemort was notorious for laying horrific curses upon his quarters...and neglecting to tell his Death Eaters of them, as it amused him to see whom got caught in what. It was dangerous enough to just go through one room in his suite, but the elder Malfoy would have to search through all of the Dark Lord's rooms to find him, unless, by some stroke of luck, Lord Voldemort decided to guide Lucius directly to him. Briefly, he considered feigning ignorance of the summons, but his common sense told him to do otherwise. Besides, his lord's command still burned with a bright, sharp pain in Lucius's Mark, and would continue to do so until he reached him. He had no choice but to Apparate to his lord's chambers.
Once there, he paused and eyed the door thoughtfully before conjuring a stick of wood, then backed as far away from the door as possible and threw the stick at it. It thunked dully against the heavy wood...and nothing happened. Still cautious, Lucius stayed back and continued waiting, watching the twig all the while. The wisdom of his choice became apparent when, three minutes after contact, the stick spontaneously combusted in a spectacular show of green and silver flames that burned with a fierce heat that he could feel from where he stood and reduced the two-inch thick twig into a pile of glowing embers and gray ash. Ah. Lucius muttered the incantation for freezing the curse and shaped it into a roughly spherical shape, which he then hurled at the door. It connected, and a popping noise was heard as the spell was disarmed.
Luicius remained where he was, intelligently suspicious. The curse had been fairly simple to disarm, and his son probably already knew how to properly cast and neutralize it. It was quite unlike the Dark Lord to put such a relatively simple spell on his door...unless there were other safeguards. To test his theory, Lucius spent a spike of power at the door...and barely managed to avoid the barrage of stored Dark hexes that came flying at him in response. Finally satisfied, he approached the door and tapped lightly at it with his wand, speaking loudly to draw his lord's attention.
"It is I, milord, Lucius," he began, and was abruptly cut off as Voldemort's voice interrupted him in a langiud tone and told him to enter. He blinked, then opened the door and entered to find himself in his lord's presence. The Dark Lord was draped over his favorite chair (mahogany and red silk, with snakes winding up the legs) with his newest pet at his side, the elder Parkinson girl, Marta, or Margeret or something like that. Immediately, he prostrated himself on the floor.
"What is your command?"
Tom Riddle internally scowled. There was the cringing and groveling again. Pah. It quite disgusted him. However, there were more important things to do, so he hid his distaste and bade the elder Malfoy rise.
"Lucius," he said, "the latest raid was wonderfully carried out."
He held up a hand as Lucius began to thank him and continued.
"Therefore, as a reward, I will remit one-half of your punishment."
Lucius almost shouted in outrage, but saw the dangerous gleam in his lord's red eyes and remembered just whom he spoke to in time. His lord's new, more youthful appearance had already caused many Light-siders to underestimate just how cruel and powerful Voldemort truly was, but all Lucius knew was that, every time he looked upon the countenance of his lord and master, he remembered the agonized shrieks of 99 children as their blood was simultaneously frozen and boiled and drawn off into a cauldron while they were still alive, part of the elixir that had restored his master's youth. Instead, he humbly asked, "Master, what have I done to deserve punishment? Have I not pleased you with my service?"
A bored look manifested on the Dark Lord's face.
"Obviously your work has pleased me, Lucius. Otherwise, you would not be standing here, alive, this very moment, wasting my time with idiotic questions. In the future, try not to ask such inane things."
Lucius, trembling with a barely-concealed mixture of fear and frustration, nodded.
"Good." Now, on to other matters. How is your son doing? Draconis, wasn't he called?"
Again, the elder Malfoy nodded, beginning to dread discovering the reason for his lord's abrupt change in subject matter and what it meant for his darling, precious, only son.
"He is quite well, my lord; indeed," he said, unable to keep a hint of fatherly pride from making him boast a little, "it seems that each year his intelligence and courage increases."
A slow, satisfied smile spread itself over Tom's face. Excellent.
"Good. Then I have decided that, for your punishment, you will give me your son Draconis over to my government."
Lucius was stricken with shock, but Voldemort caught the flicker of his eyes to the girl at his feet. Ah. Deliberately, he pulled out his wand, making sure that both Marie and Lucius could plainly see him do so. As an afterthought, he gave her slight warning.
"You might want to run, pet."
The girl turned to flee (to where? Tom idly thought. There was nowhere to go.) but to no avail, for, before she had taken so much as three steps, he struck her with a curse and laughed as she dropped to the floor, writhing and screaming in paroxysms of agony as her blood was, drop by drop, turned into fire; not boiled, but physically metamorphosed into flame, burning her flesh from the inside out, but somehow she had become slightly more resistant to the extreme heat, and therefore was held in debilitating pain for much, much longer than she should have been. Lucius Malfoy's horrified eyes were fixed to her the entire time. He had, of course, seen and performed more than his share of Dark curses and even Unforgivables, but this was one he had never even heard of, and it shocked him to the core to see a young girl whose parents he had known and counted among his few friends be burned from the inside out. Voldemort smiled again.
"Pretty, isn't it? One of the newer curses I've invented; I've just been waiting for an opportunity to test it out. Rather fitting as well; she always was rather cold in bed, so now I've...heated her up a bit," he said, speaking loudly to be heard over her shrieks. "Besides, I thought you might be worried about how she would stand in reference to your son. Rest assured Lucius, that your Draconis will always be first and foremost in my bed."
He turned to Marie as her screams stopped and Vanished the still-white-hot pile of ashes and chunks of larger, unidentifiable material with a casual flick of his wand before turning back to Lucius.
"So long as he manages to maintain my interest, that is."