Chapter Text
i. the wrong sort
Even at age seventeen, Abraxas Malfoy was a force to be reckoned with.
Septimus gave up his inheritance in January, and along with that, his Wizengamot seat — by the end of July, Abraxas had turned one seat to seven, twenty votes to two hundred, and pushed the half-blood minister off his position. He was all over the Daily Prophet, with headlines like POWER FLUX IN BRITAIN — WHO WILL WIN, THE BLACKS OR THE MALFOYS?
It was a rhetorical question, at least for Tom, because while Orion still wasn't of age, it was obvious he wasn't made of the same stone Malfoy had been carved out of; Orion was lesser in every way— less desperate to prove himself, less angry at his family, less resentful of his inevitable pureblooded fate of settling down with a second cousin and having two sons who'd fight over their inheritance.
Tom, staying at Diagon and working at the bookstore below his tiny flat, read through the papers every morning.
Abraxas was starting to look more and more like his father.
When he came back for seventh year, he was taller. Almost even Tom's height, but not quite. That gulf between Tom and Abraxas's social classes seemed even wider — ("Summer's been so much work," Abraxas complained, petulantly, as he dragged his trunk bumpily inside the compartment. Tom had floated his own, he couldn't afford a new one. Then, in a voice that said he wasn't bold enough to sound openly accusing but was accusing nonetheless, Abraxas continued, "Why didn't you write? I didn't have your address.") — the gap was more pronounced, perhaps, but unimportant still. Tom felt settled. He told Abraxas he had better things to do. Abraxas narrowed his eyes and Tom felt himself smile.
Abraxas looked a little startled at that, as if he wasn't sure whether Tom was mocking him or not. It made Tom feel somewhat giddy — there were men whose entire jobs consisted of analysing Abraxas's every move and what it all meant for the Wizarding World, and here Abraxas was, open and uncertain, just asking Tom for — what? Respect? Familiarity?
Affection, maybe, Abraxas was a soft touch.
+
They fuck in Tom's head boy rooms.
Tom dislikes actually sleeping there — it creates a certain distance between him and the others — and distance breeds mutiny. You like the gossip, Malfoy says once, looking so dazed and fucked out that Tom doesn't even reprimand him for it.
Abraxas makes quidditch captain in seventh year. He cheats in all the matches, without fail. Halfway through the season, it's apparent that Slytherin will soon have the cup in their hands.
Tom watches all of this happen — Abraxas's unethical efficiency and wants.
He doesn't have a fraction of Tom's magical power. But he has a name and money to throw around and he uses them tastefully, with a grace that has been learnt and developed. He's got more spite than ambition; he fights like he's got nothing left to lose and everything to gain, always something to gain.
+
Abraxas goes back home a week before Christmas, without even a word to anyone. His trunk is still missing from its place near his bed the day of Christmas Eve.
Tom feels slightly insulted, since Abraxas had insinuated several times in several roundabout ways that they'd be going to Slughorn’s Christmas party together and while Tom had never given an actual response to that, it is irritating to be here alone. Nevertheless, Tom continues his idle chatter with Slughorn and resolves to not even mention Abraxas's absence when he turns up.
There is nothing that drives Abraxas up the wall like going unnoticed.
Eventually, Tom tires of Slughorn's drunken attentions, and excuses himself. He finds the wrapped package he'd kept at the foot of Abraxas's bed, a small one amidst the other bigger ones kept in a pile and keeps it back in his own cupboard.
It had been just in case Abraxas gifted him something overly extravagant on Christmas — probably to make Tom feel inferior when he couldn't afford something equivalent to gift back.
When Tom wakes the next day, the others are all opening their presents, huge stacks of them. Tom has a modest pile at the end of his bed, too, all expensive green wrappings and silver ribbons. Nothing from Abraxas, a quick glance tells him. Rodolphus, Dolohov, Mulciber, Nott, Greengrass. A couple of juniors whose names Tom hasn't bothered to learn.
Tom hasn't given any of these people anything back. He never does. It is how things are between them — Tom has never pretended otherwise.
Abraxas's bed is overflowing with presents. He's still not here.
Tom almost considers writing to him and then wonders if he's gone temporarily insane.
It's almost midnight when the fireplace crackles, and Abraxas steps through. An orphanage makes for a light sleeper; Tom is awake immediately. A part of him wants to —
“Riddle?” Abraxas asks, quietly. He knows Tom is awake; he always does, somehow.
Tom sits up and looks at him for a long moment. He's got shadows under his eyes.
“Malfoy,” he replies, finally, evenly.
“I—” he looks like he's going to say something but then changes his mind at the last minute. Tom resists the urge to skim through his mind — Abraxas isn't very good at defending himself, atleast not against Tom, but he looks at Tom with an annoying expression after, like he feels hurt or something. It’s just him being dramatic, of course, Tom knows it isn't a painful process. “Tom, I.”
Tom just keeps looking at him, eyebrows raised now. Abraxas never calls him Tom.
“You've got a glamour on,” Tom says, eventually. His wand is next to him, but he doesn't pick it up. “I can sense it. All around you.”
Abraxas swallows, tightly, and averts his eyes. He drags his trunk to his bed and shoves the gifts aside, careless.
“I want to sleep,” Abraxas says, quietly, which is as close to begging as he gets. Tom shakes his head and decides to humor him, for once.
“We'll talk tomorrow, then,” Tom says, purposely light. A pause. “Merry Christmas, Malfoy.”
“Merry Christmas, Riddle.”
+
Tom stares at Abraxas. As far as reasons go, this one is —
"Pardon?" he asks, very politely.
Abraxas colors even more.
"I," he repeats, with a rather bold amount of dignity, since he's talking complete rubbish, "am pregnant."
Tom blinks for a long moment.
"You are pregnant," he repeats, blankly. Abraxas nods. "You're—"
"You're a man," Tom manages, finally. "I'm certain."
Abraxas sneers, which is more familiar.
"And pureblooded wizards can get pregnant," he says, impatiently, like that is just a fact everyone knows. Abraxas mumbles something. Then, marginally louder, "In special conditions. Which these, apparently, are."
"That's not possible," Tom says, flatly. "I would know if it were."
Abraxas scowls. "I think I know better than—"
Tom stands up and goes to the library. Abraxas follows, muttering under his breath the entire way. Tom would kill him if he wasn't so preoccupied. He smiles at the librarian and starts looking for keywords.
Abraxas sits on a couch, glaring at the floor.
No wonder he hasn't heard of it before.
Tom's research, after all, has never wandered into the area of the Purest and Oldest Forms of Love Magic. He stares at the paragraph that details how when a pureblooded wizard falls in love, he gains the capability to reproduce. It only works, it says, if the wizard is irrefutably and wholly in love with his partner. He stares at it some more. He looks at Abraxas, who's decidedly avoiding his eyes.
His cheeks are so red, Tom almost feels worried.
"You're pregnant," Tom says, then, a bit louder than he'd wanted to. Abraxas glances around, and glares at a first year who probably hadn't heard but was definitely trying to. He drops his book and flees. Tom repeats, "You're pregnant." And that's when the horrifying implications of that came flooding in, "Is it—?"
"Yes," Abraxas says, with an expression like he's pulling teeth, "It's yours."
Christ, Tom thinks.
"Get rid of it," he says. That was probably not legal, but this was Malfoy. Tom was certain that eighty-five percent of everything Malfoy owned had been acquired through illegal means.
"I can't," Abraxas grits his teeth, "I've been to a healer. He says it's not possible, with my — to—" he takes a deep breath, "I'm having it."
"It—" Tom never stutters. This is all Abraxas's fault. "How can it not be possible?"
Abraxas sneers yet again, more poisonous this time.
"Centuries of inbreeding," Abraxas says, bluntly, "It does not lead to the right kind of constitution, I'm told. The healer went on and on about blood clotting and — whatever. Besides, we've been doing it for over three months, it was always a stretch and I didn't — I didn't know that I needed to check for—" he shakes his head. "This isn't important."
"But," Tom says, lost, "Magic. There has to be — there must be a way to—"
Abraxas fires up again. "I'm not asking you to do anything," he says, lip curling, "I'm having a child, and it's yours, whether you like it or not. But tell me now, how badly you don't want to acknowledge it and I'll drag Rodolphus with me to my parents."
Tom opens and closes his mouth.
Abraxas looks at him and nods, as if to himself. Quieter now, he says, "I don't even know why I told you. What did I expect."
And then he starts to leave.
"No," escapes Tom before he can even think about it. "It's mine.”
He thinks about it in detail that night. Nobody has ever loved Tom before. Irrefutably and wholly in love with his partner. Abraxas is irrefutably and wholly in love with him.
Orion visits his parents for something or the other and comes back looking shifty.
“There's a branch,” he says, nonsensically, to Abraxas.
“I’m aware,” Abraxas replies, calmly.
“Are you,” Orion says, doubtfully. “Does your father know?”
“He’s not actually blind.”
“Right,” Orion says. “Right. So — you and —?”
Tom is not exactly aware of what Orion is referring to but the context couldn't be clearer. He gives Orion a small, complacent smile that seems to unnerve him even more.
"Right, but, um,” Orion clears his throat. “You don't know how to be—" clears it again, and finishes, in a hushed voice, “—parents.”
Tom almost can't believe the nerve. But then again, Abraxas has always been too tolerant of Orion. Abraxas had once apologized on Orion's behalf before Tom could curse him for a slight — a Malfoy apologizing was unheard of — and told Tom, in a confiding tone, that Orion was like a little brother to him. Tom had interpreted that as Abraxas being lonely as a child and latching on to the one living being aside from his elves, who was ready to occasionally play make-believe with him.
Orion was two years younger, it was almost pitiful.
"We can't possibly be worse than ours," Abraxas says now, in a reasonable tone. “And we turned out just fine."
Orion does not quite seem to agree with that last statement, but Tom shifts his wand slightly, and he forces a nervous laugh and moves along.
+
A week later, they're having their usual back-and-forth, when Tom says something slightly too sharp, something about how the baby was ultimately Abraxas's fault since he was the one responsible for the exact set of requirements that had gotten him pregnant; it wasn't like Tom was in love with Abraxas — and Abraxas quite literally bursts.
"You think I want this?" Abraxas asks, nearly shouting now. "You think I ever wanted to tell my parents I let a mudblood fuck me?!”
Tom looks up from his books. Abraxas is panting like he's been running. They lock gazes. Abraxas's eyes widen, as if he's just realised what he's said.
The last time someone had called Tom a mudblood, he'd put a blood boiling curse on them so potent that they'd nearly been cooked alive before Tom had taken it off. Abraxas had watched the whole thing, looking slightly green, and then shied away from Tom in bed the entire week.
"I," Abraxas shakes his head, getting a bit frantic now, "I'm sorry. I didn't — sorry — don't—"
He has a hand on his stomach, eyes pulling to Tom's — wand. Ah, Tom thinks, glancing down, he hadn't even realised he was holding it. He puts it inside his pocket. Abraxas looks shocked.
And then he starts crying.
Tom stares, disbelieving. He has excellent impulse control — aside from a few understandable instances — he would never curse Abraxas. How does Abraxas not know that? And more importantly, if he doesn't know that, then why isn't he less infuriating?
Is this his — Heaven forbid — best behaviour?
Tom’s never seen Abraxas crying before.
"Malfoy," Tom tries, thinking if it would be kinder to leave him be. “Abraxas. Why are you—?"
"I don't know," Abraxas says, or hiccups, really, face screwed up. "I don't know anything. I want to go home. I want Mother."
He sobs louder. He is still shockingly beautiful, Tom observes.
Another week and atleast three more outbursts like that later, Abraxas goes on an extended leave from school.
Just as well. Tom is tired of casting the series of glamours Abraxas needs to hide the growing bump, since he himself is completely useless at it. It had been his mother who'd done it earlier — perhaps she can do something about his ridiculous cravings as well. Tom knows it's normal, he's read several books about it. But he doesn't quite understand why it's a persisting symptom, since everything else is different in the magical world: Abraxas can control morning sickness with a simple spell, drink a potion for relief if his back hurts too much. Above all: Abraxas is a man. There's hardly any information for that particular condition.
Anyway, he's been a pain, so all in all, Tom is glad he is gone.
Two days later, Tom gets an owl.
It's a boy, the parchment says, in a flowing script. The envelope is blue and thick and fancy, it probably cost more than Tom's shoes.
It's a boy, Tom thinks, then. He imagines that. He would be blond, probably. All Malfoys seem to be blond. Tom wouldn't abandon him, he thinks. The boy will have Malfoy, of course, who seems determined to give everything of his to raising the child, but. Tom's son. His son. The whole thing was ridiculous: an honest-to-God Tom Riddle Jr. Jr.
Absolutely disgusting.
Abraxas gets bored at home a lot. He visits without any particular routine, and they sit by the fireplace in the common room.
"A part of me truly wants to have him, too," Abraxas is saying, hand on his belly, glamoured again, "I want to see what we can do together."
"It's apparent that we've already done plenty together," Tom says, dryly, not looking up from his essay.
"I mean," Abraxas leans back, slumping down on the rest, "I want to know what our son will be like. The father's genes are dominant in my line, so he'll probably be a mini-you. Can you imagine that? And he'll have your magic and your power and my money and connections, he'll be so — he would have the world in his hands."
It's like a fever dream, Tom thinks.
He killed his father the summer before and now he's a father.
"And he'll grow up at the manor," Abraxas goes on, easily ignoring the fact that his parents haven't even tried to contact Tom yet, making their stance on the whole thing plenty clear, "And he'll learn to ride a broomstick or — you can teach him to fly and we'll teach him magic and we'll — he'll—" he stops. "Have you thought of names?"
Funny, Tom thinks. He's always thinking of names.
"My mother wants me to name him Lucius," Abraxas ventures.
Tom pulls a face.
“If you must,” he says.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
ii. the lot of them
It's not like Abraxas needs money.
Or anything really. As far as unplanned pregnancies went, his child was one lucky bastard — he was going to be born into one of the richest wizarding families in the world, his grandparents were reluctant but vaguely understanding meaning they would warm up to him, silver spoon, silver platter, all those phrases Tom's peppered around him, he would be —
“Do you know what this is?”
Tom is holding a piece of paper in his hands, eyes cool. Abraxas dusts soot off himself as he walks from the fireplace to a couch, not bothering to make a swipe for the paper.
“It's a letter,” Tom answers his own question, when Abraxas fails to. “Addressed to you. By one Camille—”
Abraxas makes a frustrated noise and Tom falls silent, one eyebrow arched.
“Mother's been trying to—” he sighs. “Camille’s just a family friend, she—”
“Really wants to marry you,” Tom finishes, and Abraxas blinks, realising he looks amused. Right. It's not like Tom is in love with — right. “Through no fault of yours, so don't give yourself too much credit, she just seems to hate her life — although she does think your hair is very pullable —”
“Tom!”
“And she's included important documents, too, here, you want her final report card from Beauxbatons or her fertility report, though why on Earth she would think that this situation can be fixed with more children is beyond me—”
“Merlin, really?” Abraxas grabs for the letter now, and Tom merely laughs before letting him take it. “I need to talk to Mother.”
Tom doesn't say anything for a moment; he's looking at the fireplace, impassive.
“Does your mother even know about me?” he asks, characteristically blunt.
“There is a tapestry,” Abraxas says, by way of explanation. “All pureblood families have a version of it in their manors.” A pause. “Our names are linked together, now. It's how I got to know. Mother summoned me home when she saw it.”
Abraxas could see it as if it was seared into his memory, the little golden link between their names. TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE. A name that had already been on the tapestry, just floating far away enough from Abraxas's own that he'd never noticed. His father had been purple with rage. Tom Marvolo Riddle — the branch spouted from two other names: Merope Gaunt, 1907-1926, who you could trace all the way back to Salazar himself, and a lone, unconnected circle, with a face so similar to Tom's you could barely tell them apart: Thomas Riddle. 1905-1943.
Abraxas hadn't known.
He can connect the dots now, of course, the parseltongue, the heavy ring Tom had started wearing the summer of sixth year. Thomas Riddle had died in 1943. Tom had come back a little different that term; harsher somewhat. Abraxas hadn't noticed right then — but Tom had pushed him into an alcove, snarling, and Abraxas, terrified, had kissed him and, well. Tom hadn't ever looked that surprised before. He's going to actually kill me, Abraxas had thought, shaking, and then Tom had kissed him back.
And now there was a little blank bubble under their names.
He's the one you lost the Head Boy badge to, isn't he, his mother had said, sounding resigned, as Abraxas stammered through some semblance of an explanation.
“We're some kind of cousins, you know,” Abraxas says, now, “Ten times removed or something like that.”
Tom shakes his head, idle.
“If you disappear after you have him,” he says, voice even, “I will find you.”
Abraxas unsticks his throat. Tom still surprises him sometimes. He's not even sure if this is a promise or a threat.
“I won't,” Abraxas says.
His father has no real power over him, not anymore; Abraxas has more than proved himself.
“You can marry her,” Tom continues, as if giving Abraxas his permission. “Or whoever. But he will be my son.”
“Ours,” is all Abraxas can say to that.
Tom shrugs. Right.
“My father wants to get him a place at Durmstrang,” he says. Tom frowns a little. “I told him he'll be going to Hogwarts. He's going to be a Slytherin.”
The Hat had touched neither Abraxas's nor Tom's heads before announcing Slytherin.
“Mother's looking into nannies. And tutors,” Abraxas continues, when Tom doesn't say anything. “Oh, and I've tried explaining that there are charms for things like that now, but Mother says there's always a difference — anyway, do you want to meet the nursemaids she's selected?”
“No,” Tom says.
Right.
+
Sometimes, Abraxas thinks that Tom does love him. Or rather — sometimes — he fools himself into believing that Tom is capable of something like that.
The fifth year Slytherin in the Hospital Wing has Tom written all over him.
The kid says he's lost his memory of whatever happened to him but he's a terrible liar. Abraxas doesn't push though, Rosier looks frightened enough as is. His hands twitch even as he sleeps. He'll recover — but it'll take time.
He was supposed to be Abraxas's replacement on the quidditch team. Abraxas's known him since he was very young — Rosier’s an idiot sometimes, but a decent player.
Surely Tom wouldn't — out of some misplaced sense of blame —?
“Rosier’s a good kid,” Abraxas tries. Tom doesn't even have the grace to look bothered by that. He just raises an eyebrow, as if saying, get to the point. “I just don't understand why—”
He cuts himself off. He finds conversations like these with Tom still somewhat unnerving. Tom might — take it the wrong way or —
Tom doesn't outright deny it, atleast.
“I don't answer to you,” he says, simply. It's a warning. Abraxas lets it go.
He meets Orion before he leaves, who has his arm in a sling. When Abraxas asks him what happened, Orion glances around a little and says Tom told me not to tell you.
No. No, no, no. Please, no. Abraxas had thought he'd had an understanding with Tom about this — he'd thought Tom respected this one request.
“He did this to you,” Abraxas says, swallowing.
His mind is whirling. It's just a broken arm — it would probably heal in a day or two, but it isn't about how much the damage was, it was — this was important to Abraxas and Tom knew that, how could he —
Was this some sort of twisted power move?
Like an I do what I want, you're nothing to me — a lesson, something to teach Abraxas his place, something like —
“No, no!” Orion says, in a very loud whisper. Abraxas blinks. “I — um. Rosier found out about your — you know. Why you're actually off the team now.” He looks very pointedly at Abraxas's stomach, as if he would have trouble understanding otherwise. “And he said he's gonna go to the Prophet and I told him that I'll tell you and he — well, he caught me off-guard or he'd never have been able to curse me! — but he put me in a body-bind and he kicked my wand away and we were in that corridor that goes to Potions — and Tom saw us.”
“Ah,” Abraxas says, at a loss.
“He took me to the Hospital Wing and then he told me he's gonna find Rosier,” Orion says. “And um, he told me not to tell you.” He looks slightly sheepish now. “Don't tell him you know, please.”
“Okay,” Abraxas says.
+
“I want to marry him,” Abraxas says, at supper. It's a realisation more than a declaration.
There's a long, uncomfortable silence.
His mother gets up and leaves.
“When,” his father asks, finally, teeth grit.
“Whenever you want,” Abraxas says, a little faintly.
Tom would obviously refuse.
Abraxas doesn't quite understand why he said it. He hasn't even thought about it himself — he has definitely not talked to Tom about it.
Tom doesn't even like him all that much, Abraxas thinks, slightly hysterical.
“Before you have the child, then,” his father says.
This leaves a window of about two months.
Abraxas excuses himself.
Amortentia? But Tom would kill him and the baby for that. He could beg. Tom likes him on his knees. But Tom also has plans for himself, ones he's fought for his whole life.
It's not that Abraxas needs anything.
It's just that —
+
“I need a favour,” is what Abraxas decides to call it. Tom looks supremely disinterested. “Please.”
Tom raises an eyebrow.
“I—” Abraxas swallows. He feels somewhat sick. “Will you marry me?”
You're terrified of him. Do you want to be terrified your whole life.
Tom rolls his eyes.
Abraxas gets on his knees. He's trembling, he hopes Tom can't see it. He'd like some dignity when Tom says no.
Tom looks like he's on the verge of laughing.
“Tom,” Abraxas says, his hands balanced on either side of Tom's thighs. “I need this.”
At this distance, he can see Tom's eyes darken, his amusement fade away.
“Is it your parents?” Tom asks, quietly.
He's usually dismissive of it all — Abraxas can't explain to him the structure of his family, the expectation of complete obedience, without the threat of pain. Of duty. Tom finds it stupid, illogical. But he knows how Abraxas is.
“No,” Abraxas admits. “I — I want to.” He takes a breath. “Will you marry me?”
Tom, gentler than he ever is, makes Abraxas get up, sit down on the couch next to him.
“If I must,” Tom says, and his expression gives nothing away.
Perhaps Tom thinks that to be properly involved in his son's life, he has to marry Abraxas. Abraxas doesn't correct him — Tom doesn't need to know that no matter what he decides, Abraxas would take anything Tom chooses to give him, however little.
He goes back home, and pens a letter to Nicolas Flamel.
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
iii. i’ve always been able to charm the people I needed
Tom's run the ring through every test he can think of. There's no other conclusion. Abraxas — somehow — got his hands on what Tom is certain is a very small chip off the Philosopher's Stone. Ruby-red and surrounded by tiny diamonds: it's set between thin, curling snakes. Silver. Tom could take the stone out, use it —
But it would break the ring.
Abraxas had sent it by owl. Tom is glad. He doesn't know what expression is on his face at the moment, he can't seem to control it. Tom hadn't realised how transparent he'd been about his fear — or perhaps, Abraxas had just paid close enough attention.
Tom slips the ring onto his finger.
He had talked to the Grey Lady a few weeks back, he'd met with Burke last summer. He'd thought of —
Quietly, he extinguishes that dream. If I must, Tom had said. There would be time, later, always.
+
“Riddle?”
Abraxas is an outline in the dark.
Tom gets up, makes his wand light up. Abraxas's eyes are wet. Lord, not again. Tom must make an exasperated sound, because Abraxas recoils into himself a little, mumbling an apology.
“Come on,” Tom says, sighing as he wraps an arm around Abraxas's shoulders, and leads him out of the dormitory. They go to Tom's personal rooms, Abraxas sits on the very edge of the bed, as if he's a guest who's never been here. “Do you want—”
Tom is going to ask about hot chocolate, because Abraxas has informed him that his mother used to make it for him when he was a child and he finds it very comforting. The elves would fetch it in a minute. But before he can do that, Abraxas is grabbing at his neck, his collar, kissing him so hard that Tom's unable to breathe for a moment.
Tom does not appreciate being taken off-guard like that, nor does he appreciate —
This close, the glamours don't work. He can feel —
Tom lets Abraxas do whatever it is he's doing, sloppy and rushed, lets himself be pushed onto the bed, uncomplaining, pliant like he never is. Removes his night shirt. Abraxas presses kisses onto his neck, trailing down his chest. Bites at his shoulder. Tom doesn't react beyond a hand in Abraxas's hair, loose, lenient. Lets him. Keeps himself passive, he wants Abraxas to see — to see —
Tom is not quite sure what. He feels like a child, trying to lure a frightened animal — trying to show that he's harmless, that he's —
Abraxas doesn't actually want to have sex — he hasn't in months, really. After a while, he seems to tire himself out. They lie there, quietly, Abraxas in Tom's arms. See, I can hold you. I won't choke you. Look. You can fall asleep like this.
Abraxas does, in a bit. Tom lies awake, shoulder throbbing. Abraxas had bitten a bit too deep — there's a spot of blood on the pillow.
Tom will heal it in the morning; if he moves, Abraxas might wake up.
