InsaneJournal

Current location:	Bunkertor 23, hey, I live here
Current mood:	accomplished
Current music:	Nine Inch Nails - Heresy
Entry tags:	chan, fanfic, slash, tom/abraxas

FICLET: Abattoir of Love
TITLE Abattoir of Love
AUTHOR: ms_anthropy (okay, actually I used a Pensieve...)
PAIRING: Tom Riddle/Abraxas Malfoy
SUMMARY: There is something behind Albus Dumbledore's obsession about love...
WORD COUNT: 700
WARNINGS: R: for not so explicit chanslash, bloodsports and attempted abuse
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling and various big companies own the Potterverse and the characters. ("Crucio!" - Lord Voldemort) I don't. Also, they are making the profit and I am not. Don't sue me, Mary Sue me instead

Abattoir of Love

"There lies hunger in thy house
Spiritual thirst in the world
The magician gathers his own"
Enochian Crescent - Ye Crystall Sphears

The cold comfort in labyrinthine Slytherin dungeons, the secret passageways, hidden rooms and patterns bordering on non-euclidean, only understood by those who are blessed with minds twisted like snakes coiled around the World-Tree. Slytherins. The dungeon seems to grow like the Devil's Snare, constantly testing the members of Salazar Slytherin's house.

As they are those who see through the blank face of Light and the blind lies within it. Those who see beyond the Darkness, the release, the flame of Avada Kedavra, the whirling spiral of black and green towards the Eternal Void. Those who understand that it is all in-between, no opposites but circles and cycles. Ouroboros. Endless layers of deceit, the lies that are true and the truths that are lies.

In one of the secret rooms, lit with black candles floating in the five corners of the dark green marble walls covered with silver images of serpents, entwined together like the unity of Slytherins against the rest of the world, the world that does not understand. Not that the house of the snakes wants to be understood as hiding behind the veil of mystery and the endless maze of unknown Dark Arts is one of the reasons the Slytherin are made of survival.

On a black velvet carpet two pale bodies lie like the snakes, entwined in lust, the contrast of bleeding scratches, dreamlike patterns of red purity running down Abraxas Malfoy's skin, Tom Riddle licking his blood with a hunger that can never be satisfied. The contrast of long hair like flowing white gold and black hair of deepest darkness in physical form, piercing green eyes meet ones with endless shades of grey and there is no heat in their passion but a beauty so cold like the space between stars, so sharp like a brief flash of moonlight on a blade of a silver sacrificial dagger.

"Say my name, in the way only you can."
"Abraxasss..."

There is no love between them but a bond of differences. Differences so similar when seen through a twisted mirror. The blond Pureblood craves the hisses of Parseltongue and the very embodiment the virtues of Salazar Slytherin, touch of the Heir of Slytherin. Abraxas Malfoy yearns for the gift he was never granted. The black-haired Half-blood craves the stainless blood, never touched by Mudblood filth, the unbroken line of Malfoys, the brightest darkness. Tom Riddle yearns for the gift he was never granted.


"Lo and behold; this is no mystery
when I say that they in turn
become the dead themselves
even before they die."
Death in June - Lifebooks


"As you are such a gifted student, I think you would profit from extra tutoring in Transfigurations. The choice is of course yours, but I suggest you think about it."

With a wordless nod, Tom agrees. Knowledge is invaluable, even if it comes with the extra burden of Albus Dumbledore's presence. The distrust is mutual and maybe the hatred too.

Like in an other world, a room painted with red and gold. Warmth. The nauseating heat of open emotions. Open? Never. Never. Bravery and honesty? Never. Never. The so-called virtues of Gryffindors? The self-deceit and hypocrisy. Albus Dumbledore's hand placed on Tom's thigh, crawling on his black robe like an overgrown insect, like a carrion beast. The older man's filthy whisper.

"Don't you want to be loved?"

The feeling like warm, cooked Flobberworms still living, squirming on the Slytherin boy's skin. Nausea. Disgust. Bile rising in Tom's throat as his face contorts with abhor.

"Amma Ca Adrpan Babalond Monons Micma!"

Backfire. Guided by his instincts and the Dark Arts that run in his blood, Tom Riddle sends back Dumbledore's sick lust like a charred corpse, his love like a wound slowly rotting in the heat of summer crawling with maggots gouging their ways deeper into unwilling flesh.

All this rot piercing through the Gryffindor's very being in one wild swirl of pure black, shades of deepest darkness. The older man backs down, afraid, and Tom Riddle gives him a last gaze of ultimate loathing. The Heir of Slytherin storms out the room, untainted. Not stained with love.


ENDNOTES: Dedicated to Lord Voldemort himself because, as we know, the Dark Lord is a very remarkable Legilimens and I had a dream about young Tom Riddle and ...this idea came about quite soon after that. Sincere thanks for luciusmistress for betaing -and for being the lovely sick fuck she is;)- Also thanks to the brilliant band Sol Invictus, the title is a slight modification of one of their songs and to the equally brilliant bands Enochian Crescent and Death in June for the lyrics. I hope that I didn't give an impression of redeemed!Voldemort, it is just that I was in serious need of some Dumbledore bashing. The Dark Arts curse is by the way very garbled Enochian. If you want to know more, just ask the Dark Lord. Oh, and any kind of feedback is kindly asked for.