A/N: Yay chapter two! Features a quote from the bible, and said quote being twisted and perverted by a young Tom Riddle. Cannibalism! Warning! Also death of minor characters, violent death, touching and mutilating dead bodies (we're not at necrophilia yet, though, so don't worry).

*Assumption: Abraxas Malfoy is in the same year as Tom Riddle.

*Age: they are both 16.



And when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.

1 Corinthians 11:24



It is a most unusual custom for the Wizarding kind – cannibalism, as an act of humans devouring other humans, is not something practised by wizards in general. They have wands; they have magic; food is plentiful, for although they cannot create food, they can help harvests greatly with spells. And thus he thinks – it is a most unusual custom, and I am a most unusual wizard.

The first raid of the Death Eaters is not, in fact, the first time that he has urged his followers to consume human flesh, though that instance is however the most famous and revered. No, he has been doing it for years, beginning with the young pair of twins back in the hated orphanage: three years younger than himself, frail and pretty with their trailing blonde hair and colourless eyes.

Curiosity, for once, is the driving force behind his actions, instead of the bright, brilliant anger that most certainly is addictive. Curiosity; a morbid fascination with their pale pink lips; he watches them each day as they chew, swallow, eat.

They had been six, and him nine, when he first thinks of them as separate beings. Of course, surely, they are two; yet to his young mind, they are so alike that they cannot be anything but one in the same. It is on his ninth birthday that the thought occurs; it is on his ninth birthday that he leads the little girl far away from her sleeping brother and kills her by repeatedly bashing her head upon the stone-paved ground.

Messy – needlessly messy, for by then he has learned to kill without leaving traces – but he needs it, needs the relief, the hypnotizing red, the warmth, the cold, the emotion. He gasps; his breathing disjointed and as messy as the tiny corpse underneath him, his smooth fingers frozen into stillness on the girl's shoulders. He shakes; his body trembling with the energy that this unholy act takes out of him, both physical and mental.

She is dead; the deed is done. His peace of mind is restored (and perversely, he remembers the older boys who bully the twins, and cannot help but feel a little proud of what he has done: he has freed her, freed her from her mortal body and from the torment of the bullies – he is proud, so proud; and he is aware that this pride is perverse).

But she is dead, so that is that.

He pulls the corpse behind him on the way back to the orphanage, stopping when he reaches the church in front of the orphanage, being careful to avoid the wary villagers by keeping to the dirty alleys behind the actual streets. There he steals the local butcher's knife, and tries his hand at butchering for the first time.

He manages – not very well, but he manages – and the corpse is soon turned into mush and blood, the majority of which drains away into the corners where it would soon be no more distinguishable than one stone from another. He removes an eyeball, frowning in distaste as the wet appendage bends and yields to the shape of his fingers – it is so flimsy and soft, so vulnerable (a delicacy, he thinks, he shall persuade others to eat them by telling them that it is a rare delicacy! – but it is true, is it not? – there are only two per person).

He removes it and stores it away in his pocket, walking away without any indication that he has just killed an innocent – there are no innocents, none! men are born wicked – and his face even bears a gentle smile.

He is nine when the thought occurs to him that twins are separate beings, and he is nine when he wonders what it would be like for one half to consume the other half. Undoubtedly, they are separate; yet it is equally indisputable that they are halves, incomplete and flawed without the other. If one half is killed, yet absorbed by the other half – complete? incomplete? – would it still be a half or one whole?

His musing turns into actions – and those actions are of the deepest sin, highly condemned, the sort of foul evil that no child should ever commit – yet he does, with the same gentle smile on his pale, skinny face. He offers the twin the eye, saying thus: "Isabelle has gone on; take this and eat; she wishes for you to do this, so as to remember her."

He is more than aware that those immoral words echo the holy Bible. That is what colours his smile – the blasphemous words, dear God, desecration of the Bible, the rejection of salvation!

When the twin starts crying, he does not back down or comfort him – his hand stays in that position, holding the round and partially shrivelled eyeball loosely between his fingers, like a mockery of a peace offering – (and in what way is it not a peace offering? This is the last of his sister, a most sacred object, a most potent message: I am dead, and you can join me, if you so wish).


The act of crying requires tears, tears that the young twin has in abundance, tears that he watches with greedy, unblinking brown eyes, analysing the way that the salt water falls and the way that the twin wipes at them. Fascinating – fascinating! He is almost breathless with fascination.

Still his hand stays, unmoving and insistent, holding out the eye – the twin accepts it in due time, shivering and sniffling. Those small fingers shake as they close around the eye, but they successfully bring it back to the twin, who examines it with wide, shocked eyes.

"It's suppertime," he reminds the twin quietly. Then he turns and strides away, walking smoothly into the shadows cast by the lamps. The twin is left alone in the hallway.

He would know when the flesh has been eaten – of course he would know! He is, after all, the only one watching for the tell-tale signs of suppressed distress, the delicious whispers of pain as the twin consumes his own sister (his words have been spun with allure, convincing and persuasive and impossible to resist) – and he laughs! Oh, he laughs, with disdain, looking down upon the rest of the dirty, filthy world –

– he is dirty and filthy himself; he has been dirtied, he has been covered with mundane human filth –

– but he has risen above them all! Lower creatures, they are, feeding on each other like mindless animals! He is better than that, he must be!

He laughs. The twin chews, swallows, eats, hurts.

He laughs.

That is the first, but it is not the last.

The second time is with Abraxas, dear Abraxas who with his ethereal gold-blonde hair reminds him so much of the pitiful pair of twins. He is Pureblood – pure blooded, pure! And he – the orphan is once again useless, powerless, tainted, dirty and filthy! He cannot stand it; he will not, should not!

Inferior? Half-blood he may be, but inferior he is not! No, it is not he who is inferior; it is Abraxas, with his empty head full of pointless Malfoy pride; it is Abraxas, who deserves to be mocked and debased; it is Abraxas, who should serve him instead! Inferior? Hah!

A deep, dark magic, he whispers to dear Abraxas who shares his bed at times. Do you not know? An ancient ritual... And he smiles, his dark, knowing eyes beckoning at the lovestruck fool who pretends not be lovestruck – such a weak illusion! It comes undone each night when he groans and begs! – and the lovestruck fool follows him with nary a protest...

Come, follow, I shall show you...

Abraxas Malfoy follows obediently, pressing his lithe body close to his Lord's, blinking his large, curious eyes as his lord leads him along corridors and down flights of stairs – his Lord smirks, and turns it into a falsely innocent smile – we are nearly there, Abraxas, he whispers, his voice trembling with excitement (though not of the variety that Abraxas thinks it to be).

Open, he hisses, slyly watching Abraxas' eyes glaze over with desire at the Parseltongue; the language of snakes is naturally sensual, naturally addictive and especially desirable to Slytherins. Come, Abraxas, he repeats, and the pretty blonde doll trials after him, one hand brushing against his robes like an insecure child seeking comfort from a parent – and how wrong it was, to have a sexual relationship with one's father figure; and all the more he laughs, he laughs at how immoral, how depraved, how damned everything is – Abraxassssss, he says in Parseltongue, just to see how his favourite blonde struggles against his arousal.

Oh, he laughs, he laughs all the time at those pitiful fools who fancy themselves above others – he would know, he thinks, the view is clearest from the very bottom of the pyramid and he has been at the bottom before – he is still at the bottom.

His smile slides off his face as easily as it appears. "Come, Abraxas," he says brusquely, no longer in the mood for subtle teasing and seduction. His blonde tenses, glancing around for the source of his displeasure, but there is nothing to be seen; his displeasure lies with himself and his own traitorous thoughts.

They walk down into the tunnels, and Abraxas removes his hand from his robes, suddenly shivering in the oddly cold air. "My Lord?" he chances, grey eyes locked onto his Lord's wand hand.

"You will see, Abraxas, now keep silent," comes the curt answer. Open, he hisses again, scowling at the inanimate serpent. He strides into the main chamber, stopping in front of a still, unmoving body. It is a male, slim, with light brown hair. Abraxas does not understand; his heartbeat is abnormally loud, abnormally painful – he is nervous!

"A severing hex, Abraxas. At his right hand. The thumb." Cold and clinical, his voice makes Abaraxas nervous – is the boy dead, or is he not? Dead? Alive? No matter; he points his wand at the body, murmurs a diffindo, and looks up at his Lord again.

"Very good," he says to Abraxas absentmindedly, slender fingers twirling a long silver knife – where had that comes from? Abraxas tries not to panic; panic is akin to suicide sometimes, when the Lord is in one of his moods, and Malfoys do not commit suicide –

"Hm," his Lord says – and Abraxas notes that his fingers have stilled, holding the knife in a position suited to stabbing – and he stabs the body.

Abraxas feels the sympathetic impact deep in his stomach, staring at the blood flowing from the body (dead? alive?), but his Lord does not. His Lord blinks sedately, leisurely, observing the dark red blood – dead or alive? – and speaks to him again.

"Abraxas," and this time his voice is deep and smooth, soothed by the blood, "Come here, my Abraxas; look."

Entranced once more by words, he takes one step forward, then two, then three, until he is leaning over the body – corpse, by now, surely – his long blonde hair stained red at the ends. His Lord places a hand on his back, presses his body to his, tilts his head and whispers in his ear, "Incendio."

"Incendio," he echoes, the word taking on a sensual edge between the silence of the huge chamber and his Lord's warm body.

"Diffindo." It is almost a hiss, this time, bordering on Parseltongue.

He swallows. "Diffindo," his hand guided by his Lord, "diffindo, diffindo."

"Now eat, and drink..." this is my body, which is given for you, do this in remembrance of me, his Lord's lips move, mouthing the familiar prayers from years ago. Then he sneers; Gods are for foolish men, lesser mortals, Lord Voldemort has no need for Gods.

His gaze returns to the enthralled Malfoy, mockery hidden within the dark brown irises. "Take this and eat, Abraxas Malfoy," his words twisted and corrupted, and his Malfoy's pulse comes fast and erratically, those grey pupils diluting and contracting unpredictably – beautiful, so beautiful – "Your Lord commands you."

He leans over his Malfoy – one hand guiding the wand and the other around the blonde's slim waist – forcing the blonde's body to bend along with his own, and reaches down to grasp the severed thumb. Dipping it into the pool of still-warm body, he straightens and offers it to his loyal follower, a benign smile hovering on his face.

"This is forgiveness, a second chance, a new beginning," he intones solemnly, drawing a thin line with bloody on Abraxas' right cheek, "Open yourself to your Lord and accept this offering." The thumb finds its way to half-parted lips, and as a tongue darts out to wet them, he pushes it in past the teeth – forceful yet gentle, understated power evident in the simple action.

And as he has vowed, so he follows; Abraxas Malfoy obeys, biting down and looking into his Lord's amused eyes with a rare vacantness.

"Mine," Lord Voldemort hisses cruelly, "every bit of you belongs to me – your body, soul, devotion."

Yes, Abraxas tries to say, but it slips away soundlessly as he chews, swallows, eats, hurts. The flesh is difficult to cut, and he almost asks for a knife – a silver Malfoy knife, he thinks, family heirlooms from generations ago – but one look at his Master silences him. He is not allowed. So he nods, eyes half-lidded, and succumbs to his Master's wishes.

"You will serve me, and you will never betray me..."

My Lord, I would never, he tries to say again, but his Lord and Master only jams the thumb further down his throat. He chokes, splutters, the raw and sensitive lining irritated by the rough skin, and for a moment he ceases to think, ceases to breathe, ceases...

"Perhaps something of a higher quality," he hears, the words soft and intimate, and that is all the warning he has before there is a sharp, slicing pain on his left inner thigh – when had he shed his robe? When had his Lord begun touching him? His fingers – he cannot feel those comforting fingers – he cannot feel his Lord, he does not know where his Lord is – Master, he tries to beg, but all that he hears is a strangled whisper –

"Shhh, Abraxas, calm."

And he does, in-out-in-out air, his Master's hand familiar and welcome on his bare back.

"Shhh, Abraxas," he hears, and there is something being pushed against his lips, more gently than before; something soft and pliable and warm.

"Abraxasssss..." the sibilant hiss leaves him trembling with desire – or was it fear? – and he opens his mouth to take it in, whatever it is; he does not mind, so long as his Master is happy.

"Yesss, Abraxasss, I am pleased with your devotion..." Had he spoken aloud to his Master? It matters not.

"Yesss, Abaraxasss..."

"... Abraxassss..."

It is dark, but it should not be, for was the chamber not filled with candles...?



A/N: Here we see that Tom Riddle finally starts identifying himself as Voldemort. Also there are three POV switches in this chapter, bonus points if you can find them!