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letterbladeBy Popular Demand And Vast Anticipation--
*crickets chirp*
--comes the next dribble of Tom/Lucius ficness. Still setup, I know. Not even any kinky snake flashbacks this time. But next installment will contain much that I am proud of.
Took me longer than I thought due to the urge to write Lucius-wibbling but not the immediate capacity to write Lucius-wibbling. I tried later, and was at least happy enough to post it in the first-draft LJ-posting rush.
Warning: part of a fic that contains kinky gay sex between twisted evil people. Bwehehehe.
God, this music has fucking gorgeous bagpipes.
After supper and Narcissa's retreat to her quarters, Lucius settled himself back in his terrifyingly clean study, laid the diary on the desk before him, and examined it carefully. A few simple detecting charms had revealed a massive thrum of magic sealed in the pages, unusually cohesive, almost like the power of a living being, but half an hour of spells and minute studying of the thing had not revealed how to unlock it.
Finally, he opened it to the first page, reached for a quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote the incantation of a revealing charm on the blank paper. For a moment nothing happened; his hand trembled; he feared he might have damaged the thing irrevocably even though he knew perfectly well a simple erasing charm could remove the ink.
Then the words vanished, flowing into the white paper, absorbed into the page.
Then new words appeared, in handwriting that was not his own--in handwriting that matched the name inscribed on the flyleaf.
"You can write in English, you know. That's all it will take."
The words hovered on the page, stark and black and very real, and then faded back away. Lucius stared, bit his lip, then wrote back in a hurry.
"Are you Tom Riddle?"
"Yes. Do you know me?"
"I am Lucius Malfoy."
"You were in my second year when I graduated? The Malfoy heir?"
"Yes." Lucius paused, then wrote again. "Are you Lord Voldemort?"
A moment of stillness after the words were absorbed, the blank page hanging like an expectant lull in conversation.
"How did you know?"
Lucius' eyes widened.
"Because of what you did after you graduated."
"I see. I am, you must understand, my sixteen-year-old self. I know nothing of what came after I made this diary. So you are a follower of mine? Explain. Tell me everything."
And, writing and answering long into the night, Lucius did.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Meet me? But you could, Lucius. You could meet me. Good night."
Tom Riddle's parting words burned in Lucius' mind even as he hid the diary carefully in the drawer of his nightstand, stripped and changed to a black cotton sleeping robe, and extinguished the candles. But it was a long time before he slept.
For seven years he'd been in limbo, living in anticipation--half terrified and half elated--of when Voldemort might return. For seven years he'd covered his tracks and begged the Ministry off his back with massive donations to charity, telling himself that it wasn't cowardice, that it wasn't disobedience, but simple pragmatism--what good would it be if all the Death Eaters went to Azkaban? For seven years he'd eyed the faded Mark on his arm, its very presence reminding him day in and day out that his Master was not dead, merely lost and powerless. He'd flirted with reformation, he'd flirted with loyalty, he'd flirted with independence, and only achieved inaction.
And now a little book had changed everything.
That diary could do so much, he knew. With the proper exchange of power, it could control another mind--a weak mind, perhaps, that of a child or one untrained in magic, but there was still much potential. And it could siphon power--power enough to turn Tom Riddle from a soul embodied only in ink and paper to a soul with a body, a solid form of pure energy. Perhaps even--with blood sacrifice--give him a body.
This book could restore the Dark Lord. Not the Dark Lord Lucius had known, but one sprung from Voldemort's own past, drawn fifty years into the future to gather his faithful and bargain with Death once more. The reign of glory could resume.
And it gave Lucius Malfoy no more surety than he'd had before his wife had tossed a book at his head.
*crickets chirp*
--comes the next dribble of Tom/Lucius ficness. Still setup, I know. Not even any kinky snake flashbacks this time. But next installment will contain much that I am proud of.
Took me longer than I thought due to the urge to write Lucius-wibbling but not the immediate capacity to write Lucius-wibbling. I tried later, and was at least happy enough to post it in the first-draft LJ-posting rush.
Warning: part of a fic that contains kinky gay sex between twisted evil people. Bwehehehe.
God, this music has fucking gorgeous bagpipes.
Within These Pages... (2)
After supper and Narcissa's retreat to her quarters, Lucius settled himself back in his terrifyingly clean study, laid the diary on the desk before him, and examined it carefully. A few simple detecting charms had revealed a massive thrum of magic sealed in the pages, unusually cohesive, almost like the power of a living being, but half an hour of spells and minute studying of the thing had not revealed how to unlock it.
Finally, he opened it to the first page, reached for a quill, dipped it in ink, and wrote the incantation of a revealing charm on the blank paper. For a moment nothing happened; his hand trembled; he feared he might have damaged the thing irrevocably even though he knew perfectly well a simple erasing charm could remove the ink.
Then the words vanished, flowing into the white paper, absorbed into the page.
Then new words appeared, in handwriting that was not his own--in handwriting that matched the name inscribed on the flyleaf.
"You can write in English, you know. That's all it will take."
The words hovered on the page, stark and black and very real, and then faded back away. Lucius stared, bit his lip, then wrote back in a hurry.
"Are you Tom Riddle?"
"Yes. Do you know me?"
"I am Lucius Malfoy."
"You were in my second year when I graduated? The Malfoy heir?"
"Yes." Lucius paused, then wrote again. "Are you Lord Voldemort?"
A moment of stillness after the words were absorbed, the blank page hanging like an expectant lull in conversation.
"How did you know?"
Lucius' eyes widened.
"Because of what you did after you graduated."
"I see. I am, you must understand, my sixteen-year-old self. I know nothing of what came after I made this diary. So you are a follower of mine? Explain. Tell me everything."
And, writing and answering long into the night, Lucius did.
"Meet me? But you could, Lucius. You could meet me. Good night."
Tom Riddle's parting words burned in Lucius' mind even as he hid the diary carefully in the drawer of his nightstand, stripped and changed to a black cotton sleeping robe, and extinguished the candles. But it was a long time before he slept.
For seven years he'd been in limbo, living in anticipation--half terrified and half elated--of when Voldemort might return. For seven years he'd covered his tracks and begged the Ministry off his back with massive donations to charity, telling himself that it wasn't cowardice, that it wasn't disobedience, but simple pragmatism--what good would it be if all the Death Eaters went to Azkaban? For seven years he'd eyed the faded Mark on his arm, its very presence reminding him day in and day out that his Master was not dead, merely lost and powerless. He'd flirted with reformation, he'd flirted with loyalty, he'd flirted with independence, and only achieved inaction.
And now a little book had changed everything.
That diary could do so much, he knew. With the proper exchange of power, it could control another mind--a weak mind, perhaps, that of a child or one untrained in magic, but there was still much potential. And it could siphon power--power enough to turn Tom Riddle from a soul embodied only in ink and paper to a soul with a body, a solid form of pure energy. Perhaps even--with blood sacrifice--give him a body.
This book could restore the Dark Lord. Not the Dark Lord Lucius had known, but one sprung from Voldemort's own past, drawn fifty years into the future to gather his faithful and bargain with Death once more. The reign of glory could resume.
And it gave Lucius Malfoy no more surety than he'd had before his wife had tossed a book at his head.