*The
edited version is here at ffnet.
And the serpent said to the
woman: No, you shall not die the death.
Genesis 3:4
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He dreamed of great
things, of golden statues and songs of praise. He dreamed of justice, of
guidance, of fairness and equality. He dreamed of repayment.
He does not dream any
more. He does not sleep any more. Instead, he works late into the night,
feverishly researching, desperately compiling. For, one night, he dreamed of
Death.
Oh, what horrors did
the single paltry word contain, to turn his very bones cold with fright, to
creep up behind him and ghost along his spine? What unimaginable depravities
did it entail, to remove the comforts of sleep from him for ever more?
And so he writes, and
reads, seeking escape from the inevitable darkness waiting for him, because how
tragic it would be, to have his life
snatched away from him on a passing whim, some indefinable fantasy? Why, if the
ceiling were to fall upon him this exact instant – he glances up, but the
stones remain as firm as ever – why, if that indeed happened, then he would be
gone, banished from the mortal plane, sent to the fiery Hell that surely awaits
him. Gone – just like that!
It must not happen, he thinks. I must prevent that from happening. So firm was his conviction that
it took the place of food and drink, and companionship, and the thrice-damned
sleep that taunts him with visions of Death; sustaining him long after he would
have fallen unconscious from exhaustion – until finally, he exclaims, proclaiming his victory over Death itself.
That night, he returns
his attentions to the more mundane tasks – charming his teachers, who have
grown bold without his constant, subtle training; reassuring his allies, who
have become cold with his inattention; disciplining his followers, with regal gestures
and haughty words, until they once again become the pitiful reliant creatures
that they had been before his sudden obsession with immortality.
In particular, he
lavishes Professor Horace Slughorn and Abraxas Malfoy with well-chosen,
complimentary words.
Oh, Professor, he might say, that’s ingenious,
it really is.
Or, to Abraxas, I value your contributions, my friend.
And Slughorn would
smile, as brightly and naively as a child, and send more invites to his
parties, while Abraxas would smirk, nod, and accept it wordlessly.
His plans are moving
along, slowly, exactly as he means them to. Progressing silently and
insidiously, slithering into every corner of his victims’ minds, holding them
captive until he sees fit to release them – not any time in the near future, he
supposes, as they have multiple uses, all of which can function as a part,
without much need for the whole.
Then one day he
approaches Slughorn, under the pretext of extra study projects.
It is a Friday, and
Potions is the last class of the day. They stand alone in the dungeons, amidst
the various scents of the potions that Slughorn always has on hand – he
breathes in appreciatively, noting the distinctive smell of Felix Felicis even
though it remains unseen as of yet.
“Professor, I have
some questions,” he says hesitantly, opening his eyes a little wider than
usual. Dark and alluring, those eyes are, his many lovers have told him over
and over again – and again, when he obliviates them.
“Yes, Tom?” Slughorn
walks over, obscenely happy about his presence. “Some extra-curriculum
questions, no doubt; you are much too clever to need any help with normal class
work.”
“Professor,” he says
again, fingers brushing through his hair – naturally attractive, his admirers
remind him day after day, soft and silky. “I’m afraid that it’s a rather
sensitive topic… Others might be offended, perhaps, though it is out of a
purely intellectual curiosity that I ask this… Professor, you are the only one
who can help me with this question – “ He cuts himself off, looking directly
into Slughorn’s eyes and projecting a perfect, flawless image of an innocent
schoolboy.
Slughorn’s eyes widen
too, mimicking his own, before the professor takes out his wand and casts a few
primary privacy charms, which any Slytherin should know. He, however, has cast his own spells, a veritable arsenal of
high-level spells ranging from the obscuring of vision, to the prevention of
eavesdropping, to immunity from long-distance scrying, to secrecy rituals.
“Ask away, Tom,”
Slughorns tells him, now that the charms have been cast, though they have been
secure ever since they were alone. “I shall answer you to the best of my
knowledge,” he says, his voice noticeably lower and much more excited.
And he, the immoral, tempting student – he
bites at his bottom lip, feigning ignorance of the seduction – he opens his
mouths, and asks the well-practiced words, delighting in the wanton desire he
finds in his teacher’s eyes.
Leaning forwards, he
asks: “Professor, what do you know – about horcruxes?”
As expected, the man
starts, gasps, and hurriedly fortifies the charms, adding more than ten new
ones, all of which a good Slytherin should know (though there are precious few
of those now).
“Dear boy – ! Why, what
has possessed you to ask about such a topic? – This is a taboo, a taboo of the
highest order! Do not ask me again – do not ask anyone else – and do not plead
with me to divulge the secrets that, to my eternal , unending shame, resides
within my mind!” Slughorn backs away, apprehension and fear clearly visible on
his face now, and prepares to end the charms that he has put up.
“Professor – wait,
Professor!” He reaches out, grasps the older man’s arm, and leans in closer
than he ever has before, staring with a strange intensity into those eyes made
attractive by age where they would normally have been unattractive.
“Professor,” he
repeats, earnest and sincere, “Sir, please, I need to know! It eats away at me
at night, this lack of knowledge! You must understand, you must have felt it
before! This hunger for information, ceaseless and damning! You must tell me,
Professor, or I fear that I shall perish!”
They pause, face to
face, and Slughorn’s breathing comes fast and shallow, as though it had been him begging for answer, him driven to madness with the lack of
answers. He sees, reflected in his young student’s eyes, his own misspent
youth, wasted and utterly meaningless – and he sees in a flash of clarity how
this young boy in front of him is inherently, fundamentally different from
himself – and he relents.
He relents, but not
much.
“If I do,” he
whispers, trembling with the weight of the crime that he has committed himself
to, in his mind, “If I do tell you, then – what will you give me in return?”
He freezes, though he has already known that such a thing would happen.
Slughorn is a Slytherin, after all, and Slytherins are nothing if not
self-serving to the last; selfish and indulgent and – well, he supposes, he
should know, he himself is the penultimate Sytherin.
He freezes, he admits,
but it is not true shock that holds him in place, but a kind of diluted,
calculated surprise; he freezes not because he is shocked at the lengths that
Slughorn would go to in order to fulfill his desires, but in an attempt to
convince himself that he is actually considering the notion, the idea – but he
knows full well that he is willing to sacrifice anything for that small morsel
of sin (body, wealth, soul); the
portion of knowledge that the serpent offered to Eve in the form of a perfect,
gleaming apple –
– and the sounds of the orphanage comes back
to him: soft, desperate chants and prayers that do
nothing but provide a cruel,
false hope; cries for God, cries for salvation, cries for anything at all –
– and he nods, agreeing with little fuss to
the immoral acts that will surely commence (unspeakable, perverse things, they
are, and he is an unspeakably perverse creation).
“Anything,” he tells
his teacher, and the teacher sees his student’s eyes soften, strangely
understanding and forgiving now. “Anything you ask of me, Professor Slughorn.”
And the old man lifts
his hand, moves towards the fallen angle in front of him, and touches the
smooth pale skin of the angel’s face – tenderly, lovingly, as if worshipping a
mortal god. “Tom, oh Tom,” he says, dreamy and half-awake, seemingly unsure if
this was indeed real.
And the angel (he
smiles; angel he is not, though perhaps a devil masquerading as an angel might
suffice as a description) reciprocates, holding those calloused, unworthy hands
in his own perfect fingers. And the angel allows the man to touch, feel, study,
explore; he allows all of that and more, obligingly bending down when the
mortal pulls him down for a kiss (for he is slim, but tall – taller than his
professor, at the very least), pressing those cracked lips against the other’s
face.
“Tom,” he cries in
bliss. “Tom, oh, Tom! I must confess
– I do swear, Tom, as forbidden as it is – that I love you!”
The angel only smiles
in reply (a dry, sardonic smile, he knows, but Slughorn is too lost to notice
anything) and how sweet that smile was! He matches kiss with kiss, caress with
caress, and with each article of clothing that he removes from the quiet angel,
the angel removes from him in turn.
Until at last they
stand bare and exposed, shivering in the coldness - or at least Slughorn does,
for it is beneath angels to feel those earthly physical discomforts (the
student pities the man, he does not understand that it the one in front of
him has suffered far worse and that this mere wind is nothing in comparison) as mortal men do.
He pauses. “Tom,” he
says, “You are sure, then, that you are willing – “
And the angel yet
again refrains from answering, instead lying down upon the table, pushing
potions
ingredients out of the way with a single swift movement and smiling
beguilingly at the dazed potions professor – open and inviting, as if waiting
for someone to ravish him thoroughly – and he sees, quite obviously, that the
older man is plainly obsessed with
him.
“Tom,” Slughorn says,
and his voice is trembling now, with anticipation and a distinct touch of
desire, “Is this – your first time – ?”
The one that he calls
“Tom” nods, hisses a soft, trailing “Yes…”, and looks at him with half-lidded
eyes. (It was a lie; everything was a lie; there was nothing that he would ever
tell the truth about; and the man disgusts
him with his naiveté.)
“Good,” he whispers
uncertainly, feeling rather as though it would be blasphemy to speak loudly. “I
would – I have dreamed of being the first
– “
Saying thus, he
reaches out again, placing his – unworthy, unworthy!
– hands on the tempting flesh, stroking, petting – and his angel groans,
flushed with pleasure, (though what he does not know is that the angel scorns
him, scoffs at his frankly subpar
techniques); that is when he starts the second phase, probing and pushing
gently at places that his angel has evidently never explored before, much less
with another (what does he know, the
angel thinks darkly; healing potions and charms are prerequisites for entering
the house of snakes – and if one did not know them at the beginning, then one
quickly learned them lest their injuries go unhealed).
Finally, the angel
reaches up and says hesitantly, in a bracing tone, “I’m ready” – that is when Slughorn
enters him with a cry, eyes closing in unadulterated pleasure, fingers
tightening subconsciously in an attempt to anchor himself; lost to the world,
he does not notice that the angel’s eyes are squeezed shut in pain instead of
the unabashed joy that he himself feels.
Afterwards, when he
finds release in the body steeped fully in sin (though he is yet ignorant of
that fact) and the student wraps his arms around his waist, lifting himself up
to peck at the older man’s lips again, he reluctantly begins to speak of the
horcruxes – thrice-damned horcruxes,
the bane of his existence! – and he speaks of the inherent evilness of them, the blatant immorality,
the eternal torment that one would
inevitably experience if one should use them – though he would not know, thank
God, he has never tried it himself, he has never killed.
And his lovely angel
pats him soothingly, murmuring comforting words in his velvet-smooth voice,
assuring his teacher once again of his purely
intellectual curiosity – a virtuous, simple need for knowledge.
Slughorn dresses
himself again, admiring the ethereal paleness of his young student’s body, and
seeks to extract one last reassurance from him as he turns to leave the room:
“This will stay between us only – Tom?” Anxious, insecure.
“Yes, Professor
Slughorn,” comes the answer. “Obliviate.”
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2135 words, according to the word document. I have no idea why I started writing this, it was kind of weird and then I continued the weirdness. Basically I just really wanted to write something immoral. This is unbeta'd. As in, I typed it and didn't go back and reread, because my brain hurts.
