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Transcendence	By : ChapterEight Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 11845 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling or any of her licensees, so I do not own Harry Potter or make any money off of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Author's Notes: I sincerely apologize for the unreasonable delay. I've had some personal real-life issues, most notably my final semester at school and a new baby in my life, which took me over for a while. I'm just now getting back in the swing of writing fanfiction to relieve my stress.
There is violence, including blood play and rape, in this chapter. If you want the M-rated version (including the blood but excluding the rape), check it out on FFN. For an even more toned down version—more probably rated T than M—you can check out the version on FA. Both links are in my profile.

As far as hiding places went, Tom had to admit that, all other things being equal, the cave wasn’t a half bad one. It was on the coast a good half mile away from the nearest strip of accessible beach, and one had to clamber over sharp, slippery rocks, some of them as tall as a man, to access the narrow opening in the sheer rock face. He’d had to use a weak, self-invented compulsion spell and various other forms of magic to take the boy and girl he’d led there during childhood—he couldn’t quite seem to grasp their names from the edges of his memories—from the narrow beach to the cave.
However, all things were not equal. Albus Mudblood-fucking Dumbledore was aware of his unfortunate beginnings at Wool’s Orphanage, and there was absolutely no guarantee that he hadn’t found out about even this place, especially if he’d gone digging for information after finding out about Tom’s diary.
It seemed that Voldemort had been thinking even less clearly when he’d hidden a Horcrux here than he had been when he’d hidden one in the shack in Little Hangleton, if the complete absence of any discernable Parseltongue spells was anything to go by. Tom could easily detect the presence of his own magic (especially easily now thanks to his prolonged exposure to the ring Horcrux) along one rough stone wall along the back of the entrance chamber, and a very brief examination revealed that it was a relatively simple curse calling for a blood sacrifice.
Honestly, blood magic was all well and good, but why not pair it with the need for a Parseltongue password?
Tom was even less impressed by the submerged boat and the lake full of Inferi. If this were all that Voldemort had managed for the protection of a piece of his soul, then Tom hoped that this was one of the last ones he’d hidden, lest all the others turn out to be all but unprotected. An army of Inferi was a nice touch, he had to admit, but surely any wizard who’d completed his OWLs knew that all one needed to hold them off long enough to escape was a bit of fire?
He did have to hand it to his other self that the potion, held in an un-spillable basin and doled out by an un-spillable shell, was a rather ingenious piece of work. The first sip was terribly unpleasant, burning down his esophagus and into his stomach and churning there for a few horrifying moments as if it might actually take hold. Then, presumably because the potion was only intended to work on living creatures with actual bodies made out of something other than Dark magic and the essence of a pitiful little girl, it dissipated almost as soon as it had begun. Tom would have forced Abraxas or Lucius to come drink the rest of it had his experimental sip gone wrong, but he decided that he would rather endure the brief flashes of discomfort himself than bring either one of the Malfoys along to witness the cave.
All of the various defensive measures felt rather more like a fantastical production than real protection, and Tom concluded that Voldemort’s good sense must have long since been taken over by his flair for the dramatic.
Tom knew that something was terribly wrong when he picked up the locket for the first time. It didn’t call to him like the ring had from the moment he’d stepped inside the Gaunt shack, and when he finally touched it there was absolutely no spark of magic at all.
It seemed… like a completely normal locket.
He was tempted to give it a good shake and hold it up to his ear to see if he could hear anything inside, but instead he fumbled with the mechanism that made even his long, elegant fingers seem clumsy. It briefly crossed his mind as he finally managed to wedge one thumbnail between the two sides of the locket that perhaps he might find himself cursed like he had with the ring, but by then he’d pried it open.

The very foundations of Malfoy Manor seemed to shake with his fury when he landed in the front drawing room. His body, made of his magic as it was, seemed to act as a conduit for his rage in the same way his wand would surely spark if he were to hold it in his hand just then. He watched with satisfaction as the rug and sofa nearest him smoldered from the contact with his magic.
When a house-elf offered to take his cloak, he spun around and chucked the useless locket at the poor creature, as if he were still a sixteen-year-old boy in mind as well as appearance. The fit of childish pique made him feel better for a few seconds.
He needed something stronger, much stronger.
His first instinct was to track down Malfoy and demand information, but in the deepest recesses of his mind where he still had some semblance of sense, he acknowledged that he would probably end up killing the man. His imagination was running rampant with panicked screams and tangled limbs and Malfoy’s long pale hair spattered with blood. No doubt Tom would find a dead Malfoy very inconvenient after he’d regained control of himself.
Fortunately, he did have a pet Muggle whose only purpose in life was to fulfill Tom’s needs.
The boy had become somewhat resigned to his fate of late and had taken to submitting peacefully, even if Tom could see silent tears tracking down his once-tan face and could read in his mind that he wanted to fight back. This time, however, when he caught sight of Tom he reared backwards as if to avoid being caught and threw his arm out as if to fend off Tom’s hand. Tom could see himself through the Muggle’s mind: wild, blood-red eyes glowing out of a paper-white face with a monstrous expression, the malevolent shadow of magic surrounding his body moving to fill up the entire small room.
The Muggle’s terror provoked his anger even further. It made him want to destroy the boy. It made him hard.
He struck like a snake, darting around the Muggle’s defenses and wrapping his fingers in long, tangled hair. He used it to yank the boy up, reveling in the resulting yelp of pain and fear, and dragged his prisoner to the bed. The expanse of pale, smooth skin on offer offended Tom on some primal level he couldn’t immediately identify. He always took great care to heal the boy of whatever wounds he inflicted, as he had always enjoyed keeping his toys in pristine condition. No doubt it was some remnant from his years in the orphanage, when he’d only possessed a few small, stolen treasures and had no easy way of getting anything new. Now, though, he wanted to break something apart.
The first cut started at the Muggle’s shoulder and went diagonally down his back and across one pert ass cheek until it curved around the side of his hip. Tom couldn’t have said what spell he’d used, or if he’d even used one at all. It didn’t matter; the next cut crisscrossed in the opposite direction just as smoothly, and the one after that sliced through skin and muscle like a hot knife through butter.
The boy choked on a scream and twisted his fingers into the sheets on either side of his head. “Please, Master…”
It was a mistake. The sound of his pleas, of his weakness, disgusted Tom and only fueled the flames of his fury. He felt like his entire body was burning, and he thought that surely if his body were made of flesh and bone then this wild, uncontrolled magic would have consumed him by now. Normally being so out of control of himself would be a bit worrying to him, but in his present state of mind all he could think about was the blood that flowed from the Muggle’s back onto the once pristine sheets.
He breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of sweat and fear and blood, and as he exhaled he cut another deep line across the soft canvass laid out before him.
Then again. And again. Until he felt some semblance of his control return.
The Muggle was screaming continuously now, not just each time he was cut, but his struggles were in vain. The wiggling and bucking only served to make Tom’s slashes less precise, until on one vicious down stroke blood splattered across his face and into his mouth. Tom swallowed and paused mid-strike, running his tongue across his lips to gather the coppery fluid that had landed there. It tasted like life and death together, and he wondered suddenly if he’d be able to taste magic in a wizard’s blood. It was all supposed to be about the blood, wasn’t it?
It was really quite amusing how such thoughts came to him at the strangest times. He grinned to himself, a bit more of the blood dripping down his face and into his mouth at the movement, and crawled forward onto the bed until his hips were pressing against the Muggle’s backside.
The Muggle usually spread his legs haphazardly to accommodate his master, which was something of an automatic response that had been beaten into him after so many long weeks under Tom’s attention, but this time he didn’t move. Tom frowned and brought his palm down harshly across the deepest of the gashes on the Muggle’s back. The vicious crack of skin against skin rang clearly across the silent room and the boy’s body jerked once with the impact, but there was no further reaction.
Tom frowned even deeper and prodded the Muggle again, absentmindedly flicking his tongue out to catch a drop of blood he could feel tickling his skin as it ran down the side of his nose. He finally got a reaction. It was only a slight moan, but it was sufficient to convince Tom that his toy wasn’t going to expire at any given moment.
He forcefully spread his toy’s legs and dragged the prone body back towards him. His hands slipped against the blood-slicked skin, but it only excited Tom even more. He dipped his fingers into the blood and dragged it along the Muggle’s back and down between the generous globes of his ass. The boy was well used by now and his body relatively pliant, but it was apparently still painful with only blood for lubrication. When Tom forced two of his fingers inside, the Muggle actually moaned and flinched, although he did not have enough energy to try to move away.
Although causing the Muggle pain was quite intoxicating, Tom had absolutely no desire to hurt himself by using only blood for lubricant. He cast a minimal lubrication charm on himself before roughly lining himself up. He was a bit annoyed when the Muggle didn’t really react, so he grabbed hold of the boy’s hips and dug his fingers hard into the deep gashes there. Only when his victim whimpered in pain did he shove himself inside.
It was warm and wet and tight, but not nearly so satisfying as he’d hoped. His mind was too active, his fury too great, his body too tense. He dug his fingers deeper into the cuts and threw his head back as he snapped his hips harder and faster. His body responded to the pleasurable sensations and to the red tangle of pain and fear in the Muggle’s mind, but his own mind was still racing and it did nothing for his anger.
Recognizing that it was a waste of time and that his interest was flagging, he allowed himself to finish more quickly than usual and, with a final squeeze of the Muggle’s tortured hips, pulled himself free.
He clambered off the bed and retrieved his wand, then set to putting himself to rights. The long, boiling shower did little more to relieve his thoughts and tensions than had the sex, but he forced himself to return to the Muggle’s room to heal the worst of the damage before it was too late.
The boy was in the exact same position Tom had left him in. Tom dug his fingers into the Muggle’s shoulder and flipped him over, uncaring of the way it made the cuts on his back split even further open. Tom knew—Of course he knew!—before he saw, but there was confirmation in the cold, unseeing eyes and the permanent grimace plastered across the pale face. His toy had gone and died on him.
It was most inconvenient. And without his permission, too!
Tom scowled and roughly shoved the body back down on the red-stained sheets. His body was still humming with magic, but his disappointment at this turn of events seemed to have disrupted the head of steam he’d been building up. His wand hand twitched and a storm of sparks shot out of the end, but he didn’t have enough motivation anymore to go out and seek havoc to wreak.
His fury was a fleeting thing, as were all of his feelings, and once it abandoned him he was left as empty as always.
Tom Riddle never forgot, and he never forgave, but once the cloud of emotion cleared from his mind he was able to put his grudges and his resentments to good use. Productive use. As he stared in the mirror at his eyes, which had returned to their normal deep brown, he acknowledged that the truth was that his cold, unfeeling calculations were ten times more dangerous than his blind, emotional rages.
Then he smiled at the thought that victims of his anger, such as his dearly departed pet, would probably disagree with own self-assessment.

Tom was as in control of himself as he’d ever been by the next day, but by then his exploits had become known to everybody in the manor. Breakfast was an exceedingly uncomfortable affair for the Malfoys, although Tom enjoyed himself quite well. Lucius had become even more stiffly formal in his presence than usual, and Tom could see in his thoughts that he had come to think of Tom as closer in personality and proclivities to Lord Voldemort. He could see in Narcissa’s mind that she was rather more furious about the mess he had made in her manor than she was actually upset about what he’d done to the Muggle, but she was also clearly very worried about the continually growing influence Tom had on her son.
As for Draco, almost as soon as Tom had settled into his chair, he wasted almost no time asking, “Did you know that you scared Great-Great-Great-Aunt Marcella so badly that Mother still can’t find her?”
Tom could feel his eyebrows rising on his forehead quite without his say-so. “Who?”
“Well, her portrait, of course, not the actual woman,” replied Draco, waving his hand in a dismissive way that might have provoked Tom to Cruciate him if he hadn’t known that it was an unconscious mannerism. Tom thought that Lucius might fall out of his chair with worry, but Draco didn’t seem to notice. “She’s kept in the entrance hall, but she ran out of her frame last night and hasn’t been seen since.”
Normally Tom wouldn’t hesitate to inform his little assistant that he really didn’t care about Great-Aunt Whoever, and that he really ought to remember to tack on a “My Lord” or two to the end of his sentences, but this morning Tom was enjoying the elder Malfoys’ discomfort far too much. He offered a toothy smile that he could tell, from reading their thoughts, set the elder Malfoys on edge even as Draco grinned back at him.
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” said Draco. He twirled his fork around in his fingers absentmindedly, as if it were his wand, and finally seemed to pluck up the courage to continue. “You must have been really angry….”
Ah, Tom thought to himself when Draco’s thoughts finally revealed his motivations, I have no idea how people who aren’t Legilimens can function. It seemed that Draco was aware that something dreadful had happened the night before, but his parents had been tightlipped about the details. He was, quite rebelliously, hoping that Tom would fill in the details for him, and furthermore he thought rather bitterly that perhaps his parents would see that the Dark Lord didn’t treat him like a child.
“Draco, darling,” interjected Narcissa, unable to maintain her silence any longer, “I am sure the Dark Lord would like to enjoy his breakfast in peace.”
Tom turned a sharp, unblinking gaze on the woman, although he addressed her son. “Yes, I was very angry. Someone dared to defy me, to steal from me. Do you know what happens to those who stand between Lord Voldemort and what belongs to him, Draco?”
Narcissa’s rapidly whitening face showed that she clearly understood his double meaning. Although Tom did not turn his gaze to her husband, he could clearly read in the deep, sick panic in Lucius’s mind that he also understood.
Oblivious to the tension around him, Draco replied, “I imagine they’re killed, My Lord. Like my grandfather will be.”
“Killed, yes, but punished first. Tortured.”
Narcissa Malfoy looked like she was ready to leap over the table and drag her son to safety, if she hadn’t known that she’d be obliterated before her ass fully left her chair. Her eyes darted over to her husband, and Tom finally followed her gaze to see that Lucius was shooting her a quelling look, though he looked as if he were barely maintaining his usual haughty mask. Cold clarity settled over Tom’s mind and the pieces of several scattered plans came together all at once as he looked at their faces and read their fears.
He allowed his smile to stretch further across his white teeth and rose gracefully from the table. “Come, Draco. We have a lot to accomplish before you leave for Hogwarts tomorrow.”
Draco looked longingly at the remains of his breakfast, but he dutifully left the table and made to follow Tom out of the breakfast room. Tom was amused to note that he didn’t even look to his parents for permission or glance back at them as he walked towards the door. When he’d first moved into Malfoy Manor, Draco hadn’t seemed able to do anything without his parents’—particularly his father’s—approval. Tom pushed the door open with one hand and used his other hand to usher Draco through as he passed by, locking eyes with Narcissa as he pressed his hand into her son’s back. Then, with one last wicked smirk for her benefit, he followed the youngest Malfoy out the door.
The entire episode had made him feel much better than he had even earlier that morning. And, he thought as he eyed the blond head in front of him, he would feel even better when his plans came to fruition.
“I thought about our calibration problem,” he began without preamble as soon as they’d shut themselves into their laboratory. He had laid awake the entire night and allowed his mind to mull over the complicated puzzle of house-elf magic in order to keep his thoughts off of the stolen Horcrux. “I think I’ve figured it out.”
They had managed to create a barrier through which house-elves couldn’t travel, but then their tests had revealed that it didn’t work across long distances. Even Tom had been completely confused about the mechanics behind such a thing, and he’d had to send Lucius out for several advanced books on wards that even Malfoy Manor’s library hadn’t held.
Draco paused as he was shifting to get comfortable perched on his usual table. “Oh. Are you leaving, then?”
The last time they’d tested distance, Tom had Apparated several hundred miles away, first to the cottage where he kept the Mudblood and then to a small village in Scotland that he remembered from a visit to one of his fellow Slytherins fifty years before.
“No. You’re leaving for Hogwarts, though.” Draco looked truly deflated at the thought, and Tom knew that as much as he wanted to return to school, he didn’t want to give up the education he was getting at the Dark Lord’s hands. A smirk flitted across Tom’s mouth. “I have been considering all the things you can do for me at the school. I am used to being in the castle myself, but I believe that your eyes and ears might do just as well.”
That was a lie, but Draco seemed to take the praise at face value, if the way he lit up like a Christmas tree was any indication. “What can I do, My Lord?”
There were many things Tom could do and experiments he could run using the unique blend of wards and residual magic around Hogwarts Castle, but Draco was not at all qualified to do them—at least not yet, although Tom did hold out hope that he could eventually shape the potential he saw in the boy into something he could use. In truth, the most important thing at this point was to tie Draco to him forever so that Draco’s parents would likewise be tied to him forever, regardless of Lucius’s existing ties to Voldemort. Whatever use he happened to be able to get out of such a young, inexperienced follower was just a bonus.
But he couldn’t let Draco know that, so he said, “Beyond testing our house-elf ward, you will be able to keep an eye on Potter and Dumbledore, and, of course, to let me know if anything else interesting happens. Right now I would not want to give you duties that might interfere with your schoolwork, because it is important that you develop your skills for the future.”
“Oh, yes, My Lord, I understand.” Draco was still beaming at him. “I want to be powerful enough that I can…”
He trailed off, a flush creeping up his cheeks, but he ought not to have bothered since Tom didn’t even need to read his thoughts to know what he was thinking.
“Be like your father?” he supplied. “We have had this conversation before, Draco, and I maintain that you are not like your father. You ought to focus on fully developing your own strengths rather than poorly imitating your father’s strengths.” Draco looked as if he would argue if anyone had said that to him besides the Dark Lord, and his thoughts were much the same. Tom raised an eyebrow and pinned him with a severe look, probably the most severe look he’d given Malfoy in weeks. “Your father has failed me on numerous occasions and only narrowly avoided the same fate as your grandfather.”
He was pushing his luck, he knew. Although Draco had slowly but surely begun to start viewing his father as a flawed human being and not as a god, he still held more real affection for the man in his little finger than Tom had ever held for anybody or anything in his entire life. Therefore, before Draco could think too long about it, Tom got to the point.
“Still, you once said to me that you want to earn your place among my followers, and at least you have succeeded there. I want to mark you before you leave.”
Draco’s mouth dropped open. “Wha—what?”
“As you may have noticed, I do not have a surplus of people I want to work with at the moment. I want to reward you for your hard work and dedication.” He had found that flattery always worked better on Draco than anything. “You will be the first, you know, since my return.”
He still seemed to be in shock, but Draco managed to stutter, “I—I’m honored, My Lord.”
Tom allowed a true smile to peak through his mask at Draco’s racing thoughts. It was true that he felt honored, as well as more than a little scared, but it was the other thoughts that made Tom laugh.
“Indeed, the Dark Mark is ugly as hell. Fortunately for you, I have created a new Mark, one far less likely to immediately identify you as my follower should someone see it.”
Of course there was another, far more immediately practical reason he had developed his own mark: He couldn’t replicate the Dark Mark, which was tied to Voldemort’s magic, and anyway he wanted his followers to be tied to him, not to his other self. But it was also true that he thought it was a bit impractical to have such a conspicuous mark right on his followers’ forearms. He had come to the conclusion that his other self must have lost his mind almost completely after very few Horcruxes.
His mark was the Slytherin house crest, which was admittedly not the most creative choice. Still, if anyone were to see it they would mostly likely assume that his followers had simply gotten tattoos celebrating their Hogwarts house, and it could easily be adapted for followers from other houses whenever he began recruiting in earnest. And he would allow them to put it anywhere they would like, so that there wouldn’t be dozens of people walking around so conspicuously with the same tattoo on the same place on their bodies.
Draco chose to have his on his side under his arm, as they both agreed that nobody would believe that Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had allowed their son to get and then keep a tattoo at age thirteen, and it was too big a risk that someone would see it on his arm. He removed his shirt and laid on his side on the table. He was shivering more from fear than from the cold, but he didn’t flinch when Tom pressed the tip of his wand against his skin. He cried out when Tom cast the spell, but after the initial jolt he merely whimpered occasionally as the magic swirled into his skin and formed the silver serpent on its green background.
When it was over, Tom did him the courtesy of casting a cooling spell on the burning Mark. When Draco sat up, Tom could see that his face had gone pale with pain, but his eyes were dry and he managed a pleased smile.
“Will it—” he started, then stopped as the movement of his muscles caused him to wince a bit. He let out a breath and started again. “Will it hurt like this when you call me? My grandfather told me that it did.”
Tom raised an eyebrow almost involuntarily. It would seem that Lord Voldemort did not favor Abraxas as much as Tom Riddle had. Or perhaps he had so lost control of his sadistic tendencies that he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hurt someone.
“No. Not unless I want it to hurt. See.”
He drew on the magical connection between them and watched as Draco jumped slightly in surprise. He had only given a slight tug, and Draco grinned wider in response.
“That’s not so bad! Do you have a Mark, too?”
Tom did not, in fact. He had quickly learned from studying Abraxas’s and Lucius’s Marks that they had to be tied to some physical, controlling object in order to be used. He could only assume that his older self had Marked himself, but Tom had also quickly realized that he was actually a magical object himself. He had been slightly unnerved for a fraction of a second to consider himself an object instead of a person, but then he’d gotten over it when he’d realized the benefits. Such as the fact that he could use himself as a magical object when necessary, like when he needed to tie his followers’ Marks to a physical object and his magical body wouldn’t actually accept a Mark.
He had other factors to test, of course, such as whether he could be recognized by spells that depended on one’s humanity, such as the Human Revealing spell, Age Lines, and wards, but he rather suspected that he couldn’t.
“No,” he answered.
Almost before he’d managed to get the word out, Draco asked, “Does my father know that you’ve allowed me to join?”
Tom tried his best to mask the maliciousness in his smile, and luckily Draco didn’t seem to recognize it. “I thought that I would allow you the pleasure of informing him of your accomplishment yourself.”
In short order, he’d sent Draco trotting off to find his parents. As soon as the door closed behind him, Tom allowed himself to laugh long and hard.

Lucius rushed into his father’s—now Tom’s—study with only a few seconds to spare before the time Tom had instructed him to arrive. Mulciber looked up from the reports he was arranging on a small table beside his chair and immediately looked taken aback at the wan, pinched look on his compatriot’s face. Tom only stared impassively as Lucius offered a perfunctory bow of his head and took his seat, although inside he was still laughing.
“Well?” he asked, his voice high and dangerous.
Lucius glanced up long enough to meet his eyes, then looked back down at his knees. “I saw Potter get on the train, My Lord.”
“Well, Malfoy, it seems that your grand plans to capture Potter have not worked out, after all,” replied Tom, and Mulciber snorted in amusement. “Not to worry, Lucius; your son will keep an eye on Potter for me.”
Lucius did not look up from his lap, and his voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes, My Lord.”
The look on Mulciber’s face could only be described as sheer confusion. Tom turned his harsh gaze on him. “Well, Mulciber, do you have any better news for me?”
“Yes, My Lord. The most recent reports from the Healer indicate that Molly Weasley is truly losing it. Her fear over her remaining children returning to Hogwarts has led to almost daily sessions with her Mind Healer, and her relationship with her oldest school-age son—Percy, I believe—has deteriorated almost to the point that he won’t speak to her. What might interest you more, My Lord, is that the family encountered Potter in Diagon Alley, and Molly Weasley caused such a scene that her husband Apparated her straight to Saint Mungo’s. It’s all here in these copies of the reports.”
Tom accepted the neat stacks of parchment, although he would not read them until later. “And Potter?”
“I’m sorry to say that the Healer did not make many notes about Potter, but the scant information we have indicates that he appeared very hurt by her reaction to him.”
“He did look out of spirits, My Lord,” inserted Malfoy, “and at least we know that Potter can’t stay with the Weasleys, for future reference.”
Completely unable to resist such an opening, Tom said, “I will inform Draco to watch out for any interesting behavior from Potter or the remaining Weasley brats.” Malfoy deflated even more, and Tom had to really work to keep his impassive mask firmly on his face. After several loaded seconds, he continued. “Now, somebody tell me about R.A.B.”

Author’s Notes: I know that in GoF Voldemort asks Wormtail for his arm so that he can call the other Death Eaters. I always thought it was extremely impractical if he couldn’t call his followers without needing one of them present, and anyway it doesn’t make sense that his followers could call him by pressing on their own Marks but he couldn’t call them in return. So I usually use one of two ways to explain it to myself: 1) He could have actually called them without Wormtail’s help in GoF, but he just wanted to torture Wormtail a bit more. 2) He needed a master Mark on himself, but when he lost his body he lost his own Mark and had to recreate it after the graveyard. I obviously chose the second version here.
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Transcendence