Smoke rises from the tip of a cigarette glowing red, to billow and swirl on the ceiling, hazy fogbanks of fragrant smog.

It’s too easy to lose your way in here. Misdirection, miscommunication, uncertain shores. “Here be dragons”, the sign swinging outside should read. It is somewhat of a disappointment to discover that the sign tapping gently against the grubby bricks reads simply “Ash”, although a slight gothic slant to the lettering is detectable.

Lucius Malfoy struts down the stairs towards the bar. His eyes are silver-hard, his smile predatory, teeth-full, and his hair swirls around his shoulders, an icy golden cape.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!” he shouts over his shoulder.

The man stalking behind him narrows his eyes derisively, and Lucius laughs coldly.

“I’ve warned you, Macnair. That’s more than I’m required to do.”

--

Eyes glint like embers from beneath the cowled robe, and Macnair has to blink and look away, eyes watering. He tells himself it’s because of the smoke, that anyone’s eyes would water in here. Only the smoke.

Lucius slides into the booth opposite the cowled figure, fluid as water, hair artlessly tossed back over one shoulder.

“But of course, my Lord. Allow me to introduce my vorpal blade, my loyal friend.” Lucius waves a lax hand at Macnair, standing, choking in the dense smoke.

Macnair says nothing, feeling the eyes pierce through his robes, travelling his body. They stop on the small crescent shaped scar above his heart, and he senses rather than sees an eyebrow raised.

“My brother did not take kindly to sharing, - “ he pauses, the last few words awkward on his tongue “ – my lord.”

The cowled head is inclined slightly, a directive to sit. Lucius is still prattling on, but the eyes, the dreadful eyes are boring through him to his soul.

“Anything in particular, or was it just – “ The creature’s eyes, dark, with a centre of flame, hold his own. Macnair is fascinated; drawn in, beyond all life, all reasonable belief “ – life itself?”

A girl saunters up to their table, hair a ragged sheet of black. Her eyes are jealous and her breasts heave in their lace prison. The mugs she is holding are set roughly on the table, fluid jolting up and onto the tabletop from one.

The splash of liquid across the back of his hand hooks him, like a portkey seizing hold behind his navel, and he surges back toward the present. He dimly realises the barmaid – or is it Bellatrix? Bellatrix Black? - is groaning on the floor. Above her, the cloaked figure, watching her grimly, clutching his wand.

“Clumsiness will not be tolerated. Should not be tolerated. Is against every precept I have taught you,” the hooded figure is muttering.

As he feels Macnair’s eyes rest on him, he rises, pushing back his hood, and it is all Walden can do not to gasp aloud. Lucius conceals a smirk behind his hand as Walden drains his mug, gasping manfully at the bite of raw spirit. Warmth expands outwards from his breastbone, sending ripples of pleasure to his extremities. He lays down his head on the table, feeling rough wood against his cheek, surprised and flattered at – he consciously strains for the words – his lord’s choice.

The unhooded figure of Tom Riddle smiles fondly down at the bent figure.

“Walden Macnair. Do you believe?” he asks, much as one might enquire as to the health of a favoured son. Macnair looks up, his eyes wary, and Lucius fancies that he is the only one to see that slight glimmer of hope at the end of a long tunnel of fear.

“Well?” The voice is firmer now, rougher. Macnair cringes from it, nodding as he gazes at his fingers, entwined beneath the table. Almost as though I’m afraid, he muses absently. I’m not afraid, though, am I? Just nervous.

“Come to my arms, my beamish boy!” Macnair finds himself in Riddle’s embrace, and shakes his head, baffled as to how he got there. He knows what Riddle promises. Power, and eternal life, of a kind, to his followers. For, as Lucius has explained, expounding upon the principles in the dormitory, through long stifling summer nights, having your name remembered, passed down in whispers from generation to generation – as long as your name lives on, unforgotten, who is to say that you do not?

Riddle’s arms around him are comforting, warm. Macnair feels safe and protected, nourished in the circle of black. It is only Lucius’ impatient sigh that reminds him of his location, and he steps back from the older man, cheeks flaming and ears glowing red.

Lucius slides a sideways glance towards him, loaded with meaning, and Walden Macnair remembers.

--

The dormitory is silent. It’s the week before the N.E.W.T’s, and most of the seventh year boys have finally fallen into an exhausted sleep. Lucius has cornered Macnair in the corridor on his way back from the bathroom.

He always needs the bathroom when he’s nervous, something he think he must have inherited from his mother, a pale, wraithlike woman who faded away with the birth of each child. Eventually, she just faded away altogether. Macnair’s father left his children to the care of the house-elves. Walden would slip in the opposite direction if he happened to stumble across his father in the corridors of the house, moving on silent feet.

Lucius creeps up on him from behind, and exhales in his ear. The hot, damp breath fragranced with smoke slides over Walden’s shoulder, blowing his fine dark hair into a tangle and sending blood rushing from his brain.

Nothing is said as Lucius pushes the other boy against the wall, hooking the flimsy cotton pyjama bottoms with his thumbs, pulling them down around Walden’s ankles, puddling in white on the flagstones. Macnair watches as Lucius teases him to full arousal, and as he pushes himself back into the cold stone wall, every nerve ending explodes into a shower of sparks.

As Walden leans into the wall, breathing hard and struggling not to pass out, Lucius Malfoy swaggers towards the bathrooms. Almost as though it were an afterthought, he turns, tapping his chin.

“Oh. Yes. If you think that was amazing, you should really meet Tom Riddle. Great man. Taught me everything I know.” And with that, and a faster than lightening wink, Lucius slides around the corner and is gone.

Walden Macnair ponders this for a few days before asking Lucius if he can meet Tom.

--

“O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” Lucius is gallivanting around the table, shrieking at the top of his lungs. Macnair rolls his eyes and pushes past the slighter man.

“I need the bathroom,” he says gruffly, a little overwhelmed as the prospect of joining the Death Eaters. Of wearing the symbol of power on his arm. Of belonging. Having a family, something deeper than blood ties.

He doesn’t know where the bathrooms are, however, and Lucius grabs his arm, pinching as he pulls.

The battered wooden door swings open, and Lucius is on him, teeth nipping at his neck, hands plunging into his trousers, pressing against him, forcing him back against the smooth tiles. The coolness radiates through the back of his shirt, fighting with the dual heats of alcohol and desire burning within.

The click of a door makes him look up from the intoxicating sight of Lucius Malfoy, face flushed with desire, lips already bruising and the insistent grind of his cock in Walden’s thigh. Tom Riddle emerges from the stall, his eyes burning and intent.

He says nothing, leaning against the wall near them, close enough to observe every detail, and with only their harsh breathing breaking the silence, the rasp of a zip echoes off every tile.

Lucius tears off Macnair’s robes, raising the undershirt and pinching at his nipples. Tom Riddle is watching lazily with half-lidded eyes, their burning flame muted, quiescent, as his hand slides up and down his shaft in a rhythm that pulls Macnair’s eyes away from Lucius’ hand on his own cock.

Someone is whining now, sounding needy and frustrated, gasping, sobbing for air as Macnair strains for breath, dragging the air with a hitch past his vocal chords, Lucius’ mouth, lips stretched and rosy around his cock, warm pink silk sliding tantalisingly slowly, and Macnair turns his face to the ceiling, closing his eyes, blocking out all senses except this, the moist writhe of mouth and darting flick of tongue.

Strands of hair tangle in his fists as he arches off the wall, Lucius’ teeth nipping, fingers stretching, gliding, grasping in a firm circle at the base of his cock and the rush down his spine halts abruptly. Macnair howls his frustration at the ceiling as Lucius gets to his feet, fastidiously brushing the ash off his knees.

Macnair can see Lucius’ cock outlined through his robes, achingly hard. His own cock is weeping slightly, flushed a dusky red and he burns to touch it. As he reaches a hand towards it, however, Tom Riddle moves, faster than fire licking up a dry twig. His hands are tied behind his back, his face pressed into the wall. Lucius gets to his knees again, tongue probing and caressing the smooth muscle behind his balls, licking carefully around his arse.

Embarrassingly, Macnair realises he is trying to ride Lucius’ tongue and struggles to restrain the movement of his hips. Before he stops moving entirely, Lucius is pulled roughly to his feet and his cock nudges against Macnair.

Macnair turns his head to the side, bracing himself against the wall with his cheek as Lucius begins the agonisingly slow slide into his very depths. From the corner of his eye, he can see Tom Riddle matching Lucius’ rhythm, touching himself at an almost unbearable measured pace.

Lucius gasps behind him, and begins to drive himself into Macnair’s arse. Macnair groans as the tip of his cock is brought into contact with the cool tiles on each stroke.

Macnair strains to see Riddle, watching fascinated as he runs his fingers up and down the shaft, flicking his thumb over the head. The familiarity of it soothes him, as Lucius slams into his arse once more, his fingers biting into Macnair’s hips and his teeth closing on his neck.

Once more, and Lucius is wilting inside him like a pricked balloon, warm semen trickling down the inside of his thigh. Riddle gasps and blinks, coming over his hand and into the washbasin beside him. Macnair watches, fascinated, as the semen puddles at the bottom, dripping into the drain, droplet by droplet.

Lucius is collapsed over his back, breathing heavily, as Riddle approaches, tucking his cock back into the robe.

“Now, now, Mr. Malfoy, that is not how we treat our friends, is it?” he drawls, arching an eyebrow. Languid, Lucius takes perhaps a heartbeat too long to respond and doubles on the hard tiles in pain. As he slips from Macnair’s arse, Riddle spins Walden around, none too gently, slamming his back into the wall.

Unnoticed, Lucius groans on the floor as Riddle slides to his knees, fixing Macnair with those eyes of flame and shadow, holding him transfixed, long past the point when he would have (could have) broken and run. As Riddle’s mouth glides seamlessly over his cock, sucking gently, fingers digging into the imprints on his hips left by Lucius, Macnair groans from deep in his throat, cock twitching.

When Riddle’s eyes burn darker, power insistent and offered, Macnair cries out and gushes into Riddle’s mouth, the gate at the base of his spine washed away with the rushing tide, feeling his life, his very life, draining out with his seed.

Riddle deliberately regains his feet, leaving the bathroom with a measured tread, wearing the ash marks on his robe like a badge.

--

As Lucius and Macnair return, the smoke opens before them. Macnair looks down at his arm, at the freshly emblazoned skull and laughs.

“All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe,” he murmurs, a light before him.

End.