Archive of Our Own

The man laying in the bed had been handsome once, almost unearthly in his pale beauty. He was gaunt now, cheekbones sharp and face too thin, his blonde hair white and stiff, no longer flowing. His skin had a grey cast and his lips had a tinge of blue. He had barely been able to breathe deeply for days. The dragonpox was often fatal. There was little healers could do after all. 

“You don't have to die, you know,” Lord Voldemort said from the chair next to Abraxas’ bed. His long fingers tapping on the arm of his plush seat. Despite being the same age as the man in the bed, he didn’t look older than forty. His dark hair kept short and neatly coiffed. The only thing that had changed from their youth was that his irises now glowed an unearthly red. But Tom had long left the semblance of mortal men behind. He was as above Abraxas as a god would have been. 

“My lord…” Abraxas began.

“Don’t you start that now,” the lord in question scolded. 

“Tom, I'm old and ill and I'm going to die…probably soon.” His cough wracked his body. “Immortality would be wasted on me.” 

“It wouldn't have been when I first offered it, or twenty years after that or ten years ago.” 

“Alas things are always clearer in hindsight.” 

“And yet you don't regret telling me no then either.”

Abraxas’ blue eyes stared at him in sorrow, but not regret. Tom knew better. Abraxas Malfoy did not have regrets. The man wasn't capable of so lowly an emotion.

“No,” he whispered, his voice rough. 

“As you don't regret marrying that woman,” Tom hissed. 

“Are you still mad about that?” Abraxas’ laugh was short and surprised. “She’s been dead for almost twenty years, Tom. And you know I never loved her.” Abraxas’ hand reached over, shaking like a leaf, and took Tom's much younger looking hand in his. “You know you are the only one I have ever loved. Don't be angry with me here at the end of all things.”

“Who is choosing this to be the end?” Tom whispered hoarsely. “Not me. You!” 

“Ah you are so used to me giving you everything you want. I have spoiled you my beloved.” He tried to squeeze Tom's fingers, but his grip was weak. 

“You have,” the Dark Lord admitted, chewing on his lip like the boy of fifteen who had first fallen in love with the man beside him. “I will never love another.” 

Abraxas scoffed and it caused another coughing fit. The rattle of his breathing harsh and painful to listen to. “You are still young. In a hundred years you will still be young.” 

“I will never love another,” Tom gritted out. 

“Have it your way, you always do,” Abraxas sighed, pulling his hand back. “Just watch over Lucius and Pandora for me. Be easier on Lucius than he deserves…for me. At least until the line is secured with more than one heir.” 

Tom closed his eyes in pain. Lucius looked too much like his mother and he had hated her so much. “I will do as you ask, but if you just let me make you a horcrux you could be sure.” 

“How could I ever doubt you, my love?” Abraxas asked, his eyes fluttering closed. They were the last words that he spoke. The coughs racked his body like once orgasms had, until his chest didn't move at all. 

Tom sat there for another hour, stroking the hair he loved so much back from Abraxas's face, taking in his features, not letting any one else in until he'd had his fill. 

He never spoke of him again once he left that room, his name never again passing his lips, angry with the love of his life for choosing death over him. 

In the end the love they shared hadn't been enough to get Abraxas to stay. 

Tom himself hadn't been enough.

He never could have been.