The Blood of a Malfoy (Abraxas Malfoy)

1|The Girl is a Riddle

He stared at his features in the mirror.  Pureblood. Blonde hair almost White.  If he looked in his eyes they could be filled with entitlement. Loyalties; Tom Riddle.  Name; Malfoy.

Abraxas Malfoy. 

He exited the prefect bathroom, running down to the dungeons.  He instantly grasped for his tie, discarding to the uncomfortable accessory.  He halted, noticing the boy, his dark hair usually combed hanging in his face. 

"Lord?" He asked, almost scared to irritate him in anyway. 

"There's a girl."  He spoke, slamming his fist into the leather couch. 

"A girl?"  Abraxas asked.  Tom Riddle didn't think about girls.  He was too focused on world domination and dark magic at the moment. 

"Yes, and we will do our best to ruin her."  He said with a definite nod. 

"My Lord, I do not understand." 

"She knows too much."

"Tom-" he said in attempts to strike reason with the friend he once knew.  He wasn't making any sense.
——————
The following Monday, Abraxas walked into potions with the keenest of intentions. His eyes spotted her. This supposed girl that had sent Riddle into a furious tirade. Her hair was slightly unkept, attention trained to the front of the classroom as she sat tapping a quill against her front row desk. Everyone was noticing her in the fact that they did not recognize her in the slightest, to them a sight for sore eyes. 

But as her wandering gaze fell in his obvious direction, Abraxas let his lips pull into a natural smirk.  He saw this as permission, an invitation to attempt conversation.  He was planning to do so either way. "Hi. You must be the new girl-" He contemplated outstretching his hand to the witch who now seemed not amused in the slightest at his casual introduction. "-Right?"

"I guess that would be me." She replied formally, as though something else were itching in the back of her thoughts, him barely visible despite her glancing to meet his eyes. 

The seat beside her was empty. He doubted she knew anyone yet. Grasping at the chance he asked politely to occupy the seat. She was halfway through reply when he felt the grip of a hand on his shoulder. "Hey" The voice announced itself sternfully. "I already claimed that spot Abraxas. You know how I like the front."

Abraxas took warning appropriately. "Of course my Lor-" He halted, noticing the tense of Riddle's grasp at such title. "-I mean, Tom" he corrected.

As he took a seat, he watched the two share hushed words. There means of conversation seemed rather hostile, but not as though they were strangers.  The girl, whos name he had still no idea, glanced purposely over her shoulder at him. This time she seemed to absorb every detail of his physical appearance with scrutiny. He didn't know what to make of the action.

Later in the evening, after the embarrassing scene of Tom Riddle being out shown by the mysterious girl in the art of potion making, Riddle returned to the common room from wherever it was he disappeared.  By his anger and irritable nature, no doubt the memory of the mornings events were ever so present in his mind. 

"Who is she?" Abraxas asked, curiosity getting the better of whatever laments Riddle would supply as consequence.

"Hermione Granger. Supposed runaway from Grindelwald."

"Why do you detest her? Is it her blood status?"

Tom visibly winced. "It has nothing to do with blood Malfoy. She knows everything about me. She has suspicions to my plans, how I have no intimation. Although she claims she was at the orphanage with me."

Abraxas studied the fury and confusion of Riddle's features. The knowledge of her observing Tom during their time at WOOL'S would explain all questions enough. Though he decided not to inform Riddle of this opinion. Most inevitably Tom was still frustrated with the fact her power, talent, or whatever it was about the girl was superior to his own.  "Strange." He supplied, to provide some answer to Tom's thoughts.

"Are you talking about that Granger?" Druella Rosier commented, lurking in a nearby armchair.

The two shifted their attention to the witch. Druella Rosier was a proud member of Slytherin. Everyone loved her, first with the definite fact she was attractive and alluring in greater quality than, in Abraxas's personal preference, any other witch he had laid eyes on. And although Rosier was obsessed with Riddle's philosophies of the Dark Arts up to pure infatuation, Riddle always seemed annoyed with her presence. 

"I do not like her." She stated, crossing her arms.

"That we can agree on." Tom mumbled under his breath. 

Abraxas tried to envision himself as hateful as his great grandfathers Lucious Malfoy the first, or Nicholas Malfoy. He had read about them in old prophets, torturing, being caught in cold blood murder. He knew from stories from his father that Nicholas had aspired to Mary Queen Elizabeth. When she turned him away, he hexed her, cursing her chances of marriage forever. They never hated muggles for their incompetence, no. His ancestors loathed muggles out of spite.  And yet Nicholas's portrait was hung in all glory above their mantel at Malfoy Manor.  Abraxas wondered about this man for a good portion of his otherwise boring life. 

"I do not see, why we should judge the girl before we even know her." He spoke, attempting to be noble in contrast to his dark family's name.

Druella seemed to cackle at such suggestion, as if he were declaring himself a mudblood lover. "She is in Gryffindor is she not?"

"It is not about house Rosier, nor blood. She knows about me, and that knowledge is why we loathe her."

There it was. The collective we. Abraxas hadn't decided if he had loathed her or not. Yet he fell in obedience after Druella practically moaned "Yes my Lord.", by supplying his own nod to Riddle.

As September drew on, his peers growing annoyed with the demand of work, one thing seemed astray. Riddle. Each and every day he was more infuriated, or gone for hours on end. Their thrice weekly dark arts meetings that would usually be held in the abandoned dungeons or forgotten classrooms, had now resorted to once a week if that.  

It was at one of Horace Slughorn's after hour parties that Abraxas no longer earned his 'Lord's' attention. He instead rolled back the sleeves of his button down shirt, and engaged in conversation with Mulciber. 

"I understand your concern Abraxas. He is distant." Mulciber replied to his last comment. They both looked at him across the round table, his features schmoozing the professor at current. "Though on the bright-side, there is more time for girls, less boring torture lessons." Mulciber added with a playful nudge to his arm.

"Yeah. But what girls?" Abraxas chided.

"That Granger is cute, but apparently the rest of the school would agree."

"Do they?" Abraxas answered again, trying to remain polite. 

Abraxas removed his observation from Tom, to catch a glimpse of Druella beside him. Evidently he was rather obvious in what he presumed a carefully stolen glance. "Eh-yer still upset about Rosier?" Mulciber teased.

Abraxas looked to him sternly. "No." He shook his head. It wasn't convincing, even to himself.  His blue eyes always struggled to avoid her whenever she was in sight, constantly telling his own attention he knew better.