The meeting room is quiet, lit only by candlelight flickering over scattered parchment. Abraxas sits with his sleeves rolled, hunched over an elegant scheme-in-progress, quill dancing across the page.

He hears the familiar sound of Tom’s footsteps echo down the corridor.

His quill stills, but his eyes remain on the parchment. “What is it, Tommy?” he asks in his famous casual and unbothered tone.

Tom clenches his jaw as he stands near the doorway. “How many times have I asked you not to call me that?”

Abraxas just chuckles as he sets down the quill, his gray eyes finally flickering up with that all-too-knowing look. “Fine. Thomas—”

“Tom,” he corrects sharply. “Thomas reminds me of…” His voice trails off, the anger buried beneath simmering to the surface.

Abraxas stands, slow and deliberate, slipping his hands into the pockets of his tailored trousers. “You and your damn daddy issues,” he sighs. “The potential to be the greatest wizard of all time, and yet you get hung up on the mere mention of your father’s name.”

Tom’s eyes narrow. “Watch yourself, MaIfoy.”

Abraxas clicks his tongue, completely unbothered. “Temper, temper, Tommy.”

“MY NAME IS TOM!”

The fury bursts from him—raw, restrained, volcanic—but Abraxas doesn’t even flinch. He smirks, smooth as ever. “Gods, you’re so temperamental about a name.”

Tom scoffs bitterly. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re a MaIfoy. Your name is associated with wealth and power.”

Abraxas simply shrugs. “Then make a new name for yourself.”

Tom rolls his eyes at Abraxas nonchalance. “I can’t just—”

“Says who?” Abraxas interrupts. “Make one that’s feared. Revered. One that makes others forget who your father was altogether. A name no one dares to speak.”

Tom goes quiet, and for a moment, you can almost see the gears in his mind turning.

Abraxas leans back on the desk again, smug as ever. His eyes never leaving Tom.

“Now, as much as I’d like to believe you tracked me down just to see me…” He lifts a brow, “I know better than that.”

Tom’s lips twitch at the corners.

“You’ve been benefitting quite a bit from our arrangement,” Abraxas says, plucking a gold pocket watch from the pocket of his vest. “Time is valuable, Riddle. As are favors.” He snaps the watch shut, slowly standing again. “You’ve had more than your fair share.”

Tom’s tone darkens. “I never asked for charity.”

“No,” Abraxas says, taking a step closer, “but you never refused the funding either. Or the rare texts from my private library. Or that lovely enchanted ring that let you master blood-binding magic in weeks.”

He’s standing in front of Tom now, watching him the way one might watch a volatile spell—dangerous, beautiful, necessary.

“Face it, Tommy,” he says, brushing imaginary dust from Tom’s collar. “You’ve been living off MaIfoy means for months.”

Tom doesn’t answer. Because he can’t deny it.

“Let’s not pretend you don’t like it,” Abraxas adds, his voice dipping. “You want control, and I give you the freedom to chase it—faster, smarter, better.”

He leans in, lips near Tom’s ear, voice silk-wrapped poison. “Power is expensive. And lucky for you… I have a particular fondness for funding beautiful disasters.”

Tom’s breath hitches just slightly as Abraxas’ hand cups his chin, forcing him to look him in the eye.

Tom hates needing him. But he hates the thought of losing him even more.

And Abraxas? He knows it. Every calculated inch of it.

“Tell me what you need, Tommy.”