Canis Major - Chapter 2 - Metalomagnetic

Chapter Text

He knew the victory would be sweeter when he works for it, when he is patient.

Sirius shows up at his door to tell him he abandoned Dumbledore- and oh, how sweet it is.

Sirius respects the old goat, unlike the rest of his Death Eaters. He sees Dumbledore’s greatness, just as Voldemort sees it.

Bella says Sirius spoke well of Dumbledore even in front of Orion.

And yet he left him. For Voldemort.

A victory over the old man.

“I won’t tell you anything I learned there,” Sirius says, and he looks apprehensive.

Of course, Sirius wouldn’t. That sense of honour of his won’t allow for it. He abandoned the Order, but he won’t betray what he learned when in their confidence.

Sirius is unlike any of the others that surround him. Despite his tough exterior and his occasional bursts of cruelty, Sirius has lines he will not cross.

Voldemort likes that about him. Integrity comes in rare supply these days.

(-)

It is impulsive, but not reckless. The desire overcomes him, as desire often does when Sirius is concerned, yet this time his mind approves of the sudden need that awakened inside him.

He slips the Horcrux on Sirius’ finger, and it feels right. It looks right.

It’s been a terrible evening; the appearance of the house-elf, the realisation he made mistakes, his desperation, his fear, and then Sirius offering him the explanation, the solution.

This young, young man, telling Lord Voldemort what he did wrong.

It has been a great evening, because now he knows something he hadn’t previously, he has better means of ensuring his safety, and it’s all because of Sirius.

Sirius protests when he sees the ring on his finger, sleep chased from his eyes, but Voldemort insists.

It might have been an impulsive decision, yet he knows this Horcrux will be safer than perhaps all the rest. Sirius will not allow any harm come to it.

As weeks pass, Sirius does not part with the ring. It’s always on his finger or on a chain around his neck.

He wears it openly in Death Eater meetings, and it pleases Voldemort greatly. Sirius is learning not to care about other’s opinions. And they do have opinions, to be sure.

Resigned disapproval is obvious on Rodolphus’ features, shock on Rabastan’s, disbelief on Avery’s.

Yaxley is too cunning to show any reaction, but Voldemort knows how to read people, and he sees the brief distaste in his eyes.

For once, Bellatrix is guarding her expression as perfectly as Lucius; for her, that’s a big reaction, in itself.

Sirius stares them all down, hostile, waiting for someone to voice discontent.

No one will. Voldemort would kill them if they would, and they know it.

Yaxley will tell Cygnus, as he’s prone to do, and Cygnus will tell Arcturus, but even they will know better than to interfere.

Sirius is his, publicly claimed now. Voldemort gave him his ring, and it is like marriage, is it not?

Until death do us part.

If the Blacks try to come between them, Voldemort will make sure they will lose Sirius for good. If they shut up and play nice, then Voldemort might even let Sirius take a wife, father an heir, a peace offering for Arcturus, for the beloved ghost of Orion, for that proud legacy of theirs. After that, they will finally leave Sirius alone. It’s all they want of him, in any case.

Curiously, Sirius gets unexpectedly upset when Voldemort mentions he will eventually marry.

It frustrates Voldemort, but he reminds himself Sirius is young, confused. He wants freedom, but he wants to be owned, too, deep down. He must. Why else get upset that Voldemort would allow him a wife?

Must be the dog inside him; dogs, Voldemort read, only have one master. They might like an entire family, protect it all from danger, but there is only one master.

Don’t you see I will still be your only master? Voldemort wants to scream at him. Letting him have a wife is not sharing Sirius, just…lending him back to the Blacks until he gets a girl pregnant. Voldemort would want to kill her, after, but he knows Sirius would throw a fit, so they’ll just send her…somewhere.

Of course, Voldemort would prefer Sirius not wed at all, he would prefer Sirius never leaves his house, but he is willing to compromise, if it is necessary.

Yet, when they are in bed and Sirius claims he will not marry, and that he isn’t sleeping around anymore, Voldemort wants to believe him, wants to believe Sirius will forget about the duty he he has to the Blacks, that he discards them and remains only Voldemort’s, in all ways.

You fool, a voice chides, how low you’ve fallen, clinging to the promises of a child.

“You should be happy,” Sirius says.

The problem is that Voldemort thinks he is happy, and he doesn’t trust it. Happiness is foreign to him, and whenever he experienced it, however briefly, life swiftly punished him for it.

Happiness, hope- they are dangerous things, untrustworthy; painful, when they are inevitably snatched away.

(-)

A gasp of pain wakes him; he’s in his home, safe, the fear retreating as he understands the danger only existed in his imagination; he realises the only danger around is him, not anyone else.

He turns his head towards the sound, half-surprised to find himself sitting upright already, and he sees Sirius crumbled on the floor, holding his side.

It takes another moment to realise he is the one that attacked Sirius.

He does not like it.

His mind tries to find justifications- it is Sirius’ fault. He is the reason Voldemort experienced something as pathetic as a nightmare. He hadn’t had one of those in decades, and even if he can’t truly recall what caused such horror in his dreams, he knows it is somehow because of Sirius.

However, a new type of unpleasantness travels down his spine as he watches the expression on that handsome face: pain, mixed with fear and concern.

He hates it. He hates that he hurt Sirius accidentally, no control over it, as if he’s a silly child that hasn’t mastered magic yet. He doesn’t want Sirius to fear him.

Voldemort moves to assist him, kneeling at his side, casting a diagnostic spell that comes back to inform him three ribs are cracked.

He fixes them, hurriedly, revulsion rolling inside his stomach. Somehow, it is made worse when Sirius’ fear vanishes, only concern flashing in his eyes as Voldemort helps him back to bed.

Everything you touch, you destroy, someone reminds him.

He flees, right after, unwilling to stand the situation any longer. He Disapparates as soon as he’s out of his home, and he breathes easier when he’s under the stars, on top of the cliff, watching down to where he knows the cave is, even if he can’t see it.

The sight always relaxes him, the memory of teaching those muggle children their rightful place; the memory of his power, one of the first instances he used it, one of the first times he made others understand he is not a victim, he is not easy prey.

He breathes in, calms, makes order in his mind; it is the most helpless feeling in the world, having his own mind turn on him, slip out of his control, but Voldemort restores order, swiftly.

A simple nightmare; he does remember they used to plague him in his youth. Embarrassing that it would happen again, but -

Don’t give it power. Do not think of it, do not award it importance.

Lord Voldemort discards any weakness, has always done so, successfully, and this is only a minor inconvenience. He can control it, after all. He won’t have another nightmare; if he has to, he won’t ever sleep again. This is under his control.

Sirius, though-

What if he leaves?

He wouldn’t leave, he tells himself. No one abandons Lord Voldemort.

But what if he becomes afraid of Voldemort? What if the adoration in his eyes will be tainted by fear and suspicion?

Worse, Sirius might think him feeble now, as a mortal with nightmares, as a weakling that does accidental magic well into his adulthood.

He’s sure Sirius never saw Orion in a panic after a nightmare-

Stop, he orders his mind. It really is racing ahead of him this early morning.

He rubs at his temples, frustrated.

He can solve it, he reminds himself. He won’t have any more nightmares, and he will return to the cabin and put Sirius at ease. Already, he can think of what to say, depending on what Sirius will say.

Dozens of lines come to him, easily, each appropriate for different reactions Sirius might have. He knows how to put anyone at ease, if he so desires. He hadn’t desired it in a very long time, he usually seeks terrifying people, yet he can do it, can he not?

As for Sirius thinking him a mere mortal- the boy is easily enough impressed. Voldemort will just have to display some dramatic magic around him, and Sirius will forget this...accident.

With one last glance in the direction of the cave, he returns home, ready to fix it.

He’s perplexed when he finds Sirius asleep.

Angry, too. What fool would go to sleep in Lord Voldemort’s bed, after Lord Voldemort attacked him?

How is this possible?

He imagined so many different reactions Sirius might have had, but sleeping?

This, he didn’t foresee, and it disturbs him. It’s been a while since he failed to anticipate someone’s move, and it makes him doubt himself.

He glares at Sirius, standing above him, more and more frustrated.

He checks on his ribs, since apparently he’s incompetent now, maybe he didn’t fix them well, maybe Sirius isn’t asleep but is suffering from internal bleeding from a rib puncturing an organ-

No, the ribs are fine.

The sight of his wand drawn, waving above an unconscious Sirius, however-

You destroy everything you touch, a voice tells him, a familiar voice that sends a shiver down his spine, and yet he cannot place it, cannot determine who it belongs to.

Voldemort flees once more, this time to the kitchen.

He busies himself with a kettle, and refuses to consider anything else, choosing to focus on what he should make for breakfast.

He drinks two cups of tea, smokes almost half of Sirius’ cigarettes, waiting for him to wake.

He usually has tea with Bella, but he’s in no mood for it now, unwilling to risk Sirius waking up alone, deciding to leave if Voldemort isn’t around.

When Sirius does wake, Voldemort hurries to his desk, pretending he’s reading, that he hadn’t just spent hours pacing, smoking and drinking tea, like a …like someone that has nothing else to do with their time.

“ ‘morning,” Sirius yawns, stepping inside the living room.

“It’s almost noon,” Voldemort says, without looking up.

“And yet it smells like breakfast,” Sirius quips, amusem*nt in his tone.

Voldemort finally looks up. There’s no fear in Sirius’ expression; no disappointment. No reproach in his eyes.

It’s as if nothing happened.

Of course, Voldemort thinks, relived. He…forgets- or, rather he can’t grasp the fact that Sirius so easily forgives transgression against his person.

Voldemort would never forgive, after all, so he’s struggling to remember that Sirius easily dismisses unforgivable acts.

He is torn between a desire to hurt all those people that hurt Sirius before him, that trained such a magnificent creature into accepting pain and mistreatment, and being grateful for it, because -

Because it makes this easier.

They can put it behind them. Sirius certainly did, acts as he always does; he truly thinks nothing of the unpleasant incident.

Yes, we can put it behind us.

(-)

Only, he can’t.

Apparently, it was a minor thing- and it makes him wonder if maybe people have nightmares often, react badly to them, and this is why Sirius gave it no importance, yet Voldemort cannot let it go.

It haunts him.

The memory of Sirius crumpled by the wall- it assaults him at the oddest of times, days after it happened.

You destroy everything you touch.

Voldemort hasn’t slept again. He sleeps little, anyway. It is no chore. He stands by the bed and watches Sirius, instead.

Or he lies with him, holds him to his chest, enjoying his warmth.

However, it becomes apparent, it is a chore, as two weeks pass by. Lord Voldemort he might be, but his body is still mortal, even if he is not. Still so frail. It requires rest.

Sirius is always around, and it brings Voldemort joy that he practically moved in, that he never wants to leave the cabin, yet it makes it complicated for him to grab an hour or two of rest.

He thinks to do it in Rodolphus’ office. No one would bother him there, and Sirius would just assume Voldemort is working, busy with the war, being productive and mysterious.

Only he cannot rest there. It’s not safe, it’s not his home.

It’s Bella’s home. Rodolphus’, his mind begs him to accept that there is no danger there, either.

Yet he can’t.

He never slept well; at the orphanage, there were always dangers. At Hogwarts, his year mates often troubled him when he went to sleep, in those first years. In Knockturn Alley, there were thieves and murderers all around. In his travels- well, more dangerous thieves and murderers. Sleeping was always such a burden, so unsafe.

And then he came back to England, and he made a home. He built it on his own, raised it with magic, with spells and charms and in a location he knew was safe.

He slept well, there. He still feels safe, especially now that he rectified the house-elf problem.

For once, it isn’t his safety that concerns him, but Sirius’.

What if he has another nightmare, and he does much worse than throwing Sirius into a wall?

What if he wakes up and Sirius is dead?

Unthinkable.

(-)

He fails, eventually. He falls asleep, while holding Sirius. He wakes almost confused, the sun high in the sky.

He hasn’t slept past sunrise since…he can’t remember ever sleeping past sunrise.

Eight hours, he discovers, when he checks his watch. Sirius’ watch, that sits snugly on his wrist, ever since Sirius threw it at him.

After you violated his mind, caused him pain-

He shakes his head, and hurries away, pretending he’s been busy. Sirius wakes only minutes after, and he can’t believe he almost out slept Sirius Black.

(-)

Some great feeling, painful in its intensity, tightens around Voldemort’s chest as he watches Sirius ripping out a man’s throat.

It started when Sirius, in his dog form, smashed through the window, taking the Norwegian wizard with him, but now, as Voldemort flies after them and sees those fangs ripping apart flesh, blood spraying everywhere-

As a wizard, he’s never seen such messy, close and personal deaths.

Not even as a muggle, really. He’d seen men stabbed, but this is different.

He wonders how it feels, to kill with his teeth, to taste death on his tongue. Not even his most sad*stic Death Eaters would know- perhaps just Fenrir.

Will it bother him, later? Sirius often gets carried away in the heat of the moment, lets his rage rule him, but his conscience sometimes haunts him, afterwards.

Voldemorts wants to see him, desperately- not as a dog, but as a man.

It’s terrifying how much he wants Sirius. Confusing, too, because he has him, he marked him, he charmed him, Sirius is his already, but Voldemort wants more. Wants to hold on to him, to have him close, wants to keep him, and he doesn’t know how to satisfy this need, doesn’t know what more he can take from Sirius when he is already Voldemort’s.

He forces him back into his human shape; his beautiful, perfect features, a blend of strong bone structures, harsh eyes, and delicate eyelashes, soft lips- it’s been quite some time, yet Voldemort’s heart always skips a beat when he sees that face. And now, covered in blood-

“I told you to leave.”

Voldemort ordered it, because he does not want Sirius in harm's way, because Sirius distracts him to insanity.

During the meeting, when Sirius lost his temper and threatened the northerners, he acted so rashly, so fast, and Voldemort was too distracted, he wasted seconds staring at Sirius, at the way he loomed over his opponent.

Chaos erupted over the room, and yet for a few seconds Voldemort could only look at Sirius, enchanted.

Voldemort had insults hurled at him for as long as he’d been alive, he is accustomed to them, they bounce off his skin, they cannot harm him.

Yet in half a century, no one, ever, has stood up for him, and in such a dangerous situation, for such tame insults.

It paralysed him.

“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Sirius says, and that tightness around Voldemort’s chest turns to squeezing. It hurts.

How can it hurt, when he likes what he is hearing?

Voldemort kisses him, tastes death on those lips, but life, too.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he says, biting Sirius’ lip. “However, I don’t need your support.”

“You have it, anyway,” Sirius cuts over him.

Sirius will drive him insane.

He takes them to the villa Lucius got for them, though it takes discipline to wait even those few moments needed to pass by Lucius, climb to his room.

Voldemort is burning, a fire spreading under his skin, and he cannot understand how it is possible to feel this way, to be driven mindless with need.

He should be in control of whatever there is between them, yet he’s starting to doubt he has any more control than Sirius.

He always planned ahead, had a goal in mind, yet often with Sirius he just…exists in the moment, completely overwhelmed by this young man, who isn’t even trying to manipulate Voldemort, to make him forget about everything else.

That is the most intriguing aspect of this madness- that it’s not intentional on Sirius’ part. There is no plot, no tactic, just Sirius.

For once, when they are on the bed, Sirius doesn’t get tense when he finds himself underneath Voldemort.

“What can I do to you?”

“Anything,” Sirius urges. “Everything.” He reaches out, grabs Voldemort’s arm and pulls him closer. “f*ck me.”

He’d fantasied about this for a shameful amount of time, more curious each day, and yet now that it’s finally happening, the strongest impulse in Voldemort’s mind is not to hurt Sirius.

Don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him.

Everything you touch, you destroy, another voice says, almost mocking, yet it’s dispelled fast when he’s inside Sirius.

He can hardly breathe, air knocked from his lungs; he is dizzy, intoxicated, as if he were drunk. Even like this, Voldemort’s need for Sirius only increases; he still wants more, wants to rip Sirius’ heart and trap it inside his own chest, a twin to his own.

Will that be enough? No. Voldemort would still want more.

“I’m not going to break,” Sirius says, voice rough, when Voldemort moves so slowly inside him.

He doesn’t doubt it. In all his mortal fragility, Sirius is contradictorily unbreakable.

“Perhaps I will.”

He fears Sirius broke him already, in some ways, yet…since knowing him, Voldemort feels complete.

(-)

His dresser is now filled with robes Sirius bought for him, to the extent Voldemort needs to get rid of his old ones, since there’s no space for all. He could make space, but why? He doesn’t need so many robes.

He takes his old ones off hangers, but at the last moment he decides to fold them, instead of throwing them, store them in the torture barn- in his shed.

I’ll get rid of them later, he thinks. He puts them in a box, near other boxes filled with things he never got around to throwing away. He stashes them all under the table he used to have in his kitchen before Sirius wanted a bigger one.

In one of the boxes, a very old silver thimble catches his eye. He bends, takes it from the box, remembers a young girl crying, begging he hands it back to her.

He did, once, because Dumbledore forced him to return it, but he stole it back the following year, when he returned from his first year at Hogwarts and realised Dumbledore doesn’t have any means of keeping track of these things.

He smiles, pleased, before he puts it back in the box.

“It’s the only thing I’ve got from my mother, Tom! Please! Please, give it back! I’ll give you all my other toys, please, Tom!”

I don’t have anything from my mother, he thinks, and decides it’s only fair Annie loses the thimble.

(-)

He’s intrigued with the pleasure he feels when he finds Sirius in his house, waiting for him. Reading, or sleeping, or messing around with some artefacts Voldemort collected over the years.

It’s such a strange type of gratification, a little thrill that starts even before he gets home. Just the thought that when he’ll return, he’ll find Sirius there is enough to provide him with some excitement.

He hated when the orphans would go into his room at Wool’s. For many years, he had to share, and it was awful. There was no privacy, he was only allowed a nightstand to claim as his own, to store his few possessions, but there was no way to guard it.

Eventually, when he was around seven or eight years old, when he was starting to be in control of his magic, and the disagreements between him and the others turned more…bloody, he was finally allowed his own room.

It was a hassle for Cole, and for the others. There were too many of them, more and more each year as the global depression worsened, and Cole had to arrange things around, pile more children on top of the other in different rooms, just so Tom could have his own. It felt like triumph, having the power to inconvenience an entire building, just so he can get what he wanted. His own room.

Of course, the older children still attempted to bother him there, to steal from him when he wasn’t inside, but he’d do his best to settle those scores, to discourage them from trying. Eventually, he spent an entire night kneeling by his door, touching it, willing it to never open again, unless he wanted it to open. And it worked. No one could come inside.

That’s when Cole asked the priest to bless the orphanage, when talk of exorcism first started.

When that failed, she brought doctors to ‘have a look at him, he’s not normal’.

‘He isn’t,’ one doctor agreed. ‘He is extremely gifted, Miss Cole. A special child, indeed.’

‘He’s wrong! He’s a terror and none of us can live in peace around him!’

‘He’s especially intelligent. I imagine he gets bored easily in this place, with such little stimulation. Talk to his teachers, perhaps they should allow him to attend classes with older students, challenge him a bit.’

‘He’s already doing that,’ Miss Cole complains, exasperated. ‘He’s attending classes with children three years older than he is!’

Another doctor concurred that he was intelligent, but he heard him telling Cole that he was concerned with his behaviour. ‘He’s displaying some worrisome traits. I’d keep a close eye on him. It is good you separated him from the rest.’

‘Can’t you take him away to an asylum? Or at least treat him, give him some medicine?’

‘He’s too young for any treatment-’

‘I’ve asked around and heard of this new procedure- a lobotomy, was it?’

‘We are yet unsure of its success. It is experimental.’

Doctors kept coming and going, and, with each new visit, he learned what to tell them, what answers were wrong or right, what would appease them.

‘She’s the crazy one,’ he told one doctor, making sure his eyes were wide, having practiced a fearful look in the mirror. ‘She thinks I can talk to snakes, that I can move things around with my mind. She’s speaking of devils and possession, especially when she drinks her gin. She frightens me, Doctor.’

When the doctors started questioning Cole’s sanity, instead of his own, she stopped calling them, resigned herself to nailing crosses outside of his room, onto his door.

At Hogwarts, there was no way to get a room of his own. His magic was useless there, around other magical children. So he had to share, and he despised it. No one needed to steal from him, all rich children, but they liked to mess around with his things, spill ink on his second-hand books, destroy his clothing. For the first couple of years, he couldn’t fight back, he didn’t know how to. Even if he could best the others with magic, he would have to worry about something that was a non issue at Wool’s: parents. Older siblings.

He couldn’t fight entire families, so he suffered all those indignities in silence.

Even in his later years at school, when finally the others learned to begrudgingly respect him, when no one would mess with his things, he still despised sharing a room.

His first flat, a dilapidated, mouldy room above a potion shop in Knockturn- it was ugly, tiny, nothing worked inside it, but he treasured it. It was his own space, and he fixed it, made it better, made it his. Orderly, quiet, safe.

He never shared space with anyone after that.

Until Sirius.

And now, Voldemort finds himself pleased with Sirius in his house, in his rooms, touching his things. Finds himself appreciating the talks they have, the music Sirius plays, far more than he used to appreciate silence.

When he finds discarded leather trousers, an odd boot, an empty pack of cigarettes half hidden under the couch, a mug of tea staining his coffee table- it provokes a brief sense of annoyance, disturbs that part of his brain that abhors disorder, yet after he cleans up, he realises he enjoys proof of Sirius’ existence all around the house.

He enjoys coming home to Sirius, instead of an empty, quiet house. On occasions when he doesn’t find Sirius there, he grows displeased, angry even. He imagines ways to keep Sirius there, at all times.

Dogs don’t leave their master’s house, when the master is away, do they? Sirius shouldn’t leave. Voldemort does not like him leaving.

It wouldn’t be smart to force him to stay, he reminds himself.

After all, Voldemort bit his tongue, controlled his temper, never asked Sirius to stay, never asked him where he is going when he left, and, eventually, Sirius chose on his own to stay more often, to bring his clothes with him.

With each month, he sleeps more and more in Voldemort’s bed.

In our bed, he tastes the thought, carefully.

For the first time, he doesn’t mind sharing.

He likes how much space Sirius takes; sprawled over the bed, limbs thrown haphazardly, lounging on the couch in positions that hurt Voldemort’s bones just looking at him; even his mess, the way Sirius leaves his clothes everywhere, dumps them on the floor whenever he wants to get out of them, books discarded all over the place, impromptu ashtrays, made from glasses or small plates- it should, and sometimes it does annoy Voldemort.

Yet it’s also …lively, for lack of a better word. Sirius fills up the house in a way Voldemort never could.

And while he would usually hate doing a task only to have to repeat it the next day-the next hour- cleaning up after Sirius is not unpleasant. It calms the part of him that demands order, yet he knows Sirius will just make a mess again shortly. It’s almost a ritual- messy, yes, but predictable, constant.

Even in the garden… his bike now occupies a place there, oil stains all over, and when Sirius tinkers with it, metal parts and screws are forgotten around it when he gets bored.

The only safe place is the torture bar- the shed! Sirius is not allowed inside, because there are dangerous, extremely rare potions there. Delicate things, and nothing delicate survives long around Sirius.

Voldemort was perpetually annoyed at privileged, unaware rich boys. Until he met Sirius .

There’s something almost…compelling, innocent, in the ways Sirius expects food to grow in the pantry, it never crosses his mind things have to be brought in. In the way he spares no thought on how or when his discarded clothes get cleaned.

How careless he is with his possessions. Sirius can replace everything he owns, easily, so he values nothing.

Except his key chain, where a miniature Romanian Longhorn hangs.

He knows Sirius also values Tom’s Riddle’s photograph, even if he doesn’t bring that one into the cabin, probably afraid Voldemort would destroy it if he had it close by.

He gets so drunk sometimes he manages to misplace his bike, yet the keychain is never lost.

The damned photograph, in his old empty house, is guarded by no less than seven curses, two of them blood wards.

It’s the contradiction this boy is; careless, and yet so careful when it matters.

(-)

The nightmares come and go, and Voldemort learns to…accept them.

It is vexing, embarrassing, to wake up sitting, heart beating wildly in his chest, but at least he never attacks Sirius again.

And Sirius has the grace to pretend he’s sleeping through them. He isn’t, Voldemort easily perceives the change in his breathing, he knows Sirius is awake, but if they both pretend he isn’t…then it might as well not be happening.

Nothing changes in the way Sirius looks at him, no matter how many nightmares Voldemort has. Sirius doesn’t think less of him because of it.

In his experience, any weakness will be held against him, but, after all, in his long life, he hadn’t met someone like Sirius, someone to accept Voldemort, even if he has flaws. Not many, of course. Not flaws, he corrects. Just some…limitations placed on him by a mortal body.

“Do you have nightmares?” he asks Bella, one morning, enjoying a cup of tea together.

“Rarely,” Bella says, with a small frown. “A Healer once told Mother nightmares are only a manifestation of the fears and frustrations we experience in our waking world. She has plenty of those, so she always slept poorly. I rest easily, my lord. I live the life I want, I stay true to myself, and my sleep reflects it.” She peers at him from under her long, thick eyelashes, so similar to her cousin’s. “Sirius, however…” she trails off, imagining that’s why Voldemort is asking, because he discovered Sirius is having nightmares. Not that Bella ever acknowledged before that they are sleeping together. “He isn’t true to himself, he’s so torn between two worlds, that I am sure he has nightmares.”

Voldemort is intrigued by her explanations. They can’t be based in truth. Voldemort is true to himself, he lives the life he wants, so why is he having nightmares?

“Besides,” she adds, and now her glance turns sharper. Maybe even…accusatory? “Dark magic can cause nightmares. And I think he’s practicing a tad too much, lately.”

“Nonsense,” Voldemort waves it away. What strange notions.

Sirius? Practicing too much? Ridiculous. Sirius is practically an innocent little lamb, when it comes to the Arts. Compared to Voldemort, at least.

He knows the Arts can affect weaker beings, but Sirius is a Black, he is strong, dark magic is in his veins.

As it is in Bella’s. She just said she isn’t bothered by nightmares and she’s far more experienced with the Arts.

He sighs. Bella usually has interesting advice, interesting insight, but sometimes she fails him.

It is bound to happen. She is outstanding, a bright mind surrounded by dim ones, but she is only human, after all.

“Does Rodolphus experience nightmares?”

She bites her lip. “Here and there, yes.”

“Is he not being true to himself?” Voldemort mocks.

She lowers her voice, and her eyes spark with fury. “It’s- it’s his father, my lord,” she spits. “He tormented Rod when he was a child. It stays with him, still. I wish he were alive, so I might kill him. Slowly.”

This makes Voldemort uncomfortable, for some reason, so he drops the subject.

(-)

“You know that muggle sport? Box?” Sirius asks him. He often asks Voldemort about muggle things.

“I do.”

“Why is it called ‘gentlemen’s sport’? Looks fun, don’t get me wrong, but not very …civilised.”

“When it first became popular, only the upper class could afford boxing lessons,” Voldemort explains. “It has rules, such as no hitting below the belt, or no hitting an opponent when he’s down. No elbows, no knees, no tricks. Thus, unlike other muggles brutalising each other, this was considered quite civilised and honourable.”

“Huh.” Sirius smiles. “I like it. I saw a match on the..telly?” The last word is said uncertainly, a hint of question to it. “I was at this muggle girl's house- that thing, the black box that plays movies.”

“Television.”

Sirius nods. “Does it come with every muggle house? Did you have one at the orphanage?”

Voldemort laughs. “No. It was a recent invention back then. The first time I’ve encountered one was in the early fifties. Muggles were excited, saying they can watch the Queen’s coronation. I went to a pub, curious, and that’s the first time I experienced it.”

“How does that work, exactly? Sending real images to the little boxes?”

“Radio waves, transmission towers and antennas.”

Sirius blinks at him so Voldemort attempts explaining to a pureblood wizard what antennas are, and how they would capture broadcasts. “Like the radio,” he says, eventually. “Wizards use the radio, through muggle transmission towers-”

“We do?” Sirius looks shocked. “I thought we used magic for it.”

Of course you did. “There is magic involved, to hide the frequencies from muggles, but yes- it’s through their infrastructure. A mudblood and a squib introduced radios to the wizarding world and figured out how to hide it from muggles.”

Unlike most purebloods, Sirius is always willing to learn how muggles function. He isn’t too interested, he obviously thinks muggles incredibly strange, prefers his wizarding ways, but when something captures his interest, he listens, attentive.

“So, if you didn’t have this telly thing when you were a kid, and you didn’t have wizarding entertainments…what on earth did you do with your time?”

“I survived,” Voldemort says. “That took most of my time. Figured out ways how to get food.”

“They didn’t feed you?” Sirius looks outraged.

“They tried,” Voldemort says. “However, the economy was terrible back then. Wasting money on orphans was low on the list of priorities. We had food, but never enough, never filling. Endless soups, watered down to last longer. The porridge was watered down, too. Those that resigned themselves to what was given at the orphanage didn’t fare too well when the flu season started. The Matron pretended not to see us sneaking out- some begged, hanging around restaurants, the prettiest, smallest children usually. But the taller you grew, people were less inclined to throw you a penny or a piece of fruit. I stole.” He smiles, nostalgic, remembering how powerful he felt when he discovered he could open purses just by wishing them open; how he could cause a small distraction with his mind- make a branch fall, make someone trip, enough that it would distract his target, and his hand would find their pockets. How he simply wanted very badly for a bracelet to unclasp, fall to the ground, where he was quick to snatch it up.

‘How do you do that?’ the homeless veteran asks, startling Tom. He thought he made sure no one was paying attention, but the man moved so quietly when he wanted to.

‘I’m a superhero,’ he says.

A gentleman brought something called comics to Wool’s, and, for once, it wasn’t just Tom that wanted to read- all the boys wanted to know more about it.

The man laughs. ‘What do you plan to do with that bracelet?’

‘Take it to a pawnbroker.’

‘You’re a child, they’ll know you stole it and call the police.’

Tom shakes his head. ‘The man at the street corner doesn’t call the police-’

‘He’s ripping you off, lad. Give it to me, he won’t be ripping me off, that’s for sure. And then we’ll split the-’

Tom laughs. ‘I’m not giving you the bracelet.’

The man smiles. ‘Good. You aren’t stupid, you learned already you can’t trust anyone. Come with me, then. We’ll pretend you are my son.’

Tom goes along, just because he wants to pretend he has a father. Of course, his father wouldn’t be a cripple, a homeless veteran. His father is a gentleman, a man of means and education. At least Tom wants that to be true. Even so, he wants to experience how it would feel to have a father, any type of father. So he goes along to the pawnbroker, watches silently as the man intimidates the shop owner, how he looms over him, even crippled as he is. Tom’s eyes go wild when he sees how much money they get for the bracelet.

He is sure the veteran will refuse to give Tom his share, he gets ready to fight, to use his powers, as soon as they get out of the shop, but he offers half of it to Tom.

‘Why don’t we do this again, lad? You’re good at stealing, and I can sell them for you. I can teach you what jewels are more precious than others, what would sell better, yes? What do you say? Partners?’

(-)

“I like the bathtub,” Sirius says, one evening, leaning on Voldemort, in said bathtub.

“Am I hearing that right?” he teases. "There’s something you don’t want to replace in this house?”

Sirius is steadily replacing almost every piece of furniture. Voldemort is running out of storage room in the shed. Again. He just enlarged the small building, the previous month, but he’ll have to do it again, because all his old furniture doesn’t fit there anymore, even if he shrank most of it.

He really should just get rid of it, but he keeps postponing it.

Even the kitchen wasn’t spared. Sirius has no idea what goes on in there, Voldemort didn’t imagine the kitchen was in peril, but just the other day he opened cabinets only to see his cutlery replaced with silverware.

Goblin made, with intricate handles.

His goblets now are made of silver, too, with the Black motto engraved on them.

“They were just collecting dust at my house,” Sirius said, when Voldemort gave him an exasperated look. “Marlene helped me put them away, before- well, some time ago.” He peers at Voldemort, with a small and sudden frown, as if something just occurred to him. “Wait, you don’t mind the motto, right?”

“Why would I?” He examines one of the goblets, admires the perfect attention to detail, how fine the lines are.

“Well, because you’re a -I mean- it bothered Lily. Or James. It was probably James, actually. The ‘toujours pur’ part.”

Voldemort snorts.

“It’s annoying, really,” Sirius tilts his head so he can look at Voldemort, even if he’s lying on him, back to chest. “Everyone these days is into showers. No one appreciates a good bath anymore. I like this.”

He liked it better once he brought scented candles, to replace Voldemort’s old ones. Scented soaps, too.

Rodolphus sniffed him the other day. He just gave Voldemort an incredulous look, and then both pretended it hadn’t happened.

“I’m old,” Voldemort says, still teasing, one hand playing with Sirius’ hair. It’s just as beautiful when it’s wet. “I must have some comforts, at least.”

Sirius laughs. “Well, I’m not old, and I still prefer a bath over a shower.”

Voldemort remembers the pools at the Black manor. Sirius thinks there’s only one pool, the one under the enchanted ceiling, of almost Olympic size.

But even the guest chamber they shared for a couple of nights had a small pool for a bathtub.

Anyone would rather that over a shower.

In Voldemort’s first flat, in Knockturn, no matter what he did to his bathroom, how clean he made it, it was so small, that Voldemort preferred to spend as little time as possible in it. A shower served him well.

Sirius turns, with no concern over displacing the water, sloshing over the edges, soaking into the carpet.

Voldemort should just let the carpet go. Sirius always gets it wet. And not just the carpet. He often strolls naked and dripping water, from the bathroom straight into bed.

If they weren’t wizards and he couldn’t fix it all fast with a wand, he’d have probably killed Sirius by now.

Alas, he chooses to be amused by it, rather than annoyed.

Sirius straddles him, head corked to the side, lips pulled into a smile. Slowly, he trails his fingers over Voldemort’s jaw, down his neck, over his chest.

“Not bad, for an old man,” he says, the smile turning into a smirk. “Not bad at all.”

Voldemort feels Sirius getting hard, pressed over him.

His body responds in kind.

It’s Sirius that turns into a dog, yet Voldemort is the one that developed a sort of pavlovian response.

He really should be too old for it, but whenever Sirius expresses even a hint of arousal, Voldemort soon joins him. Not too old in body, as a wizard he does age slower, to say nothing of his immortality, but in mind. Surely, it’s not normal to be as lustful as a twenty-year-old.

“Will the Horcrux stop your aging or-” Sirius asks, some curiosity flickering through his eyes, already darkening with arousal.

“Not truly.” He actually isn’t sure. He did age, after the first couple of ones. But then there are the runes, too, meant to preserve his body and all he put it through. “Even if I do age,” he mocks. “You’re pretty enough for the both of us.”

Sirius hates being called pretty. If Voldemort would have said it even a couple of months before, Sirius would have taken great offence to it.

He most likely considers the adjective feminine.

Sirius snarls, though it lacks the usual venom. His fingers grab Voldemort’s shoulder, tightening.

He meant to go for the neck, Voldemort knows, he caught the last second redirection of his hand.

It’s something he noticed long ago, Sirius’ reluctancy about touching his neck. He has no trouble with anything else, he’s a rough man, he grabs Voldemort with impunity, but he stays away from Voldemort’s neck.

A part of him is amused by it. The other not so much, because Sirius is afraid- of what, Voldemort isn’t exactly sure, but Sirius clearly fears Voldemort would not accept it, that he’d - what? What does he think I’d do to him?

Voldemort has no such considerations. He is far more careful with Sirius’ body that Sirius is with his, but he takes great pleasure in sucking bruises on Sirius’ neck. Painless, but there.

One of these days, he’ll prohibit Sirius from healing them when he leaves the house. He enjoys seeing the faint marks on that long neck of his.

Perhaps a primitive desire, but he enjoys having visual proof of his claim over Sirius.

He pulls Sirius by his neck, brings him flush against him, and he kisses him. More water sloshes out of the bathtub, and this time it’s his fault.

He wonders if he’ll ever tire of this; of the closeness, the intimacy. Of Sirius.

He doubts it. Once he takes an interest in something, in never goes away.

He can no longer imagine his life without Sirius. When he looks back at the decades spent without him, Voldemort wonders how he endured them.

He wonders if he knew there’s something missing.

Their erections press together, jolts of pleasures traveling everywhere.

Sirius thrusts against him, Voldemort holds him close, licks inside his mouth, around his teeth, basking in all those sensations.

The world fades away, as it always does in these moments; he never was part of the world, ever so distant from it, but he was always aware it’s there, that he doesn’t fit.

Now it’s as if the rest of the world disappears altogether, only he and Sirius exist, together, taking pleasure in each other.

Muggles like to write about dystopian futures, of lone survivors after some cataclysm or another; the prose always indicates it’s such a horrible thing, but for Voldemort, that lonely existence, the struggle for survival against all odds has always been his experience.

He’d thrive in a world like that. Muggles see it as horror, but those stories are peaceful to him.

An earth devoid of humans, all to himself.

And Sirius. Just them, with no one to impose on their time.

He imagines it’s the case, right then. That outside the cabin, the world died, due to muggle atomics, or whatever else.

Everyone is dead, and Sirius won’t leave to visit his family or his friends; his Death Eaters won’t call him, won’t need him for whatever they managed to mess up.

A shiver of satisfaction goes through him.

His org*sm, when it comes, takes him by surprise. He didn’t think what they were doing was conductive to climax, he thought eventually they’d relocate to the bed, but apparently not.

Sirius follows him, some moments later, the grunt he makes swallowed by Voldemort.

And then he collapses entirely over him. He stops kissing Voldemort, draws his head back just enough to look at him.

He grins, lazily. “I really like the bathtub,” he says.

Voldemort’s mind is still affected by the unexpected org*sm. He’s come to only expect those in certain circ*mstances.

He enjoys it- oh, how he enjoys it- but he’s skeptical of the minutes that follow an org*sm, when he feels sluggish, relaxed, depleted of his focus and anger. He isn’t sure how to exist without those, his constant companions through life.

Sirius straightens above him, stretches.

Voldemort blinks up at him, still very much content, unwilling to move much.

He reaches out, trails his fingers over the dragon tattoo. It’s settled now, like a big, monstrous cat, tail tucked, head resting on Sirius’ shoulder, the rest of its body occupying most of Sirius’s side, parts of his upper abdomen.

There’s sem*n on it, and it pleases Voldemort that he can’t tell whose it is. He rubs it into the skin, with his thumb.

The dragon twitches.

When Sirius is angry, the dragon paints flames all over his torso and back, or so Sirius claims.

Voldemort would like to see it, but he would never make Sirius angry when he’s naked.

No, when Sirius is naked, he wants him like this; satisfied, smiling, at ease.

“I’m thinking of getting another tattoo,” Sirius says, looking down at Voldemort’s fingers. “On the other side.”

Where the phoenix used to be. Sirius burned his skin off to get rid of it, and didn’t heal it quite as perfectly as he could have. A small scar remains.

“A snake,” he adds.

At first, Voldemort thinks he’s joking, that Sirius is teasing him.

“You already got one,” Voldemort grabs his left hand, presses his fingers over his Mark.

Sirius’ eyes flutter in pleasure.

Voldemort can send whatever sensations he wants through the Mark. Before Sirius, he never had cause to make it feel pleasant for the wearer.

“And I have one in my bed,” Sirius says, and this time he is joking, as he winks at Voldemort. “But no. Something grander. A basilisk. Would go well with the dragon- big and scaly and deadly.”

“You won’t find too many people able to draw you a perfect rendition of a basilisk. Most that see them, perish. Those that survived, didn’t take a good look at a basilisk’s face.”

“I have a basilisk head at home,” Sirius boasts. “One of my ancestors offed one and preserved the head as a trophy. It’s in the attic, at our country manor. It’s missing the eyes, but still- I can imagine the eyes. I’d make them red.” He winks at Voldemort again.

“They’re supposed to be yellow.”

“How would you know? No one knows for sure.”

“True. I asked one, but she didn’t know, either.”

“You asked one? A basilisk?” Sirius’s lazy demeanour goes away, replaced by curiosity.

“You do remember I can talk to snakes, no?”

“Yes, but- a basilisk? Where would you find one, they’re extremely rare- did you hatch one?”

Voldemort laughs. “No.”

“Then?” Sirius leans closer, using his hand on Voldemort’s chest as support. “Come on, tell me!”

You really shouldn’t.

Why not, though? He gave Sirius his soul, he trusts Sirius with his soul, with his body, why not this?

“I inherited one.”

Sirius blinks. “You…inherited a basilisk? Don’t mock me!”

“I’m not.”

Sirius casts him a doubtful look.

“I am the Heir of Slytherin, you know that.”

“Yeah, but who would-” Something flashes in those intelligent eyes of his.

He likes how smart Sirius is, how fast he figures out things.

“You don’t mean…in the Chamber of Secrets? No, that can’t be-it’s not real-”

“Oh, it is very much real,” Voldemort says, taking pleasure in divulging this secret.

He told no one. He didn’t have anyone to trust. It took away from his joy of finding the Chamber, the basilisk.

He wrote it on the walls, yes, for the entire school to see, but most didn’t believe the Chamber truly exists, and even those that did believe, didn’t know it was him. And no one ever knew what laid inside it. Not even Dumbledore.

“I heard rumours about it being opened, and I asked mum and dad, since it was in their time- oh.” Sirius’s eyes grow wide. “But they said it was just Hagrid and his pets. Right! When I spoke to Hagrid about his school years, trying to learn your name, he did say you framed him! I thought he’s just an idiot that refused to believe his pet Acromantula actually killed a student!”

Voldemort smiles. “Yes, that’s what everyone believed.”

“There’s a basilisk at Hogwarts?”

He nods.

Sirius stares at him with awe, and then he throws back his head and laughs.

Voldemort lathers his hands with one of those fancy soaps Sirius brought, starts washing Sirius, enjoying the feel of hard muscle under his hands.

“From Salazar, right? That’s what the myth says, that Salazar put it there. But how was it alive by the time you got to school?”

“She was in a magical sleep,” Voldemort answers. The dragon is awake, and it stretches its wings when Voldemort washes that side of Sirius.

He tells him the story, how much he searched for the Chamber, how excited he was when he finally found it.

How it felt to look upon Salazar’s statue, and know he’s been right in suspecting he wasn’t a mudblood. How validated he felt, knowing he comes from a bloodline so ancient, that his ancestor built the very school that was teaching Voldemort magic.

He doesn’t tell Sirius how his eyes had grown wet with emotion at finally seeing a relative of his, even if Salazar was made of marble.

“You should have told the others,” Sirius says, softly. “If they knew who you were…”

“I found the Chamber, and thus knew that I am Slytherin’s heir for sure, in my fifth year. By then, no one was bothering me anymore. Well-except Walburga.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “That woman…”

“I have a feeling knowing I was half-Gaunt wouldn't have appeased her, in any case.”

“Probably not,” Sirius mutters.

Of course it wouldn’t have. Voldemort was still a half-blood, raised by muggles. He was still poor.

Still other, no matter if he had such an impressive ancestor.

“I did tell some of them when I came back from my travels, I let people see that I can control snakes. But back then I couldn’t. Especially after that girl died. I didn’t want risking Dumbledore making someone confess.”

Sirius bites his lip. “Why did you kill her? I think I remember people saying the girl was twelve…”

He looks troubled, almost. He knows Voldemort kills plenty of people, and he takes no issue with it, but apparently this worries him.

“It was an accident. I was in a hurry, I didn’t check my surroundings when I let the basilisk out. I realised too late that I wasn’t alone. It was over very fest. The girl looked at the basilisk, and she looked back.”

“Oh.” Sirius’ troubled expression goes away. “So, where is the Chamber?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

Sirius throws some water on his face. “Come on! I can’t believe I never found it! I thought I knew every corner of that castle. I even made a map of it!”

“What map?”

So Sirius tells him about it, as Voldemort repositions them so he can wash Sirius’ hair.

It’s quite impressive, really, what these boys managed to create in their seventh year.

Especially, the locator spells, that, if Sirius’ boasting is true, wouldn’t be fooled even by Polyjuice or an animagus form.

“It was my contribution,” Sirius says. “Found the spell in Grimmauld’s library, when I was fourteen. I was intrigued with it, could barely understand what the author was going on about. Father came home and saw that I was reading it. He explained it to me.”

It truly is an incredibly complicated charm, the theory so long it takes up almost sixty pages. Not many books bother including it. But Orion was a Charm Master, after all. Grimmauld plays host to many, many rare tomes, and not just about charms.

“Peter is the one that drew most of the map. When he’s a rat, he can get in spaces we can’t, so he spent most of his seventh year running around Hogwarts as a rat, mapping it all out. f*ck, that’s so good,” he hisses, when Voldemort massages his scalp. “Keep doing it!”

Voldemort should be upset with how often Sirius barks orders at him. But he’s not.

“James and Remus were responsible with making it visible only to those that knew how to activate it. They taught it how to insult intruders.” Sirius laughs. “It was a lot of fun, making it.”

“Where is it?”

“It got confiscated. McGonagall, even if she couldn’t bypass James and Remus’ spells to reveal the secrets, still figured out we were getting up to no good with it, so she had the caretaker confiscate it. I love Minnie, but sometimes she was so annoying.”

Voldemort doesn’t know much about McGonagall. He knows of her academic accomplishments, her loyalties, but not much else. She’s a shut in, as is Dumbledore, not active in the war, hidden in that school.

“Rigid c*nt,” Rodolphus said, and, curiously enough, Rabastan said the same thing, even if Voldemort asked them on separate occasions.

“She’s smart and capable,” Bellatrix said, almost against her will. That was incredibly high praise from Bella, especially since McGonagall is a half-blood. “She’d make a better Headmaster than Dumbledore. Far more responsible and sensible.”

“She screams like Walburga Black,” Lucius answered, and that was all he had to say about it.

No wonder Sirius likes the woman. Once he takes over England, perhaps he’ll let McGonagall live, allow her to keep her job at Hogwarts.

“Do you regret what happened to that girl?” Sirius asks, after some minutes.

“Do you regret trying to kill Severus?”

“Only the ‘trying’ part,” Sirius hisses, and Voldemort laughs.

It does amuse him, this animosity between Sirius and Severus. A pity, too, they are both intelligent and powerful young men, without a doubt the most talented in their generation, but they are so different, they were bound to deeply dislike the other.

“Though, yeah, I- I should have considered Remus. It would have ruined his life.”

Voldemort takes advantage Sirius can’t see him to roll his eyes. What life? As if Lupin has a life to be ruined.

“I didn’t actually set out to kill him,” he adds, softer. “I didn’t think, you know? Not quite like that. I mean, I wouldn’t have given a f*ck if he died, but I didn’t plan it or anything. He was bugging me, stalking me like the freak he is, I was in a bad mood, and I just- I don’t know. I didn’t think it through.” He shrugs, almost displacing Voldemort’s hands in his hair. “I don’t regret it, though. Remus was fine in the end, and Snape got the fright of his life, the little sh*t. For the next two years, I’d sometimes howl at him when he didn’t see me, and he’d flinch so hard- it was hilarious.”

Voldemort likes Sirius’ cruel, inconsiderate side. He likes how it mixes with his kind side, with how careful he is with the few people Sirius holds in high regard. He’s a bully, like his mother, but then he has these altruistic, heroic moments, and it’s all fascinating.

A contradiction, like everything is with Sirius Black.

(-)

The iron gates open for him when he smears a small amount of blood from a cut on his finger on the lock.

He is a Gaunt, after all. The blood that runs in his veins is sacred and old.

Not even your resting place is safe from me, he thinks as he makes his way through the tombs.

He doesn’t head for the Gaunts. He has as much interest in them as they had in him. Let their bones rot underground, forgotten, the way they forgot him.

Blacks are pretentious even in death, their headstones covered in constellations. Even those not named after the stars, he notices as he passes through, have their headstones adored with celestial bodies.

And then there are the statues, because of course they would have statues.

The first, naturally, belongs to Sirius Black, first of his name and his kind.

The rumours are he was never actually buried, his body never found. That, one day, his son woke up with his father’s and mother’s wands beside his bed, and with no trace left of his parents.

No one knows the truth; even Bellatrix shied away from the subject when Voldemort asked her.

And there is the first Bellatrix, shoulder to shoulder with her brother-husband. The only woman to have a statue.

Rumour goes the twins were born together, died together, and lived their entire lives at the other’s side.

Voldemort slowly walks past them, past many others, bronze stern features glaring down at him, until he stops at the last Sirius buried there.

Voldemort had only glimpsed him once. He was a school governor when Voldemort was at Hogwarts, yet, usually, it was Arcturus or Pollux that showed up when their children got in trouble. Cygnus, especially, was often in trouble, so Pollux’ face was the most familiar to the students.

In Voldemort’s sixth year at Hogwarts, Atticus Bulstrode, the Head Boy, invited Walburga to Hogsmeade, the last in a lengthy string of boys asking her out. Only this time, she accepted.

When he heard, Orion challenged him to a formal duel. Atticus laughed, rolled his eyes at his fourteen years old opponent.

“Quick!” He was shaken awake by Abraxas, in the middle of the night.“Orion is killing Bulstrode in the trophy room! You have to stop him!”

He reached them just in time, he disarmed Orion, and rushed Bulstrode to the Hospital Wing, where they found Dumbledore asking the Matron for a sleeping potion.

Atticus was lucky- Dumbledore was more often than not away from Hogwarts, chasing Grindelwald, rumour went, but he was there that night, apparently suffering with insomnia.

The professor kept Atticus alive until the Healers from St Mungo arrived and took the boy with them.

“It wasn’t me,” he said, hurriedly, stained in Bulstrode’s blood, lingering in the Hospital Wing. Dumbledore peered at him from under his half-moon glasses. Dumbledore always liked to blame everything on him. “I only brought him here after-”

“I know,” Dumbledore assured him.

The next morning Atticus’ father came thundering, his yells easily heard from where Voldemort was spying, near the Headmaster office.

He wondered if maybe this will be the time when a Black actually suffers consequences. After all, Bulstrode’s name was ancient, they were a rich, influential family, and surely, at least on account of that, Dippet would do something more than detention and points taken, which was the usual punishment for Blacks.

Only, this time it wasn't Arcturus that came to fix his son's issues.

It was the infamous Sirius Black. A tall man, with wide shoulders, long black hair hanging around his face, deep circles under his too intense eyes, mouth twisted in a snarl. Orion walked behind him, his gaze fixed on his older relative.

Voldemort watched them, hidden by a pillar. Orion never seemed small; he carried himself with such arrogance and pride, his head held so high he seemed a foot taller than he was. Yet right then, Orion looked small, trailing after his grandfather, quietly, as Voldemort observed them disappear up the stairwell leading to the Headmaster's chambers.

They left Dippet’s office not even a quarter of an hour after they entered it.

As soon as they emerged from it, the gargoyles closing the door behind them, old Black slapped Orion, the noise echoing down the hallway.

“Next time you pull something like this, do it on a weekday, you fool! If I’m woken up again at this ungodly hour on your account on a Sunday, you will be very sorry for it.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Orion answers, in that unfazed tone of his.

The old man narrows his eyes. “What was it about, anyway? How did he provoke your ire?”

A second worth of silence. “He tried stealing from me.”

Orion gets hit again, harder this time. The heavy family ring rips the skin at the corner of his left eye, and that pure blood of theirs makes an appearance.

“Then why does he still have hands?” the old man hisses, enraged. “If someone attempts to take what is yours, you cut off their hands, boy!”

He slaps Orion again, just as harshly.

“Yes, Grandfather.” Orion doesn't take his eyes off his grandfather, doesn't wipe away the blood running down his cheek, his hands held behind his back.

Sirius Blacks huffs in displeasure, before turning on his heels and marching down the hallway. “Weakling,” he mutters.

Nothing happened to Orion. Not even the usual detention. No points taken.

Sirius Black insisted it was a formal duel, that the challenge had been accepted, and it was all done honourably, Slughorn told Voldemort, when he called him into his office to give him the Head Boy badge, temporarily, until Atticus recovered and would be able to return to Hogwarts and his duties.

“When Armando reminded him duels are illegal at Hogwarts, formal or not, Mr Black said rules are just words on parchment; that he’s a wizard, and he follows laws of magic, not of men.” Slughorn sighs, rubs at his temples, and then he takes a caramel out of his newest bribe-sweets bag that Abraxas gave him. “He told Mr Bulstrode that if he wants justice, then he should challenge him to a duel, and solve it like wizards ought to. Of course, Mr Bulstrode has more than one brain cell, so he refused and let it go.” He sighs again, points a sugar coated finger at Tom. “This is why I always told you not to seek trouble with Blacks. We’re lucky he’s apparently taken to drinking lately, locked up in his Manor, that he lets Arcturus handle most of their affairs, who is much milder and reasonable. But, once in a while, he gets out and you do not wish to run afoul of Sirius Black.”

No one in the common room talked of it; only Walburga complained she was looking forward to going to the newly opened teashop in Hogsmeade, and demanded to know what was Orion’s problem with Atticus.

“A Quidditch thing,” Orion told her, with a shrug. “Don’t worry, Waly. I’ll take you to Madam Puddifoot’s.”

“I don’t want to go with my baby cousin, don’t be ridiculous! Malfoy, you will take me!”

Abraxas backs away, slowly. “I can’t, Walburga. I’m busy, I have to study,” he says, hastily, when Orion glares at him from behind Walburga.

It was the only time mild-tempered, well behaved Orion did something so outrageous that his unhinged grandfather had to come and solve it, so it was the only time Voldemort saw the man.

Another step takes him to Orion’s statue. Voldemort smirks up at him.

Orion always got what he wanted, one way or another, he imposed his will on all those around him, either through violence, coercion, or good, old-fashion bribery.

He got the wife he wanted since he was a mere boy, something everyone around them suspected, with only Walburga wilfully blind to the way her cousin worshiped the ground she walked on.

If there was anyone as stubborn as Orion, it was Walburga- louder, more abrasive, unrestrained. But Orion tamed her, in the end.

Yet he couldn’t stop Voldemort from starting the war, from destabilising the hierarchy Britain had maintained successfully for centuries. And now, he can’t stop Voldemort from taking his son.

Both his sons, in truth, and his favourite niece.

Some unease cuts through his gloating when he looks at the empty space that comes after Orion’s grave, knowing who it is meant for, who will one day rest there, whose statue will be immortalised above it.

Voldemort does not like reminders that Sirius, his Sirius, is mortal.

It taunts him, that empty plot of land, it says ‘you might have Sirius for now, but eventually he will return to his family, stand made of bronze in a line of dead Blacks’.

It ruins his victory. Death, his first and oldest enemy, far greater than Dumbledore, or Blacks, or muggles.

Yet Voldemort defeated Death already. Five times.

There is no time to ponder on it, because he hears the iron gates groaning in the distance.

With a wave of his hand, he becomes invisible, moves quietly to the side, further away, behind Phineas Nigellus’s statue.

Moments later, Sirius arrives, just as Voldemort suspected he would.

An hour earlier, when he stood from the couch, putting his guitar aside, saying he needs to go somewhere, as soon as the clock struck mid-night, Voldemort knew where he was headed.

It is Orion’s birthday; there’s only one place Sirius would want to visit on such occasion, now that he somehow made peace with the fact his father is dead and the only place where he can find him is the cemetery.

Voldemort let him go and Apparated to the cemetery only moments after; he thought he would find Sirius here already, but, apparently, Sirius made a short stop elsewhere, because he carries an old bottle of firewhiskey with him.

“Here, Great-Grandfather,” he says, stopping at old Sirius’ statue. “I promised you a drink, last I came.”

He opens the bottle, pours some on the ground, and then places the bottle at the feet of the statue.

He changed, dressed entirely in wizard attire, which wasn’t the case an hour before, when he was wearing those muggle denim trousers in Voldemort’s home.

Sirius falls silent when he arrives at his father’s grave. His eyes are so light coloured that they stand out in the black, cloudy night.

Voldemort doesn’t like seeing the pain in them.

The more Sirius stands there, the clearer the night becomes, clouds parting above them, the stars shining brightly, visibly, which is…unusual for London.

Voldemort feels the magic around Sirius, how it has a mind of its own, Sirius completely unaware that he’s the one responsible for this phenomenon.

Sirius doesn’t say a single word to his father, not aloud, in any case. He stands there until dawn, and Voldemort stands a few feet away, watching him, fascinated with this young man, with everything about him.

He never tires looking at Sirius, observing him, delighting in his presence. Hours compress into minutes when Sirius is around.

(-)

Sirius often gets hard during the night. Voldemort knows this is simply a sign of a healthy, young body, that it even happened to him during the years, but sometimes he wonders if perhaps it’s caused by something Sirius dreams of. By someone.

By someone that isn’t Voldemort. He gets unreasonably angry at the thought. He wants no one else to occupy Sirius’ mind, his dreams.

He accepts that Sirius might share his body with someone else- he hadn’t, in a while, but he is Orion’s son and Voldemort made peace with the fact that most likely Sirius will f*ck someone else, at some point. A drunken night out with Rabastan, a fit of fancy- he doesn’t like it, but it’s just bodies.

However, violence rises inside him at the mere thought of Sirius thinking of someone else. Sirius should only think of Voldemort; his dreams and his nightmares should belong only to Voldemort.

He wants to rip inside Sirius’ mind, and tear it apart, erase all memories of other people, all feelings for them. He knows he can’t, that whatever would be left wouldn’t be Sirius anymore, but he’d like to.

Sometimes, it happens three or four times a night, and Voldemort observes him, fascinated. Sirius remains asleep, face lax, unmoving, and eventually he goes soft again. He doesn’t come, doesn’t moan, yet Voldemort becomes obsessed with finding out the cause, with proving beyond doubt that it’s simply a physiological reaction, healthy blood flow, and fluctuating testosterone.

He does not like, nor understand why he feels guilty when he wakes Sirius up, gently, and dips inside his mind, in that confusing moment when Sirius is still mostly asleep.

He’s a master Legilimens, a natural born one, so a moment is all he needs, especially since he’s only looking surface level.

Images shifts rapidly-

No, there was no one causing Sirius’ erection. A random, and odd dream about his motorbike and racing through a dessert which, for some reason, was turning into an ocean.

Voldemort is out of his head before Sirius becomes fully aware of anything.

“What?” he asks, a second later.

“Nothing.” Voldemort kisses his jaw. “Go back to sleep.”

Sirius sighs, turns on his side, and when Voldemort takes him in his arms, he settles.

“Are you going to just stare at me all night? Again?”

Voldemort hums.

“Bloody insane,” Sirius mutters, but even if Voldemort can’t see his face, he feels the smile in his voice.

In no time at all, he’s back asleep.

He didn’t sleep so deeply, nor so easily in the beginning. He’d wake at the slightest noise, and it used to take a while for him to fall asleep with Voldemort there, unless he was too drunk to care.

These days, Sirius sleeps like the dead, falls asleep in Voldemort’ arms within minutes. He trusts Voldemort enough for it.

It concerns Voldemort that he, too, is able to sleep beside Sirius. Of course, he can’t do it if Sirius is still conscious, and he awakes immediately if his magic perceives Sirius woke up, but just that Voldemort can sleep at all with him there is….concerning.

(-)

The bike ride is thrilling, in a way he never thought it would be. He doesn’t know why- from what he gathered, the thrill should come from the danger of it, but there’s no danger. Not with Voldemort’s magic ready to save them, with the runes on the bike and Sirius’ skill in handling that metal beast.

Yet it is thrilling. Perhaps Sirius’ joy, emanating off him, as he breaks all traffic laws know to men, laughing at every turn.

However, what is most fascinating is Sirius’ bizarre consideration for a policeman; how in all that chaos, with his attention spread on dozens of things, Sirius makes sure the policeman survives this chase.

It’s…naive, almost. Innocent.

“Soft,” he teases Sirius, even if it’s not true. Sirius is in no way soft; he’s a hard man, and Voldemort is certain he’s been hardened since childhood. No way to exist in a family as his otherwise.

It should annoy Voldemort, or at best leave him indifferent. Yet it stays with him, the way Sirius did it with no hesitation, as if it was so normal to waste a single thought on that muggle’s life.

It’s most curious especially because Sirius isn’t a bleeding heart, he doesn’t shy away from murder, committed by others in his presence or even by himself. Sirius is a soldier, and he’s familiar with death and war. He is no Dumbledore to spew nonsense about all human life being of value.

Yet he still saves lives, instinctively, thoughtlessly. A complete’s stranger life. Sirius wouldn’t care if the man had a heart attack besides them, he’s not one to be affected by the plight of others, and yet-

He’ll save them if he can, if it doesn’t inconvenience him too much to do it.

What’s most intriguing is that Voldemort thinks he likes this about Sirius, and he’s not sure why. He’s not one to be impressed by kindness, furthest thing from it. And yet…

He thinks of it days after it happens, weeks, even.

(-)

Sirius clings to him, fiercely.

“Hold me,” he demands, though his voice is so soft, it’s more of a plea.

Perhaps Bellatrix is right, Voldemort considers. Perhaps Sirius has been practicing too much dark magic, too fast.

He’s shivering, skin cold as ice, breaths coming in laboured as he hides his face in Voldemort’s chest.

Though, it could easily be a side effect of astral magic. Voldemort is impressed he managed to break the window, to interact with the material world.

Blacks of old were able to do it. They always held these powers of theirs a secret, but they have been documented in the Elvish wars.

It is said that Helix Black the First could kill a man- or a high elf, respectively- from miles and miles away.

It was never confirmed, but so many rumours were born during the wars, they eventually made their way even into reputable history books.

Helix Black died young, just a couple years over fifty. Survived the Elvish war, and died for no good reason in his garden.

Voldemort presses his lips to Sirius’ forehead. He reminds himself the other Sirius Black lived long, even if he, too, used astral magic. Not that he ever admitted to it, not that anyone asked him. Blacks insist that gift is long gone, after all.

“He definitely used astral magic,” Bellatrix told him, when Voldemort asked her, years ago. “Especially towards the end, I often stumbled onto him when I was sneaking out at night. His body was there, his eyes were opened, but he wasn’t there at all. One morning, he came from the garden, with twigs in his hair, and informed us my great-grand aunt Belvina died. She was away in Poland. We got the letter hours later. He always knew things that happened very far away.”

And he lived long, Voldemort thinks. He doesn’t like all these young deaths in the Black family tree. Some can be accounted by the curse, but others he suspects were caused by astral magic, perhaps too taxing for the mortal body.

Sirius is clear of the curse; Voldemort checked months before. Granted, it would have been helpful if he’d have had a sample of blood from Orion or Alphard to compare it to, but he made do. Blacks are notoriously paranoid about keeping their blood safe, away from scrutiny.

He has Bella, and she collected samples from her family members.

She carries it, he detected traces of the curse in her blood, but it’s dormant, as it would be in a woman.

Narcissa doesn’t have it at all, and neither does Sirius. Which is quite interesting.

Narcissa would have escaped it, taking after her mother, who is not a Black.

But Sirius-

Orion certainly had it, and from the small drop Bella managed to get from Walburga, she has it too. In much larger quantities than Bella.

It’s present in Regulus as well, as it should be, since both his parents carried it.

Voldemort is pretty certain it’s the astral magic, the gene responsible for it somehow cleaning Sirius’ blood of the curse.

“It’s barely detectable,” Voldemort reassured Bellatrix when she worried about Regulus. “I can’t judge properly, since I haven’t seen how it looks when it’s active, as it was in Orion, but I am inclined to believe Regulus won’t be affected personally, just pass it to his progeny, at worst.”

She’s most worried about her father, but even smart, cunning Bella cannot find a way to get her hands on a drop of her father’s blood.

Voldemort wonders if, in case Cygnus fell victim to it, he’d sacrifice his errant daughter to save himself. Or, even better, the little half-blood born of her. If the little girl would even count as ‘legacy’ for the curse, if the sacrifice would satisfy it.

He should find a way into Grimmauld, gain access to those books Blacks hide there, to old journals kept by family members. He wants to make sure practicing astral magic won’t shorten Sirius’ life spam, that old Sirius wasn’t just a fluke.

Especially since Sirius said, quite recently, that Orion was adamant Sirius shouldn’t do it, that he’d discourage Sirius from spending too long staring at stars, and he was displeased when Sirius disobeyed.

“He said it’s dangerous.”

“Why?”

Sirius shrugged. “I think he didn’t trust it because he couldn’t do it; I think he didn’t trust it because great grandfather was…uh…difficult, especially as he aged, and Father liked to blame it on astral magic, as opposed to accepting great grandfather was just a drunk and an arsehole, naturally.”

Hopefully, it was just Orion’s mind unable to process the fact that mighty Black men could fall prey to alcoholism.

But what if he knew it truly was dangerous for the caster?

No. Voldemort won’t think of it. In fact, it’s quite possible Helix could have been murdered by a power hungry relative, or a crazy relative. No short supply of those, after all. No reason to suspect astral magic had anything to do with it.

Black men don’t tend to reach old ages, but he’s certain it’s not just the curse or the astral magic at fault, rather just Black men being the way they are, making deadly foes, arrogantly assuming they will never face consequences.

After all, the second Elvish war decimated the Blacks, and those deaths were certainly just a result of their rashness and willingness to throw themselves head first into battle.

Arcturus, Phineas- the more cunning, more cowardly Blacks, apparently live longer than their relatives.

Sirius is not cowardly, Voldemort is reminded, and he squeezes him harder.

No matter. I will protect him.

You almost lost him tonight. He could have died-

The thought fills Voldemort with anger. At himself, because he allowed such a thing to happen.

He quickly diverts that anger towards the Aurors, the traitor, and his Death Eaters.

Sirius whispers about Azkaban, something that apparently frightens him more than dying.

Voldemort scoffs, internally. He can and would get Sirius out of Azkaban in a second, he reassures the boy.

It’s death that’s scary here, not some building with Dementors as guards.

He holds onto his anger, but is mindful to hide it as he slowly extracts himself from Sirius, when his temperature regains the ability to self regulate, his cheeks gain some colour back and he stops shivering quite as badly.

He’ll be fine by morning, Voldemort makes sure of that before he leaves.

And once he’s out of Sirius’ sight, when he arrives to the Hall, he lets all that anger out.

Even all those agonised screams don’t soothe him. He keeps thinking Sirius could have died.

He keeps thinking Sirius will die, some day; Voldemort can protect him, keep him safe, lock him away if he must, but time will pass and-

He just gets angrier and angrier, more creative with his torture of the filthy traitor and his family.

By the time he’s done, cleansed of his fury, all his Death Eaters are trembling, kneeling, not looking at him, or at the Brackstone family.

Even Rodolphus seems a little squeamish.

It’s only Bellatrix that meets his gaze. “Let me nail him to the post in Diagon Alley,” she asks, when he gives his orders.

Voldemort lets her; he usually doesn’t like her so exposed, but he’s done.

The longer the war goes on, the more opportunities for Sirius to get hurt will arise.

It needs to end, so Bella can do as she pleases. If she gets caught, he’ll get her back, blow Azkaban to pieces, kill the Minister and end the war.

At this point, it would probably take him a day, at best.

The Ministry is on its last leg, diminished, tired and poor after a decade long war.

In truth, he could have ended it years before, but he knew as soon as he did it, the purebloods would turn on him.

However, now he thinks they wouldn’t dare. At least not the younger generations.

He’ll ponder over the best course of action.

Death Eaters dismissed, some with orders to carry out, some simply to return to their insignificant lives, Voldemort holds Rodolphus back.

He’s swaying on his feet, exhausted- Rodolphus is especially stubborn, and remarkably strong.

His best man.

“If you ever endanger Sirius’ life again, I will have your head,” Voldemort tells him. It brings him no pleasure to say it, he never felt the need to threaten Rodolphus before.

“My lord.” Rodolphus inclines his head, accepting.

“He will never again be allowed in any skirmish, no matter if he said I gave him permission. I would never give him permission. Know that.”

“My lord,” Rodolphus repeats.

“Go, rest,” Voldemort says, after some seconds.

(-)

I would give you a Kingdom, Voldemort thinks, as Sirius speaks about the war, asks Voldemort to end it.

He has…dreams, sometimes, though he’s not having them when he’s sleeping. When he’s with Sirius, in bed, close, skin touching, and he looks at his perfect face, into those special eyes of his, Voldemort has these images playing in his head, where he places a crown on his head. It would look good, nestled in that black hair.

A golden crown, stained with blood.

The crown should be yours, a voice reminds him, but Voldemort has no need for such things. He already rules supreme over everyone else, by right of magic.

It should be concerning how fast Voldemort agrees to end the war, and end it in a way Sirius would like it. Yet it isn’t concerning. By now, it’s almost instinct to want to ease the frown between those grey eyes, whenever Sirius is worried about something; Voldemort feels the need to fix it, at whatever cost, as driven to this goal as he used to be when he was younger and he’d face a terribly complicated magical theory.

He’s bored with the war, has been for a while. It’s tedious business, and he’d much rather spend time with Sirius than solving the myriads of problems that arise each week.

He never wanted England, never wanted to be Minister. It would be an insult to his greatness to claim such a title, that so many unworthy men, mortal men, claimed before him.

He wanted power, and he wanted revenge.

There’s not a magical soul on this island that doesn’t know of his power. Even the muggle prime Minister must know it, must have been notified of it at some point.

As for revenge…he fantasised about crushing most of those old, noble families, but, truth be told, the desire has slowly lost its appeal even before he met Sirius.

His mind already made concessions, after he met Rodolphus, and then Bellatrix and Lucius.

Sirius was just the final nail in the coffin.

Besides, he already had his revenge. He made these purebloods bow to him, fear him, plot around him. He made them see him. The point is made.

In fact, what better way to humiliate those proud old fools, than to hand them a victory, and them having to live with the knowledge that it was Lord Voldemort that secured it for them, that they owe it all to him? That he can take it back, if they forget it?

There is no inner conflict, no hesitation, when he tells Sirius it will be as he wishes. Voldemort wants him far, far more than he ever wanted to actually rule Great Britain.

However, there is something that Voldemort can’t give him, can’t spare him off.

Harry Potter must die, so Voldemort can live forever.

He always wanted immortality, was always his chief priority, to secure his life, but it’s even more wanted, now that he has something to enjoy in it.

“We must all make compromises,” he reminds Sirius.

Surely, this should be a bargain; a country for a boy. Sirius must see it- Voldemort is giving him what he wants, he’ll allow the Blacks and those other fools to maintain power- he will give them more power- what is that compared to a boy?

He won’t see it like that.

Voldemort knows it won’t be easy, but he’d rather not think of it just then.

When Sirius falls asleep, Voldemort writes to Lucius, tells him to arrange a meeting with the Sacred Families.

(-)

As soon as Sirius comes through the door, it’s obvious he found out about the Potter child.

How? Something is not right here, Sirius shouldn’t have leaned of it. Someone talked.

Yet he can’t focus on that thought, because Sirius looks-

Voldemort knew this would be difficult. You prepared yourself for it.

There is no avoiding this, he knew the day would come, only he’d have preferred Sirius learn the truth after the Potter child was already dead.

Patience, he reminds himself. Let him have his tantrum and be patient.

Voldemort prepared for anger, and screaming, even possibly Sirius attacking him in a rage. He imagined this confrontation many times, and he swore to himself he would allow Sirius room to show his fury, get it all out of his system.

However, while he prepared for Black levels of rage, Voldemort is not faced with that.

Sirius looks…he lacks a word for it.

Betrayed, that annoying voice in his head supplies. Hurt.

He hates it. He’d rather fury and curses flying his way, not this.

Instead of giving into the famous Black temper, Sirius tries to persuade him not to hurt the child.

Which is why Voldemort decided it would be best for Sirius to learn of it once Potter was already dead, when nothing could be done anymore. Because Voldemort doesn’t want to deny Sirius anything.

It’s become second nature, giving him what he wants, and he likes it, Sirius likes it, and now they’ll have to ruin it.

The conversation is short, and the desperation in Sirius’ eyes makes it hard to look at him. He barely focuses on what he’s saying, waiting, with mounting dread for what he knows is coming.

And there it is.

“Please.” Sirius walks closer, tries to take his hand. Begs, for the first time. “Please, don’t.”

He looks at Voldemort with those eyes of his, filled with pain, and it causes Voldemort pain, too.

His stomach twists, uncomfortably. His mouth feels dry.

Just don’t do it, the errant thought pops into his head. Leave the child be, you’ll sort it out later.

Doubt blossom in his mind, like a poisonous weed sprouting from a seed that was already there, hidden.

It’s just a baby, it can’t kill you, Dumbledore can’t use a baby against you. Dumbledore would never hide behind a baby.

For a second, he almost gives in.

And that is frightening. What is this? What is this power Sirius holds over him, that he can just waltz inside with those tragic eyes of his and almost change Lord Voldemort’s mind, make Lord Voldemort doubt himself?

“I have to,” he says, as much to Sirius as to himself. “I will not risk it. I will not risk my life, in any way.”

How could have he forgotten, even for a second, that his life is at stake?

Perhaps Voldemort should remove Sirius’ eyes. He does not like the power they have over him.

Everything you touch, you destroy.

Voldemort can see something breaking in those cursed eyes.

He reminds himself he can put him back together. He did it before. Sirius was broken when he came to him, and Voldemort fixed him.

Finally, the anger comes. Voldemort breathes out in relief when Sirius’ face hardness, and he wipes away all the hurt on it.

Anger is good. Voldemort can handle anger.

“Who heard the prophecy?”

Sirius gets in his face, aggressive, his gaze now filled with fire.

Voldemort expected the hostility, but it seems Sirius wants to direct it someplace else, even if Voldemort would be content to let him take it out on him until he tires himself out.

“You owe me this much,” Sirius snarls. “I want to know who heard the prophecy.”

He takes issue with the ‘owing’ part. Lord Voldemort doesn’t owe anyone, anything. Sirius is far too presumptuous, but then, whose fault is that?

I spoil him too much.

Apparently, he’s unwilling to break this bad habit. It’s hardly the right time for it.

Voldemort almost pities Severus. He is a promising boy, a valuable tool, but if it will help Sirius feel better…

“Severus.”

Sirius laughs. It sounds so broken that it disturbs Voldemort.

“I’ll kill him,” Sirius says, still laughing. “I’ll rip him apart, piece by piece.”

“If you must.” Voldemort would let him slaughter all his army, if it would improve Sirius’ mood, make him forget about that stupid child. He can get another army, after all. “You see, Sirius, I know about needing to kill- I will never begrudge you these desires, nor will I stand in your quest for vengeance. I am the only man you know that will understand and accept, even treasure, every part of you.”

“Yes,” Sirius agrees, his face hardening even more, and then he turns to leave, steps more confident than when he came in.

He’ll take all that anger out on Severus, he will take Severus’ life, and then he’ll feel better.

(-)

Severus is still alive the following day, though not in the best of shape.

He’s suffering with the after effects of the Cruciatus, he can barely speak, but he doesn’t seem concerned about it, only interested in begging for the mudblood’s life, again.

“You can have your mudblood,” Voldemort tells him. And Sirius can have his Potter.

He heard the death of a child sometimes separates people. Perhaps it will happen with the Potters, and then Severus can get the girl, and Sirius can get James’ undivided attention like he wants, and everyone will be happy.

Voldemort is doing them all a favour, really.

(-)

When Voldemort returns from visiting Severus, he doesn’t find Sirius home.

Give him time. He often leaves to lick his wounds in private.

“It’s just a silly child,” Voldemort snarls at a book, exasperated. How can people get so attached to a baby?

If it’s just a silly child, then he can’t kill you, can he?

“Shut up!”

Voldemort is starting to borrow Sirius’ habit of talking to the voices in his head.

Voldemort hadn’t had voices in his head, not since he was young, since he was still forced to use his father’s name.

It’s been blessedly quiet for decades, but since Sirius came into his life, so did the other one.

Irritating. Perhaps it will go away again, once he makes his final Horcrux, after he kills Potter.

He remembers he started feeling more at ease after each Horcrux, more content with himself, silencing that foolish side of him, the poor orphan.

It’s been too long since he made a Horcrux. More than a decade. He doesn’t remember why he decided to wait this long to make the sixth and finally Horcrux.

He frowns.

Because you almost died making the diadem. The pain -

Oh. Right. Well, he’s been younger. Weaker. He’s at his peak now.

“What?” he demands, when Travers calls him through the Mark, an hour later.

It’s midday, and the noise of people milling around the town square irritates him further.

“My lord,” Travers bows. “The Potters- they vanished.”

Voldemort blinks. No, he thinks. No, he didn’t.

Anger sparks, sending a jolt of adrenaline through his body.

“What do you mean, they vanished?”

“I don’t know, my lord!” Travers begs, in a whisper, since muggles are all around them. “I was keeping an eye on the house, as usual, and-it just vanished.”

“The house vanished?”

No, he didn’t. The fool-

“My lord-”

Voldemort steps away, turns the corner and walks up the street. Muggles panic, staring at him, avoiding him.

A few minutes later, he sees it. Rather, he doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see Potter’s house, that was perfectly visible last week, last month, last year. His Death Eater kept an eye on it since the baby was born, and sometimes Voldemort came to spy on them himself, and now it’s gone.

Voldemort Apparates away to the cliff by the ocean, before he slaughters the entire village.

The Fidelius.

How dare he? After everything Voldemort did for him, all the compromises, all the benevolence, everything-

Sirius went ahead and colluded with his mortal enemy? Hid him from Voldemort?

He’s beyond angry. In his fury, he blasts off a side of the cliff, watches stone and earth crumble into the ocean, near the entrance to the cave that holds his soul.

I gave him a piece of my soul and this is how he repays me?

He will kill Sirius, slowly, painfully, tear off his limbs-

Even in his anger, the fantasy doesn’t feel satisfying, doesn’t bring any relief. Quite the opposite.

Quickly, the images dissolve.

No, he can’t- he won’t kill Sirius. Not because he can’t, what a ridiculous notion, but because it’s not enough of a punishment. Sirius doesn’t fear death.

No. It won’t do.

James Potter will die, instead.

(-)

Perhaps he won’t kill James Potter, he thinks when he calms down, some hours later.

He will imprison him in Azkaban, until Sirius repents, properly, gains Voldemort’s favour again.

(-)

He lets Black speak, reaches inside himself for the patience he has for Sirius, hoping it would extend to his infuriating grandfather.

He really cannot afford to kill the old man. It costs too much.

Don’t kill him, don’t kill him, don’t kill him.

It’s been some time since Voldemort wanted to kill someone quite as badly, and it’s frustrating the people he wants to murder the most are the ones he can’t kill.

He’s not worth it. You heard worse.

Indeed, Black remains civil, or as civil as one can be while uttering threats. Yet he’s far more polite than he’d been at the meeting. No more snark, no more teasing, no more ‘Lord Voldemort’ said five times in a minute.

Black is dead serious as he explains he’ll show Voldemort what it means to have the entire House against him, in case ‘a single strand of Sirius’ hair is disturbed’.

“I know you can murder your way through all of us,” Black says, voice level. “But why not make your own life easier, for once? It’s in your best interest to have my support, and not my wrath.”

“An odd time to come out of hibernation,” Voldemort says, when Black finishes his monologue. “He could have used your help when he was a child.” He stands, looms over the old man that sat, uninvited, at the desk. “Atoning for your sins, old man? I believe we both know there’s no atoning for that; no matter what you do, no matter how loyal you will be to him until your last breath, nothing will make up for the way you abandoned him. You speak of wrath,” Voldemort laughs, harshly, “yet your wrath means nothing to me, Black. I think it’s your son’s wrath that you fear. If Orion was here with us, he would despise you more than he despised me.”

The thing with powerful families, with building their entire reputation around the idea that family comes first, that a Black would do anything for their own- it makes it glaringly obvious what would most hurt them.

Sirius said Orion didn’t want his family to have to go through his illness, that he asked his own father to kill him when he falls unconscious.

“Mother and I didn’t let him,” Sirius said.

As if they could have stopped Arcturus. No, it was his own heart that didn’t let him kill his son.

Nothing changes on Black’s face when he stands. “You have a shallow understanding of life. You think you realise how people work, how to get to them, but I am not a confused child you can manipulate. You are a powerful aberration of magic, but you are nothing to me, half-blooded filth. History will remember me, but no matter what you do, it won’t remember your name, Riddle.”

In a second, he sends Black to the floor, anger burning so hotly, Voldemort is almost blind with it.

“There you are,” Black says, from the floor, glaring up at him. “Shoving people to the ground- that’s who you are, Riddle, deep down. A muggle, cursed with muggle savagery. An ill-mannered orphan. Go on, kill me,” Black challenges. “Show them all that you cannot keep your temper in check, that you are so frail you lose control at the slightest insult. That you are ruled by emotion, like an animal. You seek to rule the world, but you cannot even rule yourself.”

He spits on the old man, knowing there’s nothing more offensive than his contaminated saliva, nothing dirtier.

“How low the Blacks had fallen, then, if three of you are branded by an animal; if one of you is flat on your back at my feet.”

Black stands, expression still in check, wiping his cheek.

There’s a difference between the two branches of this cursed family.

Walburga, her brothers, her oldest son, and eldest niece, with their fiery tempers, with rage and cruelty in their eyes, restless and quick to act out.

Arcturus, Orion, and his youngest son, cold as ice, faces forever frozen with that blank expression, so hard to rile up.

He thinks of Sirius, as a small child, trapped between fire and ice, between chaos and order, between explosive anger and collected disapproval.

What a waste, what a loss it would be to see Sirius turning into Orion, into Arcturus.

That’s what the old man wants, to extinguish everything that is bright in Sirius, turn him to ice, turn him cold and unresponsive, the way he did with Orion.

Not as I still breathe, Voldemort thinks. “Get out,” he snarls, rejoicing in throwing a Black out of a Manor.

Black smirks. “You’ve fallen for your own manipulations. You meant to ensnare my grandson, but it’s you that is ensnared. I see it now. I’ve wasted both our time by coming here- though, of course, my time is infinitely more valuable than yours. My mistake- carry on, Lord Voldemort, focus all your mighty power into killing a baby. You’ve been slowly decimating Britain’s half-bloods, mudbloods and blood traitors. Go ahead and destroy the last tie Sirius has with outsiders. You cannot imagine how low you sit in my regard, yet I am grateful you steadily unshackled Sirius from everything that kept him away from me. And I shall reward you for your efforts. Perhaps we had fallen low, but for our Heir, for our future, I am willing to reward you with my support, going forward.”

When the old man leaves, Voldemort gets a glimpse of Rodolphus, anxiously waiting outside. He catches relief on his face when he sees Black alive and well.

“f*cking Blacks,” Voldemort snarls, once the footsteps disappear down the corridor.

Rodolphus nods, empathically.

Sirius will be alone for a while. Without Potter and with this…disagreement between them, Sirius will be at his most vulnerable, and the old vulture will swoop in-

I can draw him back, Voldemort tells himself.

(-)

He will kill James, he decides, the next day, when Cygnus reports Sirius held a meeting with his family, where he directed them to stay at Voldemort’s side.

“But he is honour bond to protect his ward. It is a sacred duty, as the boy’s Guardian. A terrible conflict of interests,” Cygnus drawls. “He has no choice but to …step back, for now. He was insistent, however, that he will not fight against us. Against you. He’s simply…stepping back. Taking a break, if you will.”

Bellatrix stands next to her father as he delivers the news, and it’s the only thing that stops Voldemort from killing Cygnus.

He’ll kill James Potter, instead.

He’ll sever his head, and serve it to Sirius at dinner, on one of the silver platters he brought to the cabin.

He’ll force him to eat, with Potter’s head right there at the table.

Perhaps he’ll mount it above the fireplace. Blacks like mounted heads on the wall, he heard.

‘Stepping back. Taking a break. Not fighting against you.’

What lies. What nerve!

Hiding Harry Potter from him, is fighting against him. Stepping back? Voldemort already warned Sirius, once, that he’s not a ministry supervisor. One can’t quit being a Death Eater, Voldemort doesn’t accept resignations.

More importantly, Sirius can’t step back from what they have, separate from the war.

“Get out,” he hisses.

Bellatrix grabs her father’s arm and drags him out of the office, hastily.

But she returns.

Her eyes are hard, her expression determined.

She wouldn’t, he thinks. Bellatrix wouldn’t leave him. She would never leave him, no matter what happens.

Yet for a handful of seconds, he has his doubts.

“How do you plan to handle this?” she asks, anxiously.

No ‘my lord’, no deference.

“They are far too young,” Voldemort says. “They will make mistakes. Potter, especially, seems like the type of restless man to come out of hiding. I have men watching Godric Hollow’s at all times.”

“And if he doesn’t come out?”

Bella holds his gaze. Weeks before, she already tried convincing him to leave the Potter boy alive, that he’s Sirius’ ward, but he quickly assured her it isn’t the case, that Sirius lied about it.

“I will take Sirius. Just long enough that the Potters will have to leave the Fidelius to get food.”

They can’t stay hidden and starve, after all. If Sirius is unavailable to bring them food, Potter will get out. Once Potter dies, the mudblood will have to get out- she either takes her son with her, and they will be brought to Voldemort, or she leaves the child home, she dies, and the toddler will die, too, alone in the house.

Bellatrix doesn’t like it. Her jaw tenses.

“If you take him prisoner, even for a week, even for a day,” she says. “He will never forgive you.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“No,” Bella whispers. “No, he won’t.”

He will have to.

“He didn’t even allow our family to take his freedom.”

I am better than your family, he thinks, but he says nothing.

Bella sighs. She rubs her temples, looking miserable. “This can’t be your fault,” she whispers. “If it is, he will not return to you. And you will not let him go. It will end so badly. I can’t have that.”

He waits, lets her mutter to herself. Sirius often speaks to himself, as well.

Eventually, she reaches a conclusion, because her shoulders straighten once more, and when she looks up, there is no more conflict on her face.

Bella made a choice.

“It must be my fault,” she declares. “Let me do it. Tell him you changed your mind, that you will spare the Potters. We’ll wait a while, and then I will go there; I will kill the boy. We will tell Sirius I went against your orders, as before, with that McKinnon c*nt.”

What a fascinating creature. Voldemort never thought of having children, not even for a second, never in his life.

Until that very moment when he thinks that if he were to have had a child, Bella would be the perfect daughter; he wonders if this is what parents feel, this fondness he experiences when he looks upon her, this pride in her achievements, in her character.

Cygnus is such a fool.

Walburga, too.

They were given precious children, wasted on parents like them. Like casting pearls to pigs.

“He will forgive me,” she says. “And even if he doesn’t…” she shrugs. “I don’t need him to forgive me. I need him safe. I want him and you to be…on good terms. It’s all that matters.”

“And how will you kill Potter?” He leans back in his chair. “If you want to claim you are acting on your own behalf, you will not have my resources. And, Bella…Sirius has grown strong enough that it will no longer be easy for you to subdue him in a duel. I do not believe you can take him prisoner.”

She narrows her eyes, insulted. “I am perfectly capable,” she scoffs.

Perhaps. But not as easily as Voldemort would do it. A duel between the Black cousins will grow very bloody now, after all the training Sirius went through. He is quickly growing into his power.

He opens his mouth to prohibit it, when she speaks over him.

“It won’t come to that.” She breaths in. “Sirius isn’t the Secret Keeper.”

It’s the greatest news Voldemort heard in a while. Something relaxes inside him.

I will let James Potter live, he thinks. Sirius didn’t betray him quite so badly, after all. He isn’t the one hiding his enemy from him, risking Voldemort’s life.

“Who-” but he knows as soon as he asks. “Pettigrew,” he answers his own question.

Bella nods. “The mudblood isn’t stupid. She caught on that something is…different about Sirius, lately. She refused to put her life, he son’s life, in his hands. They went with Pettigrew, instead.”

So Sirius did want to betray him, it was the mudblood that didn’t allow it; perhaps he should still kill James.

Yes, kill James, but no longer behead him. Just a quick death. A suitable punishment.

Sirius is already hurting, after all, no need to be so thorough in his punishment.

To have his loyalty questioned, his honour, by the very people he tried to protect...

He must be faring poorly. If he wasn’t so stubborn, Voldemort would console him, as he did so many times, would make him forget these people that do not deserve him.

He stands. “Then let us have a talk with Pettigrew.”

“Let me do it. Don’t get involved. I will kill the baby, I will be responsible for everything, and this way Sirius-”

“No. I must kill the boy myself.”

“Why?”

“Are you questioning my judgement, Bellatrix?”

She bites her lip. “It would just be cleaner if I do it,” she says, after a couple of seconds. “Let me do it.”

Voldemort walks around the desk, stops in front of her. He cups her face, looks at her. “You did enough, already.” Of course his Bella found the Potters. She can do anything. His most loyal, his most useful.

“I’d do more! I want to do more!” Her fingers close around his wrist, and a year ago, he’d have reacted badly, but he’s become so used to touch now. It no longer brings disgust, it no longer seems threatening. Now, touch means Sirius. “Let me hel- let me serve you, my lord,” she corrects herself, just in time.

After all, she knows Lord Voldemort needs no help. Only loyal service.

“I have to kill the boy.” As special as Bellatrix is, she just doesn’t understand. It’s fine, he forgives her. “And you must tell me what reward you’d like. Anything you want, Bella, it will be yours. Anything in the world.”

He lets her go. She frowns. “I don’t want a reward. I’m not doing this for a-”

“I know.” Which is why she deserves a reward more than anyone.

(-)

Voldemort doesn’t pay attention when Bella sends the frail woman to the kitchen to make them tea.

Pettigrew’s fear is a tangible thing, clinging to the air. Bellatrix is more frightening when she’s sweet, when she speaks gently to the woman, who doesn’t seem afraid to find Lord Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange in her living room. She’s completely out of it, and Voldemort remembers both Sirius and Bella mentioned the woman is sick.

It sounds like she has dementia.

Voldemort doesn’t care, looking at the walls, at the many pictures of Sirius displayed all over.

In some, he’s just a child, probably in his first year at Hogwarts, waving at Voldemort from between his friends. It must be the first year, because he has no expression on his little face, he’s all Black, while his friends are either grinning or smiling shyly.

Voldemort walks closer, as Bella orders a weeping Pettigrew to kneel.

Sirius learned to smile in public by his third year, Voldemort discovers, reading the date inscribed in the corner of a photograph depicting him and Pettigrew in the Great Hall

Voldemort almost takes the picture, before he remembers he has an audience.

He makes an effort to turn his back to the picture, forced to look upon the pathetic creature on the floor.

Disgusting traitor.

“Tell us the Secret,” Bella demands.

“Sirius will kill me,” the rat stutters, his eyes on Bellatrix, but shifting often towards Voldemort.

Bella is seated on the sofa, legs crossed, wand out. She taps it against the armrest.

“Perhaps,” she allows. “But Sirius won’t kill your poor mother, will he?” she threatens. “He won’t do it slowly, painfully, as he makes you watch.” She tilts her head. “I would. And kill you right after, too.”

Pettigrew sobs.

How boring. The rat already knows he’ll divulge the Secret. Bella knows it, Voldemort knows it. Yet they must play this game, first.

It’s always like this, weak people delaying the inevitable, a feeble attempt at appeasing their conscience.

“Everyone thinks he’s the Secret Keeper,” Pettigrew says next. “He will be -”

“He will be fine. We won the war, as you must know. Nothing will happen to him. Hide away for a week or two, and then I will send you and your mother out of the country. Win-win!” Bella says, with a wolfish smile.

“My- my aunt, too,” Pettigrew stammers out, and at least they’ve gotten to the part where the betrayal is imminent, only negotiation left to set it up.

Bellatrix rolls her eyes. “Fine, your aunt, too.”

Pettigrew hyperventilates for a handful of moments. His head turns to watch the very pictures Voldemort examined.

He trembled, sobs, then he turns his head toward the kitchen, where his mother bangs pots and pans, singing to herself.

He closes his eyes and whispers the address.

Voldemort wonders if Sirius would betray his friends if his mother’s life was threatened. If loyal Bella would betray him, in case her own mother was used as a bargaining chip.

What a burden family is.

As a small, naive child, he wanted family badly, because he was not yet intelligent enough to understand how having a family could be used against him.

Not that he’d be weak enough to be placed in a position to be threatened with anything.

Bella or Sirius would never find themselves kneeling on a floor, begging for their mothers, either.

Some people are just weak. Most people.

Sirius has to understand this. If he surrounds himself with weak people, there will always be the chance of betrayal.

You betrayed him, that annoying voice whispers. To guard your own life-

Voldemort shakes his head, dispelling the thought.

He’s not betraying Sirius. He promised him he will let the Potters live, years before, but there was no mention of a child. If he kills James now, it will be as punishment for Sirius’ behaviour. A consequence, not a betrayal.

Besides, he is Lord Voldemort. His will is supreme. His wishes are law, and it’s Sirius that should follow him, obey him.

It’s Sirius that betrayed him, for a useless child.

(-)

I could bring him home, right now, he reassures himself. Sirius isn’t gone, he does not truly have the means to rob Voldemort of his company.

No, this is merely Voldemort allowing him this …rebellion. Nothing is lost; a temporary frustration.

And if he can no longer bear- if he no longer wishes to deal with it, Sirius can be retrieved easily.

He is a handsome man, he is breathtaking in expensive robes, and in leather jackets, or muggle clothing.

There is no reason to imagine he wouldn’t look good in chains, too.

Comfortable ones- Voldemort does not want his skin chaffed and raw and bleeding. He’d wrap his wrists in satin, under the shackles, to protect that milky skin, those youthful joints, to keep his pure blood where it belongs, no risk of injury.

He’d make the chain long, charm it silent, weightless, so Sirius could move around the cabin, even outside of it- Voldemort wishes to see him under the stars, under the sun.

He’d bring a cat to keep him company. Sirius likes animals, and once, Voldemort wanted a cat as a small boy. A little stray that lingered around the orphanage, smart and cunning, with an ear half-bitten off, flea ridden but fast and daring. She’d run between people’s feet, she’d make impossible escapes out of dogs jaws, and she’d avoid the orphans’ grabby hands. But she liked him- she trusted him, came to him and he’d share the little food he had with her. She’d hiss and scratch at any other orphan, but she’d climb in his lap and purr, and he’d marvel at the feeling, at holding someone, touching someone that did not hate him.

He forgot about wanting a cat, along the way. But why not, he can get one now, and it would purr in Sirius’ lap, keep him occupied when Voldemort has to leave the house.

He’d have to remember to charm the chains as not to allow Sirius to turn into a dog.

He would miss the dog curling at his feet, beside the fireplace, he enjoyed that, enjoyed reading and having that massive ball of fur propped against his boots, that massive head in his lap, for Voldemort to scratch.

But no matter- Sirius can do that in human form, as well. Even better. The dog’s fur cannot hold a candle to Sirius’ silky hair. He can run his fingers through that.

Sirius would be healthy, safe, and there, at Voldemort’s disposition. He’ll have the best food- Voldemort wouldn’t deny him any craving, he’ll be the best fed pet in history, along with the cat.

He’d smoke and have his drinks, Voldemort will let him have that.

He’ll have his piano and his guitar and the record player.

It will be like before.

Except, of course, there will be no more sex.

Why not?

Voldemort sneers, irritated. “Because Sirius wouldn’t want to have sex, obviously,” he snarls in answer, to the empty air.

He won’t want any of it- not the chains, not the food, not the cat.

Irrelevant. It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t want them, he will get them, and enjoy them. For his own good, and for Voldemort’s pleasure.

But the sex is unfathomable in these conditions. With the chains. No.

A pity. Voldemort enjoyed it, greatly, but he can live without it. It was always simply a bonus, a by product of what he truly wanted the most: Sirius’ company.

I could get him right now, he tells himself, excited by the prospect, by the possibility of having Sirius there with him in the next minutes.

He almost stands to do just that, before he remembers that Sirius’ company would be different.

His eyes would burn with hate and defiance. At least in the beginning.

After a while, his eyes would be blank and dead, just a beautiful, warm body.

The fury grows tenfold, the diffuse pain heightens, and it would be hard, for any mortal man, it would cause suffering and tears, but he is Lord Voldemort, so he picks up his wand and goes to execute some prisoners in Lestrange Manor.

(-)

The following day, when she comes to the cabin, uninvited, Bellatrix looks at him in a way she never had before. If he had to guess, he would say there is pity in her dark eyes, but that cannot be.

Lord Voldemort is not one to inspire pity.

She found him at his desk, staring at the wall, and she sits in front of him.

“I went to see him,” she says, biting her lip.

“And?” He shouldn’t ask. This is beneath him, it sounds as if he’s a smitten teenager, prodding other teenagers about information on his crush.

It’s pathetic.

Weak.

He can’t help himself, however.

“As you’d expect. Drunk, living in filth, alternating between apathy and rage. He was always very...sensitive.” She sighs, rubs her temples.

What is it with Sirius? Once more, he thinks there must be magic at play, a powerful charm involved, otherwise how is it possible a man like Voldemort and a woman like Bellatrix find themselves so....bothered over Sirius?

When Voldemort tries to logically think what makes Sirius so special as to warrant all this, he finds his judgement clouded.

He thinks everything about Sirius is special, even the way he holds his fork, or the way he ties his hair, and that can’t be right.

Voldemort would suspect a love potion, if he didn’t already have knowledge of how it felt to be under the effects of a love potion. It’s not that.

This infatuation he has with the boy is natural- no, it’s not natural- but it’s uninfluenced by any potions or charms.

“I had to live through losing Sirius before, my lord,” Bella says, softly. “It is no easy burden. It was as if there was no more light in the night sky, and I was left stumbling in darkness for a while.”

He remembers her, younger, just barely acquainted with him, years before.

There was such misery clinging to her, immense and palpable, making her even more breathtaking than she already was, that one night, as he was leaving Lestrange Manor and he saw her standing alone in the garden, he approached her.

“Our family will never recover from losing Orion and Sirius, back to back. Our fierce protector, our shield, and our brightest light, our future,” she said, head turned up, towards the sky. “Our House will fall, without one of them to lead it. It shall crumble to dust. I feel it in my blood- look, my lord, the stars are mourning, too, do you feel it? When House Black falls, it will start a great change in the world. With the last vestige of ancient magic gone, our world will transform into something I do not wish to witness. It is written in the stars, my lord. When the last Black perishes, all that is great shall soon disappear.” She turns to him, with her haunted, beautiful, intense eyes. “Even you,” she whispers.

“You always saw things in your stars,” Voldemort says, curious. “What do you see, now?”

Bellatrix bites her lip. “I don’t see anything. You know I dislike prophecies.” Voldemort abstains from rolling his eyes at the jab. “But there are signs some in my House can find if we look close enough.” You and centaurs, Voldemort almost says, but reminds himself this is not the time to antagonise her. “Mars shone brightly for a decade,” she says. “But it’s starting to dim lately, and quickly.” She meets his eyes. “War is ending; peace is coming.”

He will kill Harry Potter, and then he will end the war.

“But I don’t know how we,” she gestures between them, further upsetting him. Apparently now Bella also dares to place herself on equal standing with Lord Voldemort, “can have peace, with Sirius the way he is. It won’t be easy,” she repeats. She bites her lip. “I’ve reconsidered. I think you should take him, after you kill Potter. Keep him here, safe.” She looks distraught. “I’m afraid he’d do something foolish if left to his own devices.” She swallows. “When Orion fell unconscious, Sirius almost killed himself, with astral magic. Father and Aunt barely stopped him in time. Remember, my lord? You’re the one that told me how to fix him, that I need to get him out of the house, under the stars, even if he feared them.”

“He was young,” Voldemort says, though he feels something akin to panic. “A child. He didn’t attempt suicide, not consciously, was only trying to cure his father.”

Bellatrix looks so sad. “The cure was his own life, given in exchange for Orion’s.”

“He was a child,” Voldemort repeats. “He’s a man, now. No amount of magic, astral or otherwise, would bring Potter back. There’s no reason for him to trade his life. Besides, he doesn’t care about Potter as much as he cared for Orion.”

She sighs. “Of course he doesn’t. If the Potters were all to die of dragon pox tomorrow, Sirius would be heartbroken for a while, but he’d get over it. Don’t you see, my lord? It’s the fact that you -” she stops, considers her words with more care. “It’s that you will kill someone he cares about. It’s the fact that I took your side. It hurts him more than Potter simply dying. It’s because we will do it, and he trusted us.”

Voldemort takes out a cigarette from a pack hidden in his drawer.

He plays with it between his fingers for some moments, remembers suddenly being much younger, so much younger, in a grey, cold London, rolling tobacco between a torn Bible page he had at the orphanage.

Cigarettes today taste differently than they used to.

“He does love Potter,” Bella goes on, attempting to hide her disapproval when Voldemort lights the cigarette. “But love goes away, you know? He used to love Lupin, too, but it fizzled out. Sirius loves easily, and passionately, it’s his nature. But Sirius only ever trusted Orion.” She sighs, again. “And me. He only trusted us, growing up. He’d tell us everything, and when he was with us, he was always carefree, didn’t even pay attention to his surroundings, knowing we’d keep him safe, that he can relax and just enjoy himself in our company. But he lost Orion, and when he saw the Dark Mark on my arm, he lost trust in me. It’s what made him flee Grimmauld, when he was sixteen.”

Voldemort inhales, leans back into his armchair. A new armchair, brought by Sirius. Much grander than the old, even if that one was a gift from Rodolphus.

This one is basically a comfortable throne.

“He’s been so lost, ever since. I’d spot him on the streets, or even in battle, and he looked ever so lost. Until he met you.” A long silence settles between them.

In it, Voldemort is still considering whether to kill James Potter with his spawn, or to spare him.

“He trusts you as much as he trusted Orion. Even- I would say, even more, my lord. Orion was so strict, and he often stifled Sirius’ rebellious nature, he often punished him for it. Sometimes, my uncle didn’t understand Sirius at all, I think. But you-”

She places her elbows on the desk, and then she hides her face in her palms.

“He’s devastated. And he shouldn’t be alone. After you’re done with Potter, you should take him. Keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. He’s already engaging in self destructing behaviour, but it will be so much worse once Potter is dead. And no one else can stop him- I certainly can’t. Walburga was always useless at it. Even grandfather- no one ever could control Sirius, besides Orion. So you have to make sure he won’t do something stupid.”

Voldemort bends over the desk, slightly. He touches Bella’s forearm, and she looks at him, with tears in her lovely eyes.

Much darker than Sirius’, but just as lovely.

Yet Voldemort doesn’t fall into them, the way he falls into Sirius’, whenever he looks at him.

He can see they are beautiful, but he doesn’t get sucked in.

“Sirius is stronger than you think,” he says, softly. “He will drink, he will fight, he will seek dangerous paths, but he won’t make any attempts on his life. He’s not a coward. You’re right- he always sought a place to feel safe, someone to lead him, to understand him. And he has that in me. He will return, eventually. Like a dog, he always reverts back to what he knows. He went back to his mother, as soon as he had the excuse to do it. He came back to you, even after McKinnon. And he will return to me. Here-” he gestures around the cabin. “- is where he feels good. I made sure of that. This is the only place in the world that feels like a true shelter to him. And he’ll return to it, eventually. When he’ll be tired of his pain.”

If Voldemort had a place like this, if Voldemort had a man like himself, in his youth, he’d have went there, and never left.

He understands Sirius’ needs, he picked up on them as soon as they met, recognised that exhaustion he once felt in his youth.

And Voldemort provided for him, met Sirius’ needs.

“You could rent a place,” he tells the veteran, over a meal the man procured for them. “I can steal more stuff, I can make sure you’ll always have the money for rent.”

The veteran looks at him, with that hard gaze of his.

“You don’t need to spend all the money of alcohol,” Tom stammers.

The veteran snorts. “You’re so intelligent, sometimes I forget you’re just a wee lad. I hope you’ll make a better future for yourself, but what with your situation...and there’s another war brewing. I can feel it. There’ll be another war, and you’ll get dragged into it. If you have the misfortune to survive it, you’ll understand why I spend all my money on alcohol.”

“I can steal more,” Tom begs, ashamed of how high his voice is, how vulnerable he sounds. “I can get you all the alcohol you want. You don’t have to do anything. Just rent a place and take me with you. I’ll clean, I’ll cook-”

The veteran’s rough hand cups his face and Tom flinches at first, unaccustomed to such touches.

All other touches come with pain. He never knew there could be contact without violence.

There’s no violence now, just rough callouses, but warm. Tom leans into it.

“I’m not dependable. You know I often disappear- I wake up in other cities with no knowledge how I got there. One day, I won’t return at all. I’ll die or they’ll lock me up. I can’t- Tom, I can’t be what you want of me. I’m dead already. I’ve died in France. I can’t look after you.”

“I don’t need you to look after me,” Tom snarls. “I just need a house! And I can’t get a house on my own! I’m nine! No one would rent to me!”

I just need you to be there, he thinks. He can see it- a small house that Tom would keep clean. A place where there would be no other orphans, no Cole, no priest, no doctors to bother him.

Safe, and tidy and warm.

And the veteran will be there, at least sometimes. He would ask Tom how he’s doing, the way he asks every time they find each other. He’d praise Tom for his talents, the way he always praises him when Tom manages to steal rings and bracelets without detection.

“You deserve better than me,” the man says.

Tom is deserving, he knows that. But he has nothing, either way. This is his only chance. And if he’d get it, he’d be happy, even if it’s not exactly the elegant, intelligent father he imagined, even if it won’t be the big, expensive house he imagined.

“I’ve seen so much tragedy, lad. So much destruction and death, all mindless and without purpose. You’re just another tragedy. A child like you...stuck here. It’s not fair. I know it’s not fair. But that’s life.”

“You gave up,” Tom accuses him. “You stopped fighting!”

The man takes a swing out of his bottle. “I did enough fighting. I’m tired.”

He hates the injustice of it all. That a child like him would be abandoned. That a hero like the man, a true hero, like in his books, that fought for his country, lost his limb for it, is left to fend for himself in the streets instead of being rewarded.

The man laughs when Tom says it outloud.

“I’m no hero, lad. There was nothing heroic about it. There’s no glory in war, not for us common folk. There’s only death. Medals for the generals, and coffins for the rest of us.”

The Great War to end all wars didn’t live up to its name. Another followed, shortly after the veteran died.

War never ends, Voldemort understood that since he was young.

There has not been a day of peace in the history of human kind. There’s always a war going on, in one corner of the Earth or the other.

In his years at Hogwarts, he was caught between two wars, one magical, one muggle.

Newspapers were filled with pictures of heroes that died far away from their homes.

Magical funerals, with rituals, or just muggle wooden boxes brought back home on a plane, with a flag draped over them.

Medals for the generals, coffins for the rest of us.

Voldemort understood the only way to survive, is to be the one that leads wars, that starts them on his own terms, and not just a pawn to fight in them.

(-)

He should kill James. Not as much as a punishment for Sirius’ betrayal, but because -

Voldemort accepted Potter had a little piece of Sirius, some of his consideration and care, but clearly, it’s more than a little piece, since Sirius abandoned Voldemort for Potter. For James Potter. This has little to do with the child, he finally understands.

Sirius doesn’t care about the boy, not really. He only cares because he’s James’ son.

And Voldemort can’t allow another person to exist that would hold enough influence over Sirius as to draw him away from him.

It’s enough he has to deal with insufferable Blacks, but that is something that he has to accept. Besides, while Sirius is attached to them in that way blood connects people, he doesn’t really like his family. Sure, he craves his mother, but he also finds her insufferable. He’d never prefer Walburga’s company over Voldemort’s.

He respects his grandfather, but Sirius always feels small around him, the old man constantly berates him, and Sirius avoids him as much as possible.

Potter, though....Sirius likes him. There’s no blood that forces them together, no familial duty. He chose Potter, and he chose him over Voldemort.

That won’t do.

If he leaves James alive, Sirius might just stay with him, connect even deeper, make that bond stronger. And if Sirius has another refuge, then the chances he’ll return to Voldemort diminish.

Besides, it’s prudent to off the man; it’s never a good idea to let a grieving father live. He’ll always want to kill Voldemort because of his son.

Same goes for the mudblood, but he figures that if only she survives, Severus will keep her in check, in a way Sirius will not be willing to keep Potter in check.

It’s settled. He’ll kill the Potters, but allow the mudblood to live, as a gift for Severus. If he can’t keep her in check down the line, then Voldemort will kill her, too.

He wants to see Sirius again, before he goes for Harry Potter.

He’ll have to be patient, after. He’ll have to give Sirius space to run around and grieve.

How long can it take? It took him almost a year to speak with Bellatrix again.

Voldemort can wait a year. Besides, since Sirius was sleeping with McKinnon, living with her, sharing food and a bed, surely it mean he was more attached to her than he is to Potter- it might take less than a year.

Either way, Voldemort wants to see him again beforehand.

Bellatrix was worried, and it’s best Voldemort checks on Sirius himself, determines if he truly does need to be watched, if there is a danger he’d do something truly regrettable.

(-)

He doesn’t like that he feel almost…anxious, when he Apparates to that house, knocks on the door.

It is Sirius that wronged me, not the other way around. It is Sirius that dared to leave, to prioritise some infant’s life over Voldemort’s. An unforgivable sin, yet Lord Voldemort is gracious, he forgives, because he understands Sirius does not believe Voldemort’s life is in any danger.

It’s his fault, he reminds himself, attempting to get rid of that unpleasant feeling in his stomach.

He isn’t sure what it is, but he’d felt it before, long ago, when that girl died, when he did not pay attention for a second, didn’t check if there was anyone in the stalls, and a second is all it took for the cubicle to open, and for the basilisk to meet her gaze.

It was her fault, for being so unaware of her surroundings, for not staying in that cubicle. She shouldn’t have been there.

And it’s Sirius’ fault, for -

He loses his train of thought when Sirius opens the door.

He’s grieving already. Misery attached itself to Sirius’ eyes, to his face; there’s pain the line of his lips, in the furrow of his brows.

He’s as handsome as ever, suffering compliments his features, yet Voldemort prefers anything else to it; he prefers to see joy, passion, anger- anything but this.

It will only strengthen him.

Yes, Sirius is similar to Voldemort in that manner- pain makes them stronger.

This shall pass.

Sirius almost sets himself on fire when he lights a cigarette. Bella was right. He shouldn’t be alone.

Voldemort will have to swallow his pride and send a note to Arcturus, tell him to keep a close eye on his precious heir during the following months.

You can take care of him. Take him home, and make sure he will be safe.

A tempting thought. Voldemort knows he vetoed it before, yet it’s hard to remember why, when he sees Sirius in this state.

“What are you going to do about it? Torture me? Good f*cking luck with that. I’ll never tell you the Secret!”

This is why, he remembers.

He refuses to acknowledge the brief flash of pain- no. It is not pain, he corrects himself. It is merely anger, because it is insulting. How dare Sirius suggest such a thing?

He focuses on the fact that Sirius would never tell him the Secret, because he doesn’t know it. He’s not truly betraying Voldemort. Even if he’d want to help, even if he’d realise Voldemort’s life is in danger, he wouldn’t be able to say the Secret.

“James isn’t Marlene,” Sirius tells him. “And you aren’t Bella.”

Voldemort is not his blood; he will never be Sirius’ blood, and in that moment it becomes very clear to him that no matter how hard he works, how gentle and patient, how much better he treats Sirius compared to those crazy Blacks, it will not matter; Sirius will always put them above him.

Lies. He’s just saying it in the heat of the moment. He will let this go, eventually.

Yes, yes. After all, he told Bellatrix she’s dead to him when that McKinnon girl was murdered, he spoke in anger then, too. Yet he forgave, eventually.

It will be exactly as it was with Bellatrix.

It must be.

“I won’t spare Potter anymore. You lost that favour when you picked him over me. He shall die with his son,” Voldemort informs him. Perhaps Sirius will learn there are consequences for his atrocious behaviour, for these uncomfortable feelings he awoke inside Voldemort, for daring to suggest, even in a fit of anger, that Voldemort is lesser than Bella in his eyes.

“Get out!” Sirius demands. “Torture me for the Secret or get the f*ck out of my home.”

This torture insanity again. After two years of effort on Voldemort’s part, two entire years of keeping his temper in check, proving over and over again he won’t hurt Sirius, and now he dares speak of torture?

“This isn’t your home.”

They already have a home. Voldemort shared his home with Sirius, made space for him, and now he doesn’t want for his home to become just his own, once more.

Sirius belongs there. Where he is happy and well kept, and spoiled beyond belief.

He crumbles without Voldemort. He already lost some weight, and it’s only been a week; violet, almost violent, circles colour his under eyes. He can barely stand, bottles of alcohol all over the place. None of this would happen when he is in Voldemort’s care.

He must know it, too, deep down. What dog would leave their comfortable home, where they are kept in luxury and treated with care, to live on their own, surrounded by danger?

Why is he doing this to himself?

“You did this to me!” Sirius yells, and his voice breaks in a way Voldemort has never heard before.

No. I didn’t. This is Sirius’ choice.

“You are getting far too old to blame your actions on others.”

“Oh, like you’re blaming everything you do, including acting on the prophecy, on Dumbledore?”

“That is different,” Voldemort hisses. “He is my enemy-”

“You are my enemy now.”

Before Voldemort can even process this ridiculous declaration, Sirius pushes him, tries to shove him away. It doesn’t work.

Lord Voldemort is as steady and as unmovable as a mountain. Lord Voldemort is pure magic, far mightier than Sirius’ muscles, as lovely as they are to look upon.

“And I can’t fight against you, the way you can at least fight Dumbledore. I can’t, because I’m not strong enough, and even if I were, I would never hurt you! So this is what is left for me to do.”

Those striking eyes of his tear up, his voice, usually low and self assured, wavers dangerously, gets high, and Voldemort understands what is about to happen.

He’d seen these warning signs in other people, he recognises when someone is about to cry, but he had never seen it happen with Sirius.

Something softens deep inside him, something that was already soft, ever since he allowed Sirius into his home, into his life, into Voldemort. It most definitely has something to do with how true Sirius’ words rang; he would never hurt Voldemort, he would never fight against him.

Lord Voldemort could always tell truths from lies, even before he became Lord Voldemort.

“Sirius,” he says, uncertain. It doesn’t happen often for words to fail him, verbose and well read as he is, but in that moment, he cannot think of what to say, what would help, how to put Sirius at ease.

You could not kill the Potters, a treacherous voice whispers in his ear, a voice belonging to a boy that should be dead, yet he continues to plague Lord Voldemort, especially since Sirius showed up.

Voldemort dismisses it, shoves Tom Riddle in that dark hole inside him, where he should be contained.

“You won’t have anything, you know?” Sirius screams, and there- now he’s crying.

The only thing more valuable than Black blood, are Black tears, Abraxas once said, so proud of himself for making Walburga cry, in public, no less. Tears of anger and frustration, but there were tears, and Abraxas considered it his greatest accomplishment of his Hogwarts career, even if he had to suffer Alphard’s displeasure for months on end.

He wakes in the middle of the night, sensing something isn’t quite right. His heart rate shoots up before he opens his eyes. When he does, he calms.

It is only Orion.

He blinks, still recovering from the fright of waking up knowing someone is there that shouldn’t be there.

On the next bed over, Abraxas lies very still, frozen. Orion straddles him, and for a second he does not understand what he’s seeing, until a mermaid moves and some greenish light makes its way into the room- then, he sees Orion is holding a wand to Abraxas’ face.

“I will blind you,” Orion whispers. “If you ever upset her again, I will take away your eyes, for having seen her in distress.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Abraxas hisses back. “’I’m not some half-blood you can-”

“I don’t care who you are. You will apologise to her, and you will never upset her again. Otherwise, next time I come here, I will not allow you to wake up before I take what is due.”

“You little-” Abraxas starts, but he whimpers in pain when the wand presses harder under his eye.

“Do you really want to finish that sentence, Abraxas?”

Seconds pass in silence.

“I thought not,” Orion whispers, and removes his wand, stands up.

And now Orion's son stands before him, so much like his father, yet so different, too. One was made of ice, the other is fire, but ice and fire both burn, don't they?

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice, Voldemort remembers the poem, remembers reading it when he was travelling through the States, in his pursuit of a Vodun priestess in Louisiana.

“You’ll kill all your enemies, you’ll have all the power, but you’ll be alone and cold and miserable. You could have had something- we could have had something.” Sirius wipes his tears, furiously, but they keep coming. “I love you, but you throw that away in your chase of imaginary enemies. You’re too busy trying to keep your life and immortality to even realise what you lost. So, here-”

Sirius bends, throws some clothes around, until he finds the ring. He straightens, and holds it to Voldemort. “Let me give you your soul back. You’re in great need of it.”

I love you.

Voldemort’s mind fails him. He can’t think, those damned words repeating on a loop in his head, drowning anything else.

Such simple words, so common, everyone says them.

Yet no one ever offered them to Voldemort.

His heart grows wild, smashing painfully against his ribcage. Blood rushes to his ears, every pump as loud as a drum.

“Keep it.” Voldemort says, and he retreats. He must get out of there immediately. He feels nauseous, dizzy. He’s weak. So weak, that if he stays for one more second, he’ll cave. He’ll give this boy everything he wants.

Arcturus was right. Voldemort wasn’t the one to ensnare Sirius. The vines, the ropes, the chains are there, but they’re chaining Voldemort, not Sirius.

“It was a gift.” The words come from his mouth, but he barely hears them. It takes such effort to walk away. “And I shall keep your soul, Sirius Black, because you belong to me.”

(-)

I love you.

Voldemort has never faced a Boggart, yet he has the thought that if he were to face one now, it would be tall and handsome, hair as dark as night, eyes as light as the stars, and it would say, it would say those words-

I love you.

It must be fear, what he is feeling, because what else could it be? The way his heart aches, constricts, threatens to shatter, the way his mind swims, unfocused, his senses heightened, that part of his brain that reacts viscerally to danger-it must be fear he’s feeling, because what else could be as devastating, as terrifying as whatever is wreaking havoc upon him? The way his mind clouds, irrational, paranoid, thinking this is all a plot to destroy him, a creature Dumbledore made specifically to enchant him, a cunning scheme Voldemort fell for.

He hurts. He hurts, and he’d vowed, long ago, that he’d never hurt again.

It makes him angry; it embarrasses him, humiliates him, humbles him and it’s wrong, because Lord Voldemort is beyond those things, this isn’t supposed to happen to him.

I love you.

Stupid child, stupid boy. Sirius is young, sensitive, dramatic. Love doesn’t exist. A strange, unknowable, undefinable concept.

Voldemort is more the fool, because as soon as heard it, he wanted it.

He paces around his cabin, and he wants Sirius to love him. An echo of a long forgotten wish, a craving buried in his flesh, rearing its ugly, childish head, awakened as soon as Sirius spoke it, like a forbidden spell.

A lie.

No, not a lie- an untruth. Sirius loves, whatever that means, he loves, Voldemort doesn’t doubt it. Sirius feels something, youthful and immense and painful by the looks of it, but it isn’t for Voldemort.

I love. You.

You.

Who does Sirius love? Sirius spoke truthfully, but Voldemort is the lie.

Who do you love?

The carefully cultivated manipulations, the perfect illusion Voldemort crafted for him, the Head Boy in the picture that Sirius keeps in his nightstand?

For a dreadful moment in time, that stretches endlessly, Voldemort thinks:

Who am I?

He’s been an orphan once, a child, and he didn’t like it, didn’t accept it, so he became something else, with every book he read.

He’s been a prince, a knight, a king; he was Phileas Fogg, he was Macbeth, he was Zeus, and Thor and Jesus. He was a Russian soldier, an American adventurer, he’s been whoever he wanted, all in his mind, body trapped between Wool’s grey’s walls, but his mind free, forever warping, changing, as he got lost in his books, the only things he had, as he borrowed the lives of the characters he read about.

He’s been Merlin, from a legend, long before he learned Merlin was real.

He’s been a muggle, before he knew what muggle meant.

He was a mudblood, a half-blood, a pureblood. Perfect student, good boy, bad boy, Slytherin’s heir, unwanted secret son, unwanted nephew.

He’s been a saviour, and a murderer.

He had many names, for every country he travelled, many occupations, different tempers, different tactics.

His body changed, too, has been many things, has been in different places, in different stages.

He is a merciful lord, and he is a vengeful lord. A teacher, a disciplinarian, a father to an entire army. An ally, an enemy.

A liberator and a tyrant.

He is Lord Voldemort, yet for that awful, never ending moment, it feels as play-pretend as being King Arthur was, when he was six years old.

It takes his breath away.

He needs to go back, to shake Sirius, to order him, to yell, ‘Who do you love? What is it you see? Who am I?’

He wants to rip Sirius’ mind apart, to see himself.

But he’ll only find whatever Voldemort wanted Sirius to see.

He has no one else to ask. If he’d line up all the people he knows and demand to be told what they see, he’ll only be facing an image he cultivated, different for each and single individual, tailored to specific purposes. In their minds, in their eyes, Voldemort will find his own machinations staring back at him.

Tom, Dumbledore says, vicious, cruel, unforgiving man that he is.

Dumbledore, the only man Voldemort could never manipulate. In Dumbledore’s mind, in his eyes, there lives an authentic version of Voldemort, unfabricated, untailored, unintended.

He goes to the torture bar-to the shed, and locates his extremely potent sleeping potions, the ones he brewed for Sirius when he was injured and needing painful healing.

There are three left.

He drinks them all.

You can’t run forever, Dumbledore’s voice rings in his head, even as his body succumbs to the potion, crumbles to the floor, dragging him into a forced sleep. You can’t outrun yourself, Tom.

(-)

He wakes up on the floor, in the shed. Embarrassed beyond belief at himself.

He refuses to think anymore of it. He extracts the memory of the past night, puts it in a vial.

Of course, he doesn’t forget it, but it lessens the intensity.

Once I make the final Horcrux, I will get rid of these unwanted feelings, he reassures himself.

He always calms down after he makes one.

Well, he’s in agonising pain after the ritual, but after that, when agony eventually dims down, he feels calmer. Unburdened.

He just needs to focus on his goal. He is the greatest, strongest dark lord in existence- there is no room for second guessing.

The only thing that matters is his life, he reminds himself. His immortality. Once that is secured beyond doubt, once he has his soul in seven separate containers, the most magical number, once the prophesied hero is annihilated- well, then he can think of Sirius again.

Priorities. Everything exists inside a hierarchy, from animals, to people, to goals.

There is order in the universe, and there must be order inside him, and outside him.

He’ll follow his own set of rules, and he’ll secure what is most important to him, first.

Canis Major - Chapter 2 - Metalomagnetic - Harry Potter (2024)

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