Chapter Text
Voldemort is sitting in Sirius’ comfortable armchair.
Sirius remembers stealing it from a witch he’d had a brief but tumultuous affair with. She’d scratched his bike when he broke it off with her, and in retaliation, he stole her armchair.
It has a pink unicorn painted on the side.
This is why Sirius’ first impulse is to laugh at the absurdity of the image.
He always laughs at the most inappropriate of times.
Death is close, he reminds himself. Death is sitting in his armchair.
Sirius doesn’t laugh; he takes his wand out, nonchalantly.
He doesn’t try to attack. He flicks it and the candles on the wall come alive, casting sinister shadows on Lord Voldemort’s face.
Or maybe it’s his face that is sinister and the candles have nothing to do with it.
I am a Black. I will not show fear.
Sure, he says he’s nothing like them, he disowns them every chance he gets. But so close to dying, there is no point in pretending anymore, is there? He is a Black and Blacks are proud creatures.
He walks casually, tightens his grip on his wand to stop his fingers from shaking, tucks the other hand in his pocket.
Brown eyes tinged with red follow him.
Sirius stops about five feet away from the armchair.
A faint smile plays on Voldemort’s lips, turning his face even more sinister. Sirius stares at it-he’d heard descriptions from the few that had seen it and survived the encounter.
It sounded horrific- red eyes, waxy features, hallowed cheeks. And it is, really. It is horrific and yet not monstrous.
Not god-like. Just a man.
A formidable man. An exceptional wizard. The most accomplished at wielding dark magic.
But still, just a man. Sirius refuses to think otherwise.
A sick, twisted part of him feels pride at being singled out, deemed important enough, powerful enough to warrant an execution from the dark lord himself.
Voldemort remains silent, eyes unblinking.
Silence breaks lesser men, his father had told him, so long ago. Never speak first.
Sirius had discarded that lesson- had been rash and loud and always desperate to cover the silence.
Because in the silence, he could hear the Black blood whispering.
However, he just decided he will die a Black, so this time he lets the silence do its trick.
Sirius will not talk first. He is not the lesser man.
A car’s tire backfires outside his windows a minute later and Sirius almost flinches.
Almost. Blacks do not flinch.
In his last minutes of earth, he thinks of James. He hopes James won’t be the one to find his corpse.
(He thinks of his mother; if she’ll care. If she’ll show up at the funeral. If she will shed a tear. ‘You are no son of mine.’)
“Sirius Black.” The voice is soft, but Sirius hears the undertone of strength in it.
Sirius smirks, because he wins.
“Would be awkward if I weren’t,” he mutters when Voldemort doesn’t follow it up with anything else. “You break into people’s houses like a common thief and yet you call yourself a lord,” he drawls, and he feels that vindictive satisfaction he always gets when he riles someone up.
The Black taint is impossible to wash, no matter how hard he tries.
Are you sure you tried so hard?
“What do you want?” Voldemort asks, head slightly tilted, regarding Sirius with interest.
“You came to me,” Sirius points out, confused.
“To find out what you want.”
The light plays tricks on Voldemort’s eyes as he leans forward, making them terrifying and strange and mesmerising. Sirius cannot look away, even if the barely contained fear tells him to drop his gaze. “So I can give it to you.”
He does flinch then, surprise jolting his nerves.
“You want me to join you?” he asked, astonished.
Voldemort keeps staring.
Sirius finally gives into his impulse and laughs, because- really!
People usually have a reaction to Sirius- he’s instantly liked, adored, or he’s instantly hated.
Recently, he’s staring to be feared.
The point is, everyone reacts to him and his inappropriate behaviour.
Voldemort doesn’t. He keeps staring.
He’s like no one else you’ve ever met! Bella said, dreamily, when Sirius discovered the mark on her arm, right before he left his house, in his fifth year. He’ll give us everything we need, Sirius! What we deserve!
Even if he left, even if he disagrees with his family views, even if he has no inclination to slaughter muggleborns just because they exist, Sirius still thinks he deserves things, simply on account of being who he is.
Entitled, Remus called him, so many times.
“I’m a big boy,” he says. “I get what I want on my own, just fine.” And then, stupidly, he adds: “But thanks.”
Blacks truly are made of pride, it’s at the core of their personalities. And having someone as notorious as the Dark Lord come to him- in person-
It’s not the first time he is courted.
Bella had tried the hardest.
Malfoy keeps inviting him to visit Narcissa at his manor.
At the pubs Sirius goes on his own (down in Knockturn Alley where a voice deep inside insists he belongs), when it gets too much, when being good guy extraordinaire gets tiring, stifling, his drinks are often paid by others.
When Sirius asks who he has to thank for his alcohol, the bartender nods towards the shadows; Sirius sometimes recognises Rabastan, sometimes Even Rosier.
He’d always thought it’s Bella’s doing, all of it.
They’ve been closer than twins, once upon a time, even with the seven-year age gap.
Bella is… she’s not right in the head. She’d been lonely and pushed away. Sirius had been only a baby-to him, she never seemed crazy, either because of his age, or because he was not quite right either.
He used to waddle after her, in Grimmauld Place or her father’s estate; she read aloud from her books to entertain him.
He cried when she left for Hogwarts, every year.
She taught him hexes and let him practice with her wand, before he was even six years old.
She calmed him down and kissed his cheek when he’d been eight and he’d thrown a jealous fit, so protective of her, when she went out on a date.
They don’t matter, they’re just boys. You’re my soulmate, she told him.
He went to her wedding, with a scarlet and golden tie, a lion in a den of snakes. Shy of thirteen, he cornered Rodolphus before the reception and threatened to kill him if he ever hurt Bella. Rodolphus laughed and Sirius reminded him of the many, many books on the Dark Arts, unique exemplars that could only be found in the Black library.
Is this her doing, too?
But no, it cannot be. Bella had stopped talking to him for months.
His letters return, still sealed.
Traitor, she spat from under her mask, when they crossed paths, on an Order mission gone wrong.
Traitor, indeed. Sirius never told anyone about her mark.
He’d never seen Lucius’, but he knows it is there. Yet Lucius is Cissa’s husband, so Sirius says nothing about him, either.
“How in the hells would he know?” James had snarled at Prewett, when one twin had asked if maybe Sirius has some sort of inside information about Lucius’ increasingly suspicious activity. “He has nothing to do with those people!”
James is Sirius’ staunchest supporter; James tries to shield him from the suspicious gazes Sirius receives from most people.
James is a little blind-even with his glasses, he cannot see that no matter what Sirius does, no matter how much he tries to be good, no matter how many times he proves himself, all he has to do is level a gaze, square his shoulders and to everyone else in the Order, his Black blood screams louder than everything he might have to say.
And to the Blacks, Sirius will forever be a blood traitor.
Caught between blood and principles, between cousins and friends, hated and distrusted on both sides, Sirius only really has James, the one to truly see Sirius and nothing else.
There’s Peter, too, he supposes.
Remus-Remus had never quite gotten over the Incident with Snape.
Sirius is tired, and he’s reminded of it, pulled back from his thoughts.
Whatever else death will bring, at least he hopes it will bring rest.
“You don’t know what you want, do you?” Voldemort asks.
There is no Legilimency involved; Sirius is a decent Legilimens himself, an even better Occlumenes.
Bella taught him from a very early age.
“I want you dead,” Sirius offers.
“Do you?” Voldemort smiles. “I wonder why.”
Sirius opens his mouth but closes it upon further consideration.
His reasoning will fall flat, will sound empty.
Because you are a murderer? Sirius is one, too.
Because you are a dark wizard? Sirius knows and uses enough dark curses when he can get away with it.
Because you are evil? Sounds childish.
“James Potter wants me dead,” Voldemort says, and Sirius is truly afraid, for the first time, because he doesn’t want this man to ever speak James’ name again. “You’re just drifting along, because you have nowhere else to go.”
“Piss off!” Sirius snarls and his wand twitches in his hand, urges Sirius to punish.
Voldemort stands.
Sirius is a tall man, used to looking down at everyone. This is an exception. Voldemort has at least two inches over him.
Sirius hates it.
“They will cast you away,” he says, softly. “You do not belong with them. You belong with your blood. My Death Eaters have interesting tales about you.” Voldemort’s eyebrow raises. “Dumbledore will not approve of your style, where he to find out. And he will, eventually.”
Sirius thinks it’s stupid not to use dark magic to counter dark magic. Sirius thinks it’s senseless to allow a Death Eater to live, when they could be dead.
Sirius drifts apart from his allies in battle, draws Death Eaters further away and deals with them the way he knows.
Fire with fire.
Dumbledore would certainly not approve.
“You cannot contain darkness once it starts spreading,” Voldemort offers. “It will claim you in the end. Embrace it. I will give you free rein to be who you were born to be, unconstrained.”
“I was born to be a pain in the arse, dear mum says.”
He’s -he’s uncomfortable. He is uncertain and he doesn’t know how to deal with this, because Black are never uncomfortable.
Blacks are never flustered. Blacks don’t cry.
Blacks rage, though. That was always acceptable. Sirius knows how to express anger best.
And spite.
He knows how to strike where it would hurt the most.
He remembers his father whispering in the office-
“It is not wise to oppose Lord Voldemort, Walburga.”
He remembers his mother, snorting. “‘Lord’, do you hear yourself? He’s only an upjumped mudblood, with ideas high above his station. You should have seen him, in his first year, with his crass accent, his second hand robes; how he was attacked, that very first night in the common room, by his betters. Lord, he says. Never!”
His father insisted. “I remember him having everyone under his thumb, by the time I got to Hogwarts. He is not to be messed with, Walburga.”
Sirius inquired about Lord’s Voldemort’s identity. But Dumbledore shied away from the question, refusing to disclose a name.
Why, Sirius doesn’t know- but that’s Dumbledore. He keeps his secrets close to his heart.
No one else in the Order seems overly concerned with their biggest enemy true identity.
It drives Sirius mad. But they’re all Gryffindors there- and Gryffindors aren’t known for needing much information before they jump head first into a war.
“Speaking of my mum, I believe you know her, don’t you?” Sirius asks, filled with anger and venom.
Voldemort says nothing to that; he doesn’t take the bait, and it’s frustrating, it makes Sirius angrier.
“You champion your pureblood cause, but observe-” Sirius steps back, gestures at himself. “You are looking at the pinnacle of pureblood perfection. I am the purest, the noblest blood you’ll every set your eyes on. I will not bow to a mudblood,” he spits and yes-there it is!
Voldemort’s eyes spark, his fingers twitch and Sirius clutches his wand tighter-but at the last second, Voldemort doesn’t reach for his own.
“You have something against muggleborns?” Voldemort asks, lip twitching up, in a mocking smile.
Sirius is so chocked up, he can’t even come up with a witty answer.
Lily would understand, he thinks. Sirius is just trying to insult; not muggleborns-Voldemort.
“You do not belong there.”
“You know nothing about me-”
“They don’t either,” Voldemort counters. “But they suspect. I suspect. We all see the ‘pinnacle of pureblood perfection’. Bella calls you a traitor-she’s hurt, because you betrayed her. And yet, the only one you constantly betray, is yourself. Isn’t it tiring? To always pretend? To play nice? To act as if the world shouldn’t bow down to you?”
A thousand thoughts race in his head and there’s a voice- the Black voice- whispering in agreement.
“I know very well how that feels. I, too, had to pretend for many years. To ignore your dear mother and her ilk when they called me a mudblood. But once I was done pretending,” Voldemort smiles. “It is freeing. Do you not want to be free?”
Sirius does, so very badly.
He wants the conflict inside him to end.
But Sirius is better than his darkest instincts; or at least that is what James said, sternly, months after Sirius had tried to kill Snape, uncaring about how it would make Remus feel, uncaring of consequences, just filled with rage.
He casts a blood boiling curse, learned in the deepest, darkest corners of the Black Library.
Non verbally, powerful and with perfect aim.
Voldemort barely has time to block it.
But he does block it, when none of his Death Eaters had managed.
The attack does not anger Voldemort. If anything, it seems to please him.
See? His still there smile seems to ask. No good Gryffindor would know such Dark Magic.
Maybe he’s reading too much into Voldemort’s smirk.
Maybe he’s projecting.
He casts another obscure spell, and another after it.
Eventually, Voldemort retaliates, but even proud, arrogant Sirius can tell the man is holding back.
That he’d be crushed in seconds if Voldemort truly wanted it.
It’s the most exhilarating duel of his life.
It cannot last more than five minutes. His house is in ruins by the end.
Maybe casting Fiendfyre in such closed quarters wasn’t the brightest idea Sirius ever had.
But when in the heat of battle, Sirius never cares about collateral victims, or even himself-all he cares, all he chases, is victory.
He doesn’t obtain it now, ending up flat on his back, his wand in Voldemort’s hand.
Sirius is not used to losing- he is the best duelist of his generation.
And sure, sometimes Fabian bests him; Moody certainly does when they train, but only because Sirius cannot use dark magic with them.
If he were to, he’d win. He senses it in his heart.
He used it now, more than he ever had before, but he’d been at most an annoying fly rather than a real threat to Voldemort.
Sirius takes comfort that at least this is the greatest dark lord in history. Surely, it’s not that humiliating to lose to someone of such caliber.
And, to his great pleasure, he made Voldemort bleed.
A thin line of blood runs from his temple, over his cheek, dripping down his robe. Voldemort’s eyes look redder, with the blood shining on his face.
“What did the Sorting Hat tell you?” Voldemort asks, bending over Sirius, who makes a tremendous effort not to cry out in pain, to not break under the vicious grip it has on him, reaching through his body.
“You do not belong there.”
The hat had seen it before Voldemort, when Sirius had begged to go to Gryffindor, just to spite his mother.
“I will find a way to destroy you, if you don’t do as I ask,” Sirius had said, childish and arrogant and so very confident.
“Such a Slytherin thing to say.” The hat had laughed. “A lesson for you, young Black. When you do not listen to counsel, you will end up the worst for it. GRYFFINDOR!”
“It said-” Sirius can barley talk, through the pain consuming him. “It said that I should tell you to go fuck yourself.”
And fuck that stupid hat; Sirius is a Gryffindor.
No Slytherin would say that to Voldemort’s face. Slytherins have self preservation.
Bella doesn’t. Bella would tell anyone and everyone to go fuck themselves.
Bella is Sirius, if he’d been a woman.
Bella is his soulmate.
Bella is a Slytherin, through and through.
Voldemort laughs, a deep and surprisingly pleasant sound.
Sirius is losing far too much blood.
“What’s your name?” he asks, curious. No one would tell him-the few that must know, refuse to utter it.
Voldemort performs the counter curse for some of the curses he inflicted upon Sirius, because the pain diminishes.
“And what’s this curse?” Sirius can’t help himself. It’s a strong curse. Efficient. He wishes he had known it sooner, so he could have used it on certain people.
“My own creation. I shall teach it to you. I shall teach you everything. I will give you the world, Sirius Black. You only have to say ‘yes’.”
“No,” Sirius says, because-
Well, above all else, above the fact that it would be wrong, he says it because he can.
Because he’s made of spite. He always fucks up his life, just to spite others, doesn’t he?
“Your name!” he demands. “Or are you so ashamed of it you cannot bear to say it? Too common? Too muggle? It’s Smith, isn’t it? Williams? You’ll kill me in a second. What harm could it do to tell me?”
Voldemort stands to his full height. “A month. I shall return in a month for my answer.”
What about Sirius’ answers?
He tries to stand, but he’s terribly dizzy. The floor is stained red, the only colour amongst the ashes.
Voldemort walks to the door, places Sirius’ wand on a half destroyed end table.
“What did the hat say to you?” Sirius asks, just as the door opens.
His back to Sirius, Voldemort looks over his shoulder. His face in profile is somehow even more imposing than a full frontal.
“It was a short affair, unlike your sorting.”
Sirius had sat on that chair for close to ten minutes. Everyone in Britain had heard of it. The fucking Prophet wrote an entire article about the Black scion’s surprising sorting.
“It only had two words for me.”
A short pause. Sirius’s heart hammers in his chest; he gets to live for at least another month. He’s groggy and in pain, but he’s never felt more alive.
His Black blood is singing.
“Welcome, Heir.”
The door opens and Voldemort is gone.
He knows how to make a dramatic exit, Sirus thinks, almost delirious.
Minutes later, the Aurors show up.