Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

He knows this one will be different as soon as he steps foot inside the messy house.

The wards that guard it are borderline dark magic, barely legal. They are well executed, as well. An auspicious beginning, Voldemort thinks, as he patiently dismantles them.

The Black scion isn’t home; Evan dutifully let Voldemort know he’s drunk in some Knockturn pub.

“He often comes to drink in Knockturn, but always alone. Never with his Gryffindor friends. He’s a mean drunk, too, my lord. Perhaps if you wish to have a semblance of a rational conversation- as much as it is possible with any Black- you shouldn’t approach him when he’s wasted.”

The walls are …colourful. The paint was once white, clearly, but the young Black heir hung posters of muggle singers everywhere. Perhaps actors, too, Voldemort isn’t familiar with what passes for famous these days in the muggle world.

He only recognises Elvis, mounted over the fireplace.

They all look the same- tall, dark haired, dressed in leather.

Pictures of his friends are up there as well. He recognises Potter in many of them- hard not to, with that trademark Potter hair. The girl draped on his arm, redheaded, must be his mudblood. Voldemort forgot her name. Something flowery, but it escapes him.

Bella and Evan, occasionally Rabastan, often complain about Black’s entourage, but they only name Potter.

“Stupid Potter, his mudblood and the werewolf! He left us for those little worms!”

He thinks the werewolf must be the thin one, an air of misery draped over him in every picture. Greyback complained about him, too. Remus, that’s the one, it comes to Voldemort. Remus Lupin, werewolf.

“With a name like that, I had to bite him,” Greyback smirked, in one of his rare funny moods. “He was destined to be mine, but Black stole him.”

The other boy that appears in almost all the pictures, Voldemort doesn’t even try to place.

He got a report on all of them, marked as Dumbledore’s puppets, but he only remembered the important names on that list.

The girl, he knows. Only one picture with her. Marlene McKinnon. A fighter- a good fighter. She killed three Death Eaters. A Healer, too. Voldemort always looks after powerful witches. They are sorely misrepresented in this war. It upsets Bella, who is trying to recruit more girls, with little success.

She’s in Black’s lap, head thrown back, while Black sucks a bruise on her throat. Voldemort tilts his head, wastes a second more than it is needed on the picture. He’d never seen a picture like this, especially put on display on a wall. The girl is engaged, isn’t she? With one of the Prewett brothers.

He scans the walls for them, but he can’t find them anywhere.

Instead, he finds muggle telephone numbers scribbled in lipstick on the walls.

The best- a picture ripped from a newspaper, showing the Dark Mark floating over a house. It has many sharp objects stuck in it-

Darts. Yes, that’s the name of the game.

He smiles. Black has good aim- one of the darts is stuck in the eye of the snake.

Under the bed, beneath a loose floorboard, he finds a box kept safe by no less than five curses. He opens it to find a picture of Orion Black. It is clipped from a newspaper, cut carefully and precisely around the edges. And a letter. It’s clearly the second page of one- the first is missing.

‘-no need to play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. You know fully well it is not cursing the half-blood that bothers me, but your lack of decorum. You are a civilised young man, you represent our family, and you should act accordingly. I warned you I do not enjoy having to correspond with either McGonagall or Dumbledore, yet you’re forcing me to do so when you blatantly misbehave. Am I to presume you do not care about my displeasure, and this is why you disobey me? Or should I conclude you would like to please your father, yet you lack the self-control to do it? I struggle to pick which option is worse. This is the seventh time in a month I receive letters about your detentions. Do stop assaulting your schoolmates, or if you must, show some cunning and do not get caught. Or else we will have a serious conversation when you come home for Yule. I assure you, it is not a conversation you will enjoy.

Furthermore, I hear you intend to take a mudblood to one of those holiday celebrations Slughorn likes to host. Surely, I heard wrong. You would be wise to invite Helena Edgecombe to this function. Her father mentioned just the other day that she finds your company delightful.

Flitwick was accommodating enough to send me your Charms paper, along with your grade. He mentioned it was the best paper he graded in all his years of teaching, and, after reading it, I must agree it was quite extraordinary. I am half tempted to send it to my old mentor back at the Institute. Very well done, Sirius. You certainly can make me proud when it doesn’t inconvenience you.

If only you would show proof of your upbringing in your social life, as well, I would be most content.

With love,

Your father.’

The letter has blotch marks on it, as if someone cried over it. The word ‘father’, especially, is almost erased, and Voldemort imagines Black often moved his finger over it.

Bella mentioned Sirius Black was ‘unnaturally close’ to Orion, and that his father’s death broke him. She credits this even with the boy running away from Grimmauld.

Voldemort carefully arranges these apparently precious possessions back into the box, seals it under the floorboard with the same curses he found on it.

The house is messy, unorganised, clothes thrown around, bottles of alcohol everywhere, full to the brim ashtrays lying around in odd places, and burn marks on the rug.

Yet his collection of muggle records is organised in alphabetical order, neatly. And there, hidden behind the impressive collection, Voldemort finds eight tomes filled with dark magic. All illegal.

His bathroom cabinets are just as messy, and clearly his female guests left behind bottles of lipstick, or similar products. They also left behind some lingerie. A pair of pink knickers is half hidden into a tiny gap underneath the bathtub. He wonders if they belong to the same women who left her bra between the couch cushions in the living room.

Voldemort finds a secret compartment, coming out from the side of the bathroom cabinet. Hangover potions, Pepperup, Polyjuice.

Veritaserum.

Hidden further still, he finds three lethal poisons.

If he didn’t know better, Voldemort might think two different men share the house; a careless, Bohemian womaniser, a blood traitor surrounded by mudbloods and half-bloods and other blood traitors, with muggle musicians on the wall.

And the Black heir, interested in dark magic, poisons, sleeping with his father’s picture under his bed.

This will be easy, he thinks, as he sits in an appalling armchair that doesn’t fit with the rest of the furniture.

Charmed into the armrest, there’s a letter, covered in plastic for preservation. “You fucking dog, how dare you steal my armchair! Give it back, or I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life writing horrible articles about you!”

It amuses Voldemort, as it probably amuses Black, hence why he decided to place it on the armrest, permanently.

When the young man stumbles his way into the house, he contains his surprise remarkably fast.

People have been telling Voldemort Black takes after Walburga; he might, it’s too soon to tell, but his first impression is that Sirius favours his father.

Voldemort is yet to meet an unattractive Black- and he’s met them all- but the boy is something else, even for the Blacks.

His tall, broad body is on display in the muggle attire he wears, hair falling around his shoulders with a casual elegance; he is both handsome, with strong, sharp bones and beautiful, with soft lips and long, thick eyelashes, made even darker by the paleness of his eyes.

It has been so long since he felt attraction; it travels up his spine as he takes in the boy.

Who very quickly decides he will die a hero; Voldemort can see that decision forming in his eyes. Not with Legilimency. It’s just made obvious by the way his impressive shoulders straighten with pride, his jaw sets in determination, anger replacing the fear in his eyes.

And there was fear- Voldemort is intimately familiar with fear of death, can easily recognise it when it shines in front of him.

Yet he spent his life fleeing from it.

Sirius Black walks towards it, bold.

It takes only a minute of conversation to charm him; easy, indeed. Sirius’ interest is picked instantly; pride flickers in his eyes that someone like Voldemort would bother coming to kill him; even more pride when Voldemort explains he’s there to recruit him.

He is a Black, down to his last bone. He calls Voldemort a mudblood; he declares himself the purest being in existence. He speaks of his mother; the boy in the pictures is not there, the owner of muggle records, the blood traitor- no; only the Black heir speaks to Voldemort that night.

Powerful, too, like any Black. A diamond in the rough, his magic true and strong and raw as he unleashes it. Dark curses fall with a practiced ease from his wand. Fiendfyre engulfs the room in seconds.

What a treasure. As unhinged and powerful as Bella, this one.

And there it is, his pure blood spilling over the floor, staining the carpet. Voldemort has the impulse to taste it; a momentary madness, but the boy enchants him so.

His clothes are ripped and burned in places, and Voldemort can glimpse tattoos on pale skin. Voldemort wants his mark on that skin; he wants to hold the boy’s strong forearm and brand him as his own. Claim him for himself.

Sirius Black fights readily, bravely. With his wand and with his words.

But Voldemort can smell the mountain of insecurity hidden under the fury, like the boy hides his poisons under harmless perfumes.

Some men- most men- cower when confronted with violence, bend and break under pain, especially pain caused by Voldemort’s wand.

Not this one, Voldemort understands. No, violence will only be met with violence, here.

Voldemort will need a different approach.

(-)

He marks Sirius faster than he marked anyone. There will be no delay.

Commanding his magic to take root under that skin is almost erotic.

Such strange thoughts he has these days. Perhaps the rumours are true; ‘he makes everyone around him act irrationally; he’s simply that insufferable’ several people told Voldemort, when he questioned them about Sirius’ character. Voldemort dismissed them- and he does not find Sirius insufferable- yet he has these irrational urges, indeed.

Perhaps it is the astral magic that gives him such…charm. Ever since Bella told Voldemort about it, years before, he couldn’t wait to get his hands on Sirius Black.

And now his hands are on him, quite literally, Sirius’ forearm held loosely between Voldemort’s fingers.

It requires effort and self control to keep the hold loose. Something inside him wants to grab tighter.

As Bella before him, Sirius does not show any discomfort, stares down at Voldemort with a stoic expression.

He’d think Blacks simply don’t feel pain like other people, yet Regulus flinched when Voldemort marked him.

Some men cry.

Every man reacts in some manner, and Voldemort treasures those memories, having purebloods on their knees before him, branding them.

Yet now Sirius stands, while Voldemort sits, and this particular memory will always stand apart from others.

Sirius Black is made of pride, it is the foundation upon everything else is built, it is his core, and it is unshakable. No amount of violence will make Sirius bend. Voldemort needs to thread carefully, and it is exciting- it’s been many years since he had to be careful, to be charming with his potential followers.

Voldemort’s reputation precedes him these days; he no longer needs to recruit people, to hunt them down and offer them the world; no, these days, they find him, come to bow before him, begging for the Mark.

Everything comes easy as of late. To a man that never had it easy, it is almost unpleasant. Unnatural.

Sirius will not be easy, and he hopes it will prove all the more rewarding for it.

(-)

He experiences a thrill when he finds Sirius at the cabin. It’s not supposed to be found. It is protected, charms designed to make its location impossible to recall, unless summoned through the Mark.

No one had found it before.

There is an illusion placed around it, one that would stop even the most skilled astrologist from finding it based on celestial bodies above it. After all, he has a few Blacks on his side and everyone knows how good those are at celestial navigation.

Yet Sirius is special, even amongst Blacks. Clearly, the illusion does not hold for him, and he must have seen the sky as it was, because now he’s standing before Voldemort with a smug smirk on his lovely face.

He pretends to be surprised, looks around as if he’s wondering what detail he could have missed that allowed Sirius to find the cabin.

“Impressed?”

“Hardly,” Voldemort says.

He’s not impressed, exactly, a part of him expected it knowing what he knows about the gift in the Black bloodline, but he is content to have confirmation this young man before him holds magic in his veins that is so incredibly rare, as ancient as the Earth itself.

(-)

He can be quite insufferable, after all. The mouth he has on him…the insolence.

It forces Voldemort to exercise self-control; something he hadn’t needed to do in a while, yet he reaches inside himself and finds the patience he had before. He had to practice self control for decades, and while he imagined it would anger him to have to resort to it again, it doesn’t.

Perhaps because he doesn’t truly find Sirius insufferable- oh, he can see why others with find him as such, but Voldemort almost enjoys it when he mouths off to him, as if he were just another man, as if he couldn’t disintegrate Sirius with a twitch of his fingers.

He enjoys the duels, too. He trained few Death Eaters; they bored him, they lacked potential. They failed to rise to his standards.

So far, Bella has been his best student. Rodolphus and Lucius distinguished themselves, too. Antonin is quite impressive.

But even Bella- she wasn’t this amusing. She is always competent, fiercely intelligent, magically gifted, she pleased Voldemort, yet Sirius, even if not nearly as dedicated a student as she is, has something else about him that makes Voldemort enjoy the duels.

Dark magic comes easy to Sirius, elegantly. Even when Sirius discards more complicated charms and settles for raw, aggressive magic, bypassing incantations, verbal or nonverbal, it is still so very elegant.

Unlike Bella, Sirius had formal training in the arts of duelling, as the heir of House Black. And it shows.

His father trained him well.

His tutors, too. Voldemort asks around until he finds who tutored Sirius- apparently the same man that tutored Lucius. A good duellist, a five times world champion.

Alas, professional duellists forget how real battles are fought when there’s no referee to dictate terms and make sure everyone plays by the rules.

Orion Black was too civilised to go low in a duel, he’d have taught his son chivalry.

Sirius still managed to pick up tricks from less reputable sources- he has been fighting in the war for a year, after all. If someone pays attentions, it’s impossible not to pick things up, when faced with less chivalrous opponents.

On top of that, it’s clear an Auror has given him a few pointers. Moody, Voldemort suspects, recognising his style here and there.

Sirius is a wonderful blend of so many different types of duelling. Lesser men would have ended up confused, especially since some of the advice he had received would have been in direct contradiction with his formal training, but Sirius balances it perfectly. A natural.

He’ll only grow better as he ages, as his magic matures.

Voldemort guides him, steers him away from habits that will hinder him in a duel. He doesn’t need to verbalise much to Sirius; he learns quickly, simply from example.

And oh, the resentment in those pale eyes- delicious. Sirius is forced to accept, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he is inferior to someone. To a mudblood, no less, as he called Voldemort in their first meeting,

Sirius’ bigotry is non-violent, quiet, lacking hate or fear. Sirius accepts half-bloods and mudbloods without a second thought, never questions anyone’s right to magic. But he’ll always consider himself better.

Surrounded by muggles and mudbloods, Sirius exudes more pride in his bloodline, more confidence in his superiority than Parkinson yelling in the Wizengamot about purity.

He is so secure in this belief that he never questions it, never ponders over it. For him, it is a fact of life, as natural as breathing, requiring no thought.

It rattles him that Voldemort and Dumbledore are so powerful; it’s a man’s nature- at least a man like Sirius- to dislike knowing other men are more powerful. Yet Sirius doesn’t equate power with better. Power does not mean greater. Black blood means greater.

“My great uncle Marius is worth more than that lot,” Bella once said, firm in her belief that her squib relative is worth more than the entire Order of the Phoenix, simply because they share the same blood.

It angered Voldemort, and she so rarely angers him.

Sirius doesn’t. Perhaps because he’s so unaware of his preconceptions, perhaps because he comes from that line of proud men and women, an heir to an incredible legacy, yet he tries his best to not judge people based on blood. He fails, of course, unknowingly, at that, but he tries.

Voldemort has never met a pureblood quite like him.

There are blood traitors like the Prewetts, the Potters, the Longbottoms- but those are almost just as afraid as the blood purists. Just as ready to be loud and fight. They’re scared of their own legacies, they feel this absurd need to throw away their privilege in service of the disadvantaged.

They disgust Voldemort even more than the likes of Parkinson.

Sirius simply doesn’t care about their entire island going up in flames, about right or wrong. He doesn’t flee from conflict, he’s so involved in the war, yet he is so apathetic to the ideology behind it that it is quite remarkable.

He sided with Dumbledore; he tells himself that is the moral route, but it’s clear that he isn’t too concerned about it. He ended up there because his family drove him away, and James Potter happened to be on that side. There’s no genuine conviction tying him to Dumbledore. Tying him to anything.

The only thing sacred to Sirius is the memory of his father.

(-)

A clever, cunning little shit.

Voldemort cannot believe the pure nerve when Sirius hands him Tom Riddle’s file.

He got himself arrested, with a Dark Mark on his arm, no less, just so he could steal that file from the Auror Department.

How easily that cursed name spills from those charming lips. For a wild second, even Tom Riddle doesn’t sound as horrible as it always did; not in Sirius’ voice.

It’s been so long since anyone dared; the last had been Dumbledore, almost a decade before, when Voldemort went to Hogwarts to hide his diadem there.

Even then, Dumbledore did not say ‘Riddle’.

Parkinson called him a mudblood; Arcturus Black is condescendingly polite to his face, and in private he calls Voldemort ‘it’, Abraxas informed him.

Voldemort prefers both ‘mudblood’ and ‘it’ over Tom Riddle.

The anger comes, the hate behind it, buried deep, never leaving him. He sees his father’s face, flashing before his eyes and his temper boils-

He blinks, and his father goes away, only Sirius is left in the room, staring intently at Voldemort, not knowing how close he came to death, not caring.

Voldemort envies him. To live without fear of death- he cannot imagine it.

Even with his Horcruxes, the fear never went away, never lessened in intensity. It comes rarely these days, but when it does, it’s just as paralysing as it was when he was eight. He feels just as helpless before it.

But such thoughts can’t linger with Sirius there. Voldemort reaches over, satisfied when Sirius suppresses a flinch, and takes the cigarette from him.

It’s been many years since he smoked, but that first drag is calming, pleasant.

He gave up many habits or comforts when they all turned to ash, after the last Horcrux. Nothing tasted the same, nothing felt the same.

Yet the smoke is as it always was.

He inhales deeply, and Sirius licks his lips, his eyes carefully tracing Voldemort’s fingers.

(-)

When Sirius is unconscious on the table, Voldemort pulls off the ill fitting shirt, because he needs to heal him and he needs to see the wound clearly.

There is no reason to remove his trousers, but he wants to.

And Lord Voldemort does what he wants- except he does not. Sirius will take them off himself one day. One day, soon.

He does touch, however. He runs his fingers over every inch of his torso, once the injury is dealt with.

He is just as beautiful when he’s vulnerable; so far, Sirius proved breathtaking, in any state. Angry, scared, sassy, drunk, hungover, now unconscious- there is no end to his grace.

He calls for his father, twice, in his delirium. ‘Daddy’, he says, hand twitching on the table at his side.

It is no easy thing to lose a father, Voldemort knows.

Not even when you are the one to kill him. Voldemort dreamed of his father for years after he murdered him, after all. Though he’s quite sure he never called the man ‘daddy’, not even during the worst nightmares.

For the first decade of his life, he felt the loss of his father, his absence. He thought of his father daily, imagined him, silly fantasies where a man would come and take him away from Wool’s.

Tom Riddle was smarter, better, stronger than all the other children. Yet in this, he was no different. Every single child there wanted a father. Half of them didn’t even remember a father, didn’t even know what happened to all those men. They all knew at least a little about mothers; most lived with their mothers before ending up at Wool’s. But even those that couldn’t remember their mothers, they had some information about the women. Cole could tell them small details. 

‘She was tall’, or ‘she was skinny’. ‘She had beautiful eyes’. ‘She was ugly’. ‘She was poor’. 

They all knew something about those useless creatures, that died or abandoned them.

But so few even knew how their fathers looked like, or what became of them.

“He probably doesn’t know I’m here”, Billy would say. “If he’d know, he’d come for me.”

“My Mama told me my Papa was a duke,” Amy said, brushing her hair. “He’ll find me eventually and take me to a castle.”

Tom Riddle was no different, loitering on London’s streets, examining the faces of every man he stalked, trying to find traces of himself in them.

“You’re all children of the Lord,” the priest would tell them every Sunday. The only man they knew as Father.

When he was very, very young, he took it seriously. He had special powers, he once turned the holy wine into water when he was thirsty in church; he could very well be God’s actual son. After all, the Bible did say Jesus will come again. 

Voldemort shakes his head, discarding the memories. It’s been so long since he recalled all that nonsense. 

There’s something about Sirius that makes him think of the past. 

(-)

He’s twice as vicious when he’s a dog; thrice as reckless. 

Sirius looks ready to fight a hundred werewolves, he refuses to submit to the warning growls all around him.

Voldemort never particularly liked dogs, and their wagging tails, those perpetually pitiful eyes, their eagerness to please others, to belong. Pathetic creatures.

Yet he’s never seen a dog as angry; no animals dared to threaten Voldemort, even when he was a young boy. Animals listen to him.

So he’s transfixed to see the flattened ears, the sharp fangs, the raised fur, nothing human or pathetic in glowing eyes, no whines in his barks, just menace.

Voldemort follows him around, all night, watching Sirius kill deer and boars, fighting with werewolves or playing with their cubs.

He watches him sleep, and it’s as if no time had passed at all, he’s so intrigued the sunrise takes him by surprise.

When Sirius transforms again, he looks like a woodland creature, a wild, handsome being that charms mortals with one look.

He’s covered in blood, in dirt, yet his hair, somehow, still falls elegantly behind him. Voldemort commits it all to memory, every muscle, every tattoo, every tendon. His cock is what captures most of his attention.

Voldemort rarely had these types of carnal urges, and when he did, they were easy to dismiss, but he does not wish to dismiss them now. He does not question it.

He wants, and he will take, no sense in any other thought, in why, or why now, or why Sirius. Irrelevant.

Lord Voldemort is allowed to want anything in the world.

(-)

Stupid. Not something he ever correlates with himself, but it cannot be denied.

It was Tom Riddle, he calms himself. It was a stupid teenager, not me.

Yet that does not explain why Voldemort never thought back on it, why he didn’t imagine the memories he modified in his uncle’s head would break apart under a decent Legilimens.

If Dumbledore found him…the familiar, suffocating fear travels up his spine.

He almost shivers.

Sirius solved it; he murdered Morfin. Dumbledore won’t get to those memories.

But it scares Voldemort to learn he made such a glaring mistake.

Is there something else, something dangerous, that could hurt him? Something he overlooked. 

He spends the entire night pacing, restless, smoking the cigarettes Sirius left behind. He tries to think of everything he keeps hidden, of any flaws in his plans or past actions. 

He can’t find any.

Then again, he never realised Morfin was a loose end.

He’s on edge all night, the next day, the following night, unable to rest, to focus on anything.

And then he has a meeting with his Death Eaters and Parkinson annoys him-

He does feel a tad better when he has the traitorous little worm screaming under his wand.

It reminds him of his power, his dominion over everyone around him. 

(-)

The way Sirius’ mind works fascinates Voldemort. Intelligent, incredibly quick-witted, far more cunning that he gives himself credit for. Yet he makes the most self-destructive decisions imaginable. Impossibly selfish at times, ridiculous selfless on occasion, disturbingly masochistic and utterly confused.

His family failed him. Dumbledore failed him.

Voldemort will not. He wants Sirius. 

“He is my payment,” he says, to no one in particular; to the air around him. Perhaps he’s talking to life, in general. “I am owed a payment, after everything I had to endure.”

Sirius is suitable compensation.

(-)

He is not surprised when Bella kills the McKinnon girl; he is, perhaps, a tad irritated that she disobeyed a direct order, but no matter.

She generally obeys him because she wants to. She, too, is a Black. And Blacks only do what they please. And it pleased Bella to kill that woman, consequences be damned.

Bellatrix is harder to tame than her cousin; impossible to tame, he would venture to say. He values her spirit; he values her above all others, because she genuinely believes in him; not in the lies he tells, not in what she can get from him, but in him. 

He never approached her, never imagined a woman of her standing would be interested in joining. She came to him, she insisted, she persevered; she chose him.

And now she chose again, uninfluenced by anyone.

His darling Bella; he must make sure to give her a thoughtful gift.

Not that he was bothered by McKinnon when she lived; that silly girl could not hope to capture Sirius’ interest like Voldemort does.

Yet it is better that she is gone, because Sirius was using her as a shield, as an excuse not to give in.

Sirius goes missing after he learns of the massacre. Voldemort expected him to. He understands from all he knows of Sirius that this is normal for him; Sirius has two ways of handling adversity- aggression or avoidance. And aggression wouldn’t have solved anything where Bella is concerned.

“He’ll get over it,” Bella assures him, on the first day. “He’s very much a dog, that one. He went away to lick his wounds in private, but he’ll return, eventually.”

“He went home,” she says, the second day, as they have tea.

He sees her for tea most mornings; on top of all her many talents, she’s an excellent and entertaining gossip, and it somehow became a ritual to have his morning tea with her. It never fails to improve his mood.

Lucius is another gossip, full of precious information about the social life of the richest members of their world, but he’s too polite and cautious around Voldemort to let loose properly; Bella has no such limitations.

She’s toying with Sirius’ wand, twirls it between her long, delicate fingers, nails painted red scratching at the wood. 

Voldemort sees it as his wand, he took it from Sirius so often, the wood feels very familiar to him, and the core is starting to accept him. 

A powerful wand, for a powerful man.

“Cissa said my horrid Aunt summoned her to inquire about Sirius; apparently, she had a big, black dog with her that looked like Snuffles. That’s him.”

“Snuffles?”

He is predictable- Voldemort could have predicted he’d go to his mother; that’s what he did when he was injured a few months before, but he hadn’t thought he’d go in disguise, that’d he’d sit there and watch his mother ask people about his whereabouts.

“Snuffles was Sirius’ first dog. We found him in a forest when he was a toddler- an old, tired, aggressive beast that started barking as soon as he saw us coming. But Sirius kept approaching him, unbothered by the growls and the show of teeth. I tried to take him away, but he threw the most horrid of tantrums, so I approached the dog with him, held his hand. Eventually, the dog softened, and once he gave Sirius a good lick, he trailed home after us. We all loved him,” she says, smiling softly. “Even my Aunt. He only lived for a few more years, but he and Sirius were inseparable. I was not at all surprised when, at fifteen, once he became an Animagus, he took Snuffles’ exact form.” She laughs. “Sirius always tried to replace him- he had more dogs after Snuffles, gave them the same name, but he was never satisfied; they were never perfect. So, he became Snuffles himself. That Sirius,” her laughter turns into a soft, fond smile. “There’s no one like him in the world.”

She loves him, it is obvious. And yet she so easily hurt him, sits there smiling, reminiscing about their childhood, while Sirius spends his time as a dog, hiding in his mother’s house, because Bella killed his girlfriend.

She is as intriguing as Sirius, as special. Voldemort is very fond of her. But she lacks Sirius’ self-destructive tendencies; she doesn’t have a well of insecurities hiding behind her arrogance. Bella is as steady and unmovable as a mountain. She is not lost, she was never lost.

“Give me the wand.”

“No,” she says, and she never said ‘no’ to him before, but Sirius- oh, Sirius moves them all to strange behaviours. “I’m sorry, my lord.” She pockets the wand, hides it somewhere in her dress, though he can’t imagine where it went. Bella’ dresses and robes are always a tad too daring to be fashionable, so he never looks too closely at them. “He’ll have to face me to get it back, otherwise he’ll keep hiding from me.”

Even her disobedience is different, more convincing than Sirius’. Confidence rings true behind her ‘no’, simple yet effective. Bella always does as she wishes.

He could make her give it, of course. But he would take no pleasure in making her do anything.

Rodolphus and Bellatrix follow him with ardour, with passion. They would never follow if they didn’t want it, so he never punishes them in the very rare instances where they disagree.

“I will make you a bet,” he says, and her eyes spark, interested. “He won’t come for it. He’ll send his-“

“I won’t give it to Regulus,” she cuts him off.

“If you’d have let me finish,” he chides, “I would have said Sirius will send Walburga.”

She frowns, grabs her teacup. “He would never ask her for a favour,” Bella determines. “He will send Regulus, then Cissa, then he will bribe Rabastan into attempting to steal it from me. Perhaps he will even ask you to retrieve it, but he will not ask his mother.”

It will be Walburga that gets the wand; Regulus has no power to force Bellatrix into anything, and Rabastan will not manage to trick her. Even Narcissa, one of the only people able to manipulate Bella, won’t have any success here. Mostly because Bella is generally aware of the manipulation, simply chooses to go along with her sister’s whims. But she’s being stubborn about this particular matter.

Yet Walburga- oh, Walburga has no issues pressuring people into doing her bidding. She was never the most accomplished duellist, uninterested in it, but she has such a forceful personality that most people submit to her, if only to shut her up. Except, of course, her husband and first born son.

Bella takes pleasure in denying men, she long learned how to deal with them, but she has no idea how to deal with women. Growing up, she has been surrounded by proper, prim, docile witches. Walburga seems to have been the only exception.

Bella idolised her aunt, before Walburga antagonised Sirius.

(-)

He feels the potent magic a split second before Sirius enters the cabin. It sends a thrill down his spine.

Voldemort knows magic, of all types, embraced it wholly.

Yet he never encountered this before, in any of his travels. Ancient, almost tangible, clinging to Sirius physically.

He looks wild, violence simmering just under his skin, so close to the surface Voldemort imagines he could taste it.

His beautiful grey eyes are bloodshot, raw, a window to the pain inside him.

He’s a mix of magic, firewhiskey, and grief.

Tom Riddle had little in common with Sirius Black. One a poor orphan, the other a spoiled brat with a large, powerful family.

Tom Riddle had been composed, had planned his every move, every word, while Sirius lives in chaos, acts as his ever-changing moods strike him.

Tom Riddle had no friends, had been selfish and cared only for himself, because there was no one else to care for him. Sirius is loyal to so many people, surrounded by friends and family he’s desperately trying to protect.

Yet Voldemort recognises the rage that shines on Sirius’ face as he comes closer. He knows it intimately. He recognises the desperation, too, the need to be seen.

It softens him, brings an air of nostalgia over the room.

Tom Riddle had to swallow the rage, bite it back, over and over and over and over.

Sirius tries, but he fails often. And every time he fails, every time he lashes out, those around him shrink from him.

Voldemort will not shrink away. He welcomes it, is in awe when Sirius grabs him.

Just grabs him, as if Voldemort is a man like any other, as if he couldn’t destroy Sirius in a second.

It has been so long since Voldemort felt human. No one sees him as such- he’s either a monster, a devil, or a deity to worship.

Sirius provokes reactions in Voldemort’s body that remind him he is a man with base desires.

And now he’s grabbing Voldemort with no thought of consequences.

What a strange, thrilling thing, to feel human again.

How hot those strong fingers burn him, even through the robe. Sirius is strong, a prime, perfect exemplary of the male species, glorious in his youth.

Voldemort remembers once having had a strong body- he was never interested in it, felt no desire to use his physical advantages.

He remembers walking down the streets of London as a small, skinny child, muggles seeing him as easy prey, dismissing him- and he remembers when he came into his adult years, how muggle men immediately recognised the threat he was, the one they couldn’t see when he was small, even if the threat has never changed. His magic is what always made him a danger, from when he drew his first breath to this day, but it felt good to finally be seen as dangerous even at a short glance, to have men cross the street when they’d spot him in London at night time.

Yet what matters is never on the outside- Sirius’s grip, strong as it is, betrays his desperation. He’s crumbling, collapsing within himself, even as his body so easily pushes Voldemort into a wall.

It’s alright, Voldemort almost tells him. Crumble, fall, and then from the rage be remade anew. He wants to tell Sirius he will be alright, eventually. That the pain will end.

You’ll find yourself.

Voldemort will lead the way, show Sirius how to exist without suffering.

Something savage, primal, yet so tender blossoms beneath his ribs. A strange desire, an urgent need that Voldemort is unsure how to satisfy.

But Sirius is a primal creature, and he knows.

He kisses Voldemort.

How odd, he reflects, when he feels warmth flooding into his stiff veins, for the first time in…decades? He struggles to think clearly, driven by need.

But he is a rational being, so even if he wants to give himself to the sensation burning through his flesh, he takes a moment to understand how kissing is done, to learn it, so he can replicate it.

He’s teaching Sirius how to wield dark magic, how to duel; but now Sirius is teaching Voldemort something, and it’s endearing, really.

And just as Sirius quickly masters every spell Voldemort shows him, Voldemort only needs a moment to master kissing, and once he does, he is able to answer in kind, to explore Sirius’ mouth.

He never knew people had taste. But Sirius tastes like- Sirius. No other way to put it.

Voldemort used to appreciate a good meal, a foreign spice- one of the comforts he never had as a child, but he sought and indulged once he had enough money to buy himself food, to experiment with it.

Sirius is the most delicious thing he ever sampled so far.

It’s been a while since food had any taste- was it after the diadem? He can’t remember exactly when he couldn’t enjoy food anymore, when it all tasted bland and it became a struggle to eat, or an afterthought, forcing himself to do it so he can sustain his body. 

There’s nothing bland about Sirius.

The want he felt before mixes with savagery. A similar emotion to the one that rises inside him when he kills, when he wants to take and take and take. But taking a life never last long, leaving him unsatisfied.

This- this could last forever.

He’s hard, he realises, still not very accustomed with that particular sensation. It happened in his adolescence; he remembers it did, but it always brought him annoyance, disgust. And then he mastered his body, he fed it with darker and darker magic, until it was all his body wanted and that pesky problem went away.

It returned, forcefully, after the werewolf wedding; that stirring in his abdomen, heat and need and sensitivity.

He’s not annoyed by it anymore. He’s not disgusted as he remembers once being. He’s curious. He indulges in it, in his bed or bathtub, taking himself in hand, marvelling at all the sensation there, thinking of Sirius naked in that forest, the sun shining down upon him.

And now he can feel Sirius body, the heat of him, pressed so close to Voldemort- it’s overwhelming.

For a second, Voldemort feels uprooted, lost- he knows nothing, all knowledge bleeding out of his brain, even his identity. It feels good. But terrifying.

He fights it, takes control of himself, of his emotions, all those foreign sensations- he allows himself to feel them, but not overpower him.

Distantly, he can’t believe people do this everyday. That any moron out there in the world engages in such interactions, casually.

It becomes easier to breathe when Sirius stops kissing him, turns him around. Voldemort can focus better this way, regain his bearings.

He closes his eyes and it might be a childish gesture, but it helps with making order in his thoughts. Yet there’s nothing he can do to control his heart. It beats wildly, painfully in his chest. It’s as if his entire body comes alive, when Voldemort wasn’t even aware it wasn’t alive until then. 

Sirius lowers his trousers, and it snaps Voldemort out of whatever strangeness settled over him. His mind sharpens, no longer sluggish, but alert. It reminds him his body is irrelevant, just flesh he’s forced to reside in, that it’s foolish to give it such attention.

Especially when he can give that attention to Sirius. I won, he thinks. Finally. He has Sirius where he wants him.

He came to me. Sure, he went to his mummy first, but she will never be enough.

He didn’t go to Potter when Walburga proved insufficient. He didn’t go to Dumbledore.

He came to me.

The pain, when it comes, is so much easier to bear than anything else. Pain is familiar to him, he expects it. He knows what to do with it, how to control his body’s reaction to it. He choses to focus on that, and he allows room for Sirius’ warmth- even if unfamiliar, it feels safe, unlike the rest. He enjoys it.

He especially enjoys the way one of Sirius’ hands presses into his chest, above his heart. There’s something so arresting about it, when he looks down and sees proof of this closeness between them, of Sirius’ skin, perfect and unblemished, in stark contrast with Voldemort’s scars and runes.

He can’t look away.

It’s what he thinks about, what he craves when he’s alone in his bed or his bathtub, when he remembers Sirius’ naked body in that forest. Just touching. Having him close.

Lord Voldemort has the power of turning dreams and fantasies into reality.

After all, Lord Voldemort was once just an orphan’s boy fantasy.

(-)

Sirius sleeps peacefully, the rage abated for the moment, his long lashes casting shadows on his sculpted cheeks.

Somewhere along his travels, Voldemort developed an appreciation for the finer arts. He finds people ugly, tedious, flat at the best of times, and he never could appreciate a living thing. Yet art- he could appreciate that. Something that is not alive, yet is immortal.

A painting lasting through the ages; a piece of music that will be sung for eternity. Poetry kept safe on yellowed pages.

Sirius, he decides, watching his chest rise and fall, is a piece of art. A living painting of beauty, a flesh and bone sculpture of a Greek god, the melancholy of the piano, the beat of an ancient war drum.

Voldemort finds himself wishing that Sirius, too, would live forever, like all exceptional art does.

Careful, now.

But it is too late.

Voldemort cannot unthink it. He wants to preserve Sirius with great care, keep him in perfect condition, like any curator would when faced with such priceless creation.

So much work has been put into creating him. Generations upon generations of Blacks, selective breeding, ancient magic and grey eyes passed through his bloodline throughout centuries- it wouldn’t do to allow all that effort to fade into obscurity. Sirius needs some touching up, that is true, a final brush correcting minor flaws here and there, but Voldemort is more than willing to paint over the imperfections the Blacks, Dumbledore and his little friends smeared over Sirius.

He leans over, taking a strand of silky black hair between his fingers. He bends, his nose ghosting over Sirius’ exposed neck, and he inhales.

The scent is already captured in his brain, there for eternity. He smells like life; hot blood and rash decisions, wildly fluctuating emotions, deep grief and exuberant joy. He smells young, like a beginning, and yet old, too, like ancient magic slumbering, waiting to be awoken.

(-)

“So,” Voldemort asks, over tea. “Who got the wand?”

Bella scrunches up her nose. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Auntie,” she spits.

Voldemort laughs.

“I only gave it to her to shut her up. Gods, she has some lungs on her- I don’t screech like that, do I? Tell me it isn’t so!”

“It isn’t so,” Voldemort lies.

Bellatrix has many things in common with Walburga- but they differ where it most counts. Bellatrix defied her family so she can lead the life she wants; she didn’t cower before her elders or her husband, the way Walburga eventually did.

Most importantly, Bella worships him and Walburga does not.

“But you didn’t win, either, my lord. Sirius sent Regulus, like I expected. It was only after I scared him off that he went complaining to his mummy. She decided to come on her own. Sirius didn’t ask her.”

Voldemort finds himself in a gracious mood, so he nods and leaves it like that.

He’s curious what Sirius will do next. Voldemort will let him come to him.

It wouldn’t do to give chase now.

He waits, reassured by his conviction.

He was right.

Sirius appears on a Tuesday, because he’s become addicted to the duels. They are the only stable thing in his life. Men, especially young ones, need routine, and Voldemort is the only one to provide it for Sirius.

Sirius needs a stabilising force. He’s been searching for that since Orion passed away.

Orion was a remarkably patient man, Voldemort remembers. He was harsh, but fair.

It is no hardship to emulate that behaviour.

Orion was the only person to control Sirius. In his absence, Sirius gained his freedom, but freedom isn’t well suited for everyone. Sirius is too young, too conflicted to trust the choices he makes. He hesitates. He second guesses. He tries not to choose anything, because he doesn’t know what the right one would be. He wants someone to stir him in the right direction, he tried to follow Potter’s lead, to listen to Dumbledore, but his heart isn’t into it. He doesn’t respect them. He loves Potter, yes, he would give his life for him, clearly, but Potter is not a Black. Dumbledore is not a Black, he’s the antithesis of a Black, really.

So is Voldemort. Only Voldemort can pretend.

Sometimes, when he chooses his words very carefully to give Sirius a little nudge, here and there, he imagines with glee how difficult controlling his heir would have become for Orion in those last years.

He likes to imagine proud Orion having to navigate his own teenage son’s moods and stubbornness.

He hopes Sirius taught Orion some humility, because no one else ever managed.

Sirius takes well to a leash, but only as long as he doesn’t know the leash is there.

He respects Voldemort, but it is still important for Sirius to make his own choices, or at least believe he’s making his own choices.

Something inside Voldemort isn’t best pleased with manipulating him- it is odd, he always took enjoyment in manipulation. And he was never one for morals. Yet doing it to Sirius feels wrong in a way few things feel wrong to him.

(-)

“He destroyed his house.” Bella rolls her eyes, takes a sip of her cup. “The little cunt! I spent a fortune and many hours putting it together and he went ahead and destroyed everything.”

“How would you know this?”

She is the best source of information on Sirius, but now he’s not speaking to her. Voldemort doubts he’d receive her in his house.

“From Pettigrew.”

That would be Peter.

Voldemort now knows all about Sirius’ friends and acquaintances. Long gone are the days he couldn’t recognise their faces in pictures.

He speaks highly of them all, especially Potter. Yet he always mentions how loyal Pettigrew is. ‘He’s the only one I told about the Hat trying to send me to Slytherin’.

There are many things Sirius feels comfortable admitting to Pettigrew, as opposed to Potter.

When he almost killed Severus, apparently Pettigrew took no issue with it, while Potter and Lupin were pretty upset.

He feels a stab of anger now, on Sirius’ behalf. This is why people shouldn’t be trusted.

“How so?”

Bella raises a sculpted eyebrow. “I’m not taking any chances this time,” she says. “I won’t let him drift away again. So I am keeping a very close eye on him. And Pettigrew was the only available option. He’s very close to Sirius, but he’s weak; his morals are…laxer. Of course, he tried to refuse me, but I convinced him. You know how convincing I am.” She smiles, all gleaming white teeth, a predatory glint in her eyes.

“Bella,” he warns. “I was very clear that I do not want you to reveal your Mark to anyone-”

She waves it away. “I didn’t go to him as a Death Eater, but as a concerned cousin. I didn’t ask for any information about the Order or the war or stupid Dumbledore. Pettigrew remembers from their school days what a tight bond I share with Sirius, how many times I helped him out of silly situations he got himself into. He knows I wouldn’t use anything he tells me to hurt Sirius. I simply told him I want to know what he’s up to, so I can get him out of trouble in case he finds himself in a tough spot.”

“And he gave in that easily?”

“I might have said something about how unwise it would be to refuse a Lestrange, and how easy it would be for a Healer to drop something unfortunate in his mother’s potions.”

Pettigrew’s mother suffers from some kind of degenerative illness, Sirius told him. Often, Sirius goes to eat with her or keep her company when Pettigrew needs to leave her alone.

“He knows I have the gold and the connections to reach the Healers in charge of his mother.”

Voldemort is almost jealous he didn’t think of it first. Truly, Bella is a treasure.

These friends of his do not deserve Sirius. He’d lay down his life for every one of them, yet Pettigrew sells him out to help his mother; Potter is more concerned with his mudblood, and the werewolf can’t get over the little incident with Severus.

No matter; Sirius will grow up soon enough. He’ll learn people can’t be trusted.

That he can only trust Voldemort. 

(-)

Sirius touches him differently now that the rage is gone. He touches with awe, and need and curiosity.

There’s nervousness there, and it is unlike Sirius to be nervous, to be cautious.

There is no need for caution, of course. Voldemort likes him when he’s wild and unrestrained - it suits him best. But this is endearing, too, a unique opportunity to see him attempting to exercise restraint.

Voldemort is far more used to such practices, so he can will himself to remain pliant, to give Sirius what he needs.

He isn’t yet sure what is the root of Sirius’ conflict with his sexuality, but, knowing old families and their obsession with heirs and legacy, he thinks he can guess parts of it.

Voldemort understands. Once, he’d been Tom Riddle, and Tom Riddle had notions of sin and shame.

He hears muggles are less ferocious in their hate towards homosexuality these days, but he remembers a different era.

These things take time to accept, to reconcile certain associations with one's own’s desires.

So Voldemort is patient, careful not to spook Sirius. So brave, so fearless, yet so easy to hurt- one wrong word, one wrong gesture and he’ll close off, and that would be a shame after all these months in which Voldemort chipped away at all those walls.

These things do indeed take time; perhaps even more time than I thought, Voldemort realises, when pleasure builds and builds in his abdomen, wanting release and yet something visceral inside him stops it, recoils from it.

He frowns, and he’s relived he has his back to Sirius, can hide this confusion from him. Sirius doesn’t need confusion from Voldemort- he needs him steady, wise, all knowing.

Voldemort doesn’t know why he removes Sirius’ hand from his cock before he consciously processes the gesture. It was just instinct.

He’s left frustrated by it- not in a physical sense; that is a tad uncomfortable, but he’s accustomed to denying his body what it wants.

No, it’s the not knowing that frustrates him, but he pushes it aside for when he’ll be alone. He’ll take it apart, and figure it out, like he figures everything out.

In the meantime, he scolds his face into a neutral expression before he turns around to look at Sirius.

He is immediately satisfied when grey eyes blink up lazily at him. There’s something even more defenceless than usual about Sirius.

He’s always vulnerable, only normally he has all these spikes around him, a flippant attitude wrapped in arrogance that Sirius thinks keeps him safe.

But now Sirius lies there, smiling softly, for once calm.

It was a different experience from the first time. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t spontaneous. Voldemort was rational about it, he didn’t feel overwhelmed again, and Sirius wasn’t half mad with grief and sleep depravation.

Voldemort gets out of the bed, puts his clothes on, before he’s tempted to curl up around Sirius in an attempt to steal that delicious warmth his body emanates.

(-)

He comes on his own, once Sirius has left.

In his bed, that still smells like Sirius, that still bears the indentations and warmth of his body.

He does it out of necessity, so he could focus on something else. There’s pleasure and release but he still doesn’t enjoy it.

Not as much as he enjoyed having Sirius close to him. That is far more rewarding than these brief seconds of carnal pleasure.

(-)

He sings so beautifully. Sirius is not just art, but he’s an artist too. His voice, like everything else about him, is exceptionally charming. His long fingers manipulate the piano with remarkable skill.

They pinch the guitar with a practiced ease.

Voldemort sometimes asks him to play songs he enjoyed in his youth, but most times he lets Sirius play what he likes, because it says so much about him. It’s another way to discover him. To pick apart at the lyrics, guess why Sirius connects with them.

Sirius is so eager to share this with Voldemort, to show him new records, explain different styles and how they came to be.

It is so obvious no one pays him enough attention. Oh, he gets attention- after all, every week he’s pictured with one girl or another, and he’s so handsome and dangerous people take notice of him in public, but that’s the extent of it.

No one asks Sirius what he wants, what he likes, or lets him talk about himself.

Voldemort is sure even with those friends of his, it’s all about them, that Sirius makes it about them.

He talks about his family, too. More and more every time they see each other, as his trust builds. He knows Voldemort won’t judge him for missing his horrid family.

He knows Voldemort won’t judge him for having an interest in dark magic, either, or for not caring about the plight of every single disadvantaged creature in their world.

(-)

His fantasies become more detailed; if before he only thought of Sirius at that werewolf wedding, satisfied just to see him like that, to touch him, now Voldemort imagines more.

He imagines taking Sirius, right there in the clearing, claiming him.

In reality, Sirius isn’t too receptive to this idea. Whenever Voldemort shows his interest, Sirius is quick to reject it. It’s important to him to think he’s in control when they lie together. Voldemort doesn’t push- not in this.

It’s Sirius’ way to cope with being under Voldemort in all other aspects of his life. He’s not ready to let go of the control he imagines he has in bed.

A silly thing, but Voldemort has patience with him. He’s starting to understand logic has little to do with sex- after all, Voldemort himself can’t explain half the things he feels or wants when it comes to sex.

He can’t explain why he wants Sirius in such a basic way. He already claimed Sirius- the Mark on his arm is far more important, a greater symbol of ownership.

The more he uses his body, gives in to its urges, to its needs, the more needs he has.

He went his entire life without sexual satisfaction, not wanting it, not needing it, ignoring it when he was young and his hormones were out of his control.

It seems once he gave in, it’s impossible to ignore it again.

Even those blasted cigarettes- now he smokes without Sirius there, and he enjoys it.

He does understand addiction, of course. His body depends on dark magic, but that addiction makes sense- it’s power, it’s needed for survival, for dominating everyone around him.

Neither sex nor smoking is of any use to him, yet he wants both, all the same.

And then Sirius kneels between his feet, uses his mouth in a way Voldemort never expected him to, even in his recent fantasies.

The pleasure is intoxicating. He’s defenceless against it, in the way it takes hold of his entire body.

He almost rejects it, almost pushes Sirius away, because he does not appreciate feeling defenceless.

He was once defenceless, so very long ago, and it sends a shiver of fear down his spine-

His wand is in his robe. He can feel it there, as firm against his side as Sirius’ mouth around his cock.

He isn’t defenceless.

He barely became used to having orgasms on his own,  but those experiences pale in comparison to Sirius giving him one.

In a few minutes, this activity climbs very, very high on his list of preferred ways to spend his time. Even above reading.

How…incredible. Something he never thought he wanted, never spared a thought on, yet in a matter of minutes becomes something he can’t imagine never having again.

Sirius looks so pleased with himself, like a cat that got the canary. He’s more malleable than usual, and Voldemort yanks him by the hair, manoeuvres him into his lap, kisses him, searching to taste himself on Sirius’ tongue.

For many days after that, he remembers Sirius on his knees, at his feet; his graceful body kneeling voluntarily, eagerly.

It’s distracting; these imagines assault him in meetings, when he’s trying to read, or sleep, or talk to Rodolphus.

And when Sirius is around, it only grows worse. He spends an entire meeting imagining Sirius kneeling by his chair, right there in Rodolphus’ office'; not even in a sexual way. Just kneeling there, content, as Voldemort pets his head, threads his fingers through his hair.

The images are so clear, he’s almost surprised when the meeting ends and Sirius stands from his chair at the other end of the table.

Even that is endearing, the way Sirius tries so incredibly hard to place himself on equal ground with Voldemort.

He’ll have to learn, eventually, that he doesn’t belong at the other of the table, as if they were equals. Lord Voldemort has no equals; he’ll have to accept he belongs at Voldemort’s side, or at his feet, like the most treasured possession.

Until that happens, Voldemort enjoys Sirius’ antics. They make everything more interesting, the prize is sweeter when he has to work for it.

Even when it gets frustrating, like having to assuage Sirius’ pride after the kneeling incident at the general meeting. It grated on his nerves to have to reassure Sirius, but how rewarding was it when after all that effort Sirius knelt on his own volition?

Besides, he realises he doesn’t want Sirius kneeling with others there. No matter how pretty the fantasy to conduct a meeting with Sirius at his feet, something inside him recoils at having others witness this precious submission. No, it’s for Voldemort’s eyes only; no one else is entitled to it.

(-)

He finds himself more understanding of Lucius’ and Rodolphus’ readiness to place their wives above everything else.

He, too, places Sirius above all others.

This…attachment makes people weak. He always knew, he often threatened people with their children, with their partners, or friends and it was always effective. He knew why it was effective, in theory, but it’s so different to experience it for himself.

He, too, would go above and beyond to keep Sirius safe. Of course, he is the dark lord, no one would dare threaten Sirius to get to him. Voldemort is not some weak, pathetic mortal that can’t protect what he owns.

Affection is a weakness, he still believes that. A terrible weakness. In others.

It only makes Voldemort fiercer. His affection for Sirius comes with something close to fury, with power surging through his veins, ready to use, at the tip of his fingertips.

When Rodolphus duels him, Voldemort has hundreds of fantasies for every single second of it- of what tortures he’d inflict upon Rodolphus, if this duel wouldn’t have been something Sirius asked for.

It also proves to Voldemort that the greatest threat to Sirius is not some stranger, but Sirius himself.

It’s fascinating to observe it. Most of the damage he suffers is self inflicted, even if he uses Rodolphus for it, forces Rodolphus’ into it.

Suffering looks good on Sirius. And resilience- oh, resilience looks good on everyone, but on Sirius it is sublime.

He does not give up. It’s almost moving to witness it- it goes beyond stubbornness. No, that is too tame of a word. There are no words invented to describe Sirius’ commitment to get his way.

Long before, Tom Riddle fled when he realised a duel won’t end in his favour. He was young, yet older than Sirius, in his travels, going up against the wrong witch or wizards a few times, overestimating his own power. The second it finally dawned on him that there was no winning, he fled.

Most people would.

Not Sirius. He’s perfectly willing to die there if he has to.

Dumbledore isn’t eager to meet Voldemort in battle, knowing he might lose. He was equally cautious with Grindelwald, a couple of decades ago, didn’t rush into a duel, even if innocents were dying all around the continent, begging for Dumbledore to come and save them, put an end to the horrors. 

Voldemort, too, prefers to keep his distance from his old Professor, for as long as it is possible. The old man is getting weaker every year, his age and his mortal body catching up to him. Why force a a duel now, when he can wait for Dumbledore to become weaker? 

Voldemort is aware most people perceive him as a proud being, and they aren’t wrong- he is Lord Voldemort, after all- but pride is not worth his life. Unthinkable. He’d abandon everything if it meant he keeps his life.

Is it pride? he thinks, watching Sirius scream under the Cruciatus, but making no move to beg for it to end, or to concede the fight. Is this pride or is it a sense of honour? Maybe it’s neither, and it’s simply a case of never before seen levels of masochism.

Voldemort doesn’t know, because he’d never witnessed such a thing before.

Bella flees when she understands there are no other options left in combat; she or Rodolphus call Voldemort through the Mark when the situation is dire- they have no issues with asking for his help, his intervention.

Walburga gave in to her husband, when she understood her defiance is useless.

Once, Orion Black held back from taking decisive action against Voldemort. Brooded in his manor, behind his blood wards, plotted with his fellow purebloods, and acted with caution.

Arcturus and Cygnus plot, too, they will never stop, but Arcturus doesn’t move directly against Voldemort because he understands the futility of it, the loss that would come with resistance.

All proud men and women, these Blacks, but not one as suicidal as Sirius.

He is the true heir of that cursed family. The only one worthy to lead it. A head of house that will never back down, from any challenge. 

Orion saw it, too. That is why he left everything to Sirius. Everyone judged him, Voldemort heard older purebloods complaining Orion must have lost his mind to leave Sirius in charge, but they are all blind.

Orion chose right. He knew his son’s worth. 

Rodolphus gives up eventually, limping away, yelling about ‘fucking Blacks’. No doubt Bella will rip him apart as soon as he gets inside. 

“Trophy,” Sirius spits, blood coming out, staining his already bloodied face. 

Voldemort laughs. Sirius is...something else. Special. Different. He makes Voldemort laugh, he makes Voldemort want to be tender with him. 

He spends so many hours healing him, hours that could be better spent on war-

No. That’s not true. It should be true, but Voldemort disagrees. Time invested into Sirius is better spent than time invested into the war. 

When the silvery stag and rat patrol outside the cabin, attempting to reach Sirius, Voldemort is reminded of Pettigrew. The rat, no doubt. 

It’s valuable to have Pettigrew on Bella’s leash, who knows when he’ll be needed, but Voldemort considers telling Sirius about this betrayal. 

It feels wrong not to tell him. 

Voldemort dismisses it. It’s not his business. This is Bella’s doing. And best if Sirius learns on his own what type of people he surrounded himself with. 

He will give him a clue, and no more. He’ll ask why on Earth he befriended a rat. 

Of course, Sirius won’t pay attention, because he’s loyal to those underserving maggots. He’ll never turn suspicious of them, because he considers it dishonourable or something equally stupid. 

He especially won’t look at Pettigrew with distrust. It’s clear from the way he talks that he took that rat under his wing, that he protected the weakling at school, and far beyond that. He imagines Pettigrew will never forget that, that he is grateful.

He might be, but Sirius doesn’t understand most people would betray anyone to save their skins. 

Sirius doesn’t function like that, so he doesn’t imagine his friends would. 

In fact, he might even forgive Pettigrew, find excuses for him. 

Everyone Sirius loves abused him, one way or another, and he forgives them all, apparently. 

His horrid mother, his father, his entire family. He’ll forgive Bella in no time for killing McKinnon. 

When Voldemort lost his temper after Sirius mentioned the Horcrux, he attacked Sirius, forced his way into his mind. 

Sirius wasn’t even a bit upset about it when he woke up. Voldemort prepared several deflections, planned for whatever Sirius would accuse him of, but he needn’t have bothered. It was a non issue. 

Usually strangers that did him no harm end up paying for the way those closest to Sirius treat him. 

Voldemort sighs, pours another sleeping potion down his throat when Sirius’ eyes open, and then immediately cloud with pain. 

This time, Sirius doesn’t call for his father in his sleep. Whenever he opens his eyes, high on potions, he searches for Voldemort, visibly relaxes when he finds him there, at his side. 

Later, in the bathtub, Sirius is oddly docile- perhaps not oddly. Sirius has it in him to be well behaved and accept the authority of a man he respects, but he usually fights that part of him at all turns. 

He’s too tired now to fight it, and Voldemort enjoys holding him without having to worry about scaring Sirius off, or offending whatever distorted notions of masculinity Sirius holds. 

He’s gentle with him, because he wants to. When it comes to Sirius, even in his fantasies Voldemort never imagines violence. Not from himself, at least. He likes to imagine Sirius at his wildest, at his most dangerous, lashing out at faceless strangers. 

Sirius even seems to offer more to Voldemort, what he never offered before, but Voldemort won’t take it. Not like this. 

In the beginning he thought he’d have to pretend to be patient, but it turns out that he truly has unlimited patience for Sirius. 

He can wait.