I'm feeling brain dead, so here's a fluff oneshot of Voldemort and baby Sai
It's been a long seven days. Maybe even the longest in his entire life— he's sure that's an exaggeration, but for the life of him he can't recall a time when he had been this exhausted for this long of a time. He very begrudgingly has come to respect Harry a great deal more since this whole mess happened; Harry always manages to seem to be the most perfectly and effortlessly put together parent no matter what he's doing, be that masquerading as Death himself whilst simultaneously taking the twins to school, or being off on some far flung world with Sai in tow. He could privately admit he had not given the boy enough credit for all that he did. Hell if he ever told Harry that to his face though— the damn brat would never let him hear the end of it.
At any rate, this was more difficult than he had thought.
This was the longest amount of time he and Saiph had ever spent together alone, and it was showing.
As if on cue, a low, unhappy whine rises in the still air. Voldemort realizes he's stopped moving, and begins his trek down the path once again. The whining stops.
Sai has been absolutely inconsolable these last few days.
It's as if the toddler has realized something was amiss, or perhaps was just picking up on the anxiety levels of those around him, and has become anxious himself. He wonders just how much awareness Saiph has of the world around him. He thinks the boy might have an uncanny perceptiveness towards the emotions of other people, because he can always pick up on Voldemort's irritation or concern. He's been like that since he was a baby; he always seemed to pick up on when Voldemort was in a bad mood, and would become twice as inconsolable because of it. It was half the reason Voldemort tended to stay away from the small child. He was not a nice man by any means, he had a quick temper and found small children annoying. Saiph seemed to realize that from a very young age, so the Dark Lord had made a point to stay away.
Unfortunately, that was no longer possible.
The Dark Lord sighs deeply, allowing himself a moment of respite in the secluded safety of the rose gardens, far from prying eyes. This has been a very trying week. And it was only going to get worse from here.
Saiph stirs on his shoulder, soft hair tickling his chin. Then the baby pushes away from him, staring out into the world with his luminous green eyes. He looks as if he's searching for something. Voldemort can guess what it is.
Saiph turns to him. "Mama?"
The Dark Lord prepares himself for the worst. "Your mother is not here right now," he says, as calmly as possible, even though they have this conversation at least five times a day.
"No mama?" Saiph's expression crumples.
"No. Harry is not here."
Like clockwork, the boy's eyes water and he begins to cry.
Voldemort does not know what to do in these situations, so he merely continues to walk. Usually the boy will tire himself out eventually, and will finally go to sleep. The Dark Lord has since realized that the only way to calm the child down is to walk with him endlessly. Something about the movement seems to soothe him where nothing else will.
Eventually Sai's crying peters out as they make yet another loop through the hedges, little whimpers growing quieter and quieter until he's finally asleep. He falls asleep on his shoulder with tear stains down his ruddy cheeks, sucking his thumb. Voldemort feels oddly impotent and helpless as he stares at his young son. He doesn't think he's ever felt so inadequate in his entire life. And he's definitely inadequate; Sai is used to the expert care of his emotionally present and doting mother. Voldemort is woefully unimpressive and ill-equipped in comparison. It's no wonder the baby is so disappointed with him. He doesn't seem to be able to do anything right when it comes to Sai. His mere presence alone is enough to bring the boy to tears sometimes.
But unfortunately for the both of them, Voldemort was currently the only option available.
And he probably would continue to be so for anywhere from a few more days to a few more months.
From what he's gathered from the last meeting he had with Harry's healers, there was a good chance they would have to keep the boy under a magical coma for the rest of his pregnancy. That could be anywhere from a month to a few months, days to weeks. But they wanted to wait as long as possible to give the baby as much time to grow as they could spare. So in the meantime, Voldemort found himself the sole provider and caregiver to three children, one of whom was under the age of three.
At least the twins were self sufficient, he digresses. But then, the twins had always been rather stoic and independent, even as young children. He should have known parenting wasn't actually that easy. Anyway they were quite happy to spend time at The Burrow with their cousins and aunts and uncles, which made his life a hell of a lot easier. Saiph, unfortunately, refused to part from his side. He had been a sad and clingy limpet all week long, refusing to be far from Voldemort, but also completely inconsolable. The Dark Lord was completely at a loss. If he tried to leave the boy he would cry, but if he stayed he also cried. What was he supposed to do? He couldn't keep walking around the garden in circles forever!
He only notices it's been more than an hour when Granger comes looking for him. She's one of the only few who know where he goes when he disappears during the day, and one of the only few who also know why.
He knows she's coming when he hears the tinkle of Crookshanks' bell, and then the ugly cretin comes running out of the hedges. A few seconds later the former Ambassador to Midgard and current Head of Foreign Affairs daintily picks her way through the gravel path in her four inch heels, looking as put together as always.
"The Bulgarian Minister is here to see you, my Lord." She reports, brushing imaginary lint off her robes. "He seems to think it's quite urgent."
The Dark Lord scowls. "Is it?"
"Well, a dragon attacked the capital." She replies, flatly. "They think it's some kind of rogue dragon tamer using the creatures to spread terror. Apparently they've been attacking small villages and farmlands for weeks now."
Behind his impassive expression, the Dark Lord feels himself grow exhausted just thinking about this particular mess, on top of everything else.
He takes the limpet off his shoulder and deposits it into Granger's surprised hands. Once Sai realizes he's been transferred, he begins to wail.
"Err— My Lord," Hermione begins, nervously.
"Deal with that." He commands, swooping down the path. "I will attend to the Minister."
"B— But!" He ignores her protests on principle, intent on solving the manner as quickly as possible.
Saiph's heart-wrenching cries only grow louder and louder as he walks, until the little boy's wails have grown positively unbearable.
He stops in the middle of the path. As much as he would like to be deaf to his son's pleas, it is impossible to ignore the boy when he's crying out for him like this.
Dammit.
If the Bulgarian Minister has a problem with the tearful infant hanging on his shoulder, he is wise enough not to remark on it.
Fortunately the limpet has decided to behave itself, for Saiph remains quiet for the duration of the meeting. He sniffles a few times, but his tears remain at bay, and at this point that's more than Voldemort would ever hope for. His relief is short lived, however— dusk is on the horizon, and soon enough he will have to perform the tedious circus that is getting the barnacle off his person and into its bed.
He honestly wonders how Harry manages to do this everyday. Or maybe Saiph isn't this inconsolable when Harry is around? The thought has merit. Voldemort doesn't remember the infant being this clingy before.
At any rate he's been procrastinating in his study for long enough; if he doesn't start the process now, he won't be in bed himself until well past midnight.
The first order of business is getting Saiph into the bath. This is a struggle in and of itself, because just getting his claws out of Voldemort's shoulder is forever a task. Sai cries and cries as he tries to pry the baby off of him, screaming bloody murder when the Dark Lord finally manages to get him off without causing permanent damage to either of them. He's absolutely miserable in the bath, and it doesn't matter how many house elves he assigns to the task the room is always a mess by the end of it. He won't even let them touch him tonight— even his favored elf Dobby is wacked upside the head with a stray rubber duck the moment he gets too close— so Voldemort has to degrade himself to the menial task himself. He's in need of a shower himself once he's managed to get the boy marginally clean.
He doesn't even bother to attempt to brush the boy's teeth. A cleaning charm will have to suffice for now. He wrestles the child into his sleeping clothes and makes a vague attempt to do something with his fluffy hair, before giving up. Then he spends what seems like hours trying to lull the limpet to sleep, to no avail. Every time the boy closes his eyes and Voldemort attempts to make his escape, he wakes up the moment Voldemort nears the door and starts screaming.
It's been over a week now, and Voldemort has not managed to find an efficient way of handling his own progeny, and quite frankly he's ready to just call it quits. Or rather, he wishes he could call it quits. But if he did that he'd have to send the boy off with his cousins and admit that a two year-old has defeated the greatest wizard to ever live, and hell if he owns up to that, even if it's just to the boy's grandmother.
So Voldemort spends at least two hours locked in this exhausting cycle, thinking he's finally managed to get the boy to sleep, only for Sai to start crying the moment he gets too far.
Eventually he just gives up and hauls the boy with him, toys and blankets and all. He settles Saiph in his own bed in a nest of all his favored stuffed animals, goes about his own bedtime routine as quickly as possible, and somehow, miraculously, by the time he's done the infant has lulled himself to sleep. He almost wants to curse something. Instead, he just crawls in next to him and falls asleep.
Harry sleeps on, and life with Saiph continues.
Out of pure necessity, Voldemort has managed to become fairly adept at this parenting nonsense. He can at least get Sai in and out of the bath in less than an hour, can feed him with minimal screaming, and has learned the most effective way to get him to sleep is to just haul him into his own bed. He thinks they might have even come to an agreement. Saiph agrees to behave himself, and Voldemort agrees to walk the boy at precise two hour intervals. He's had to move his entire schedule around the timeline that is Saiph Asterion Potter; there's no more skipping meals or working through the night when Saiph is involved. Meetings end right on the dot, lest he face the wrath of a crying toddler. Sleepless nights rocking the boy back to sleep and long evenings wrestling him in and out of the bath have become happenstance.
He and Saiph finally have a routine, so of course it's only apt that life gets in the way of that.
"Tokyo," he repeats, flatly.
The man in front of him remains oblivious to his tone, but his assistant and his undersecretary stiffen beside him.
"Yes, my Lord… I believe your presence will be beneficial in negotiating the treaty between—
"Absolutely not." The Dark Lord cuts the man off. "An hour or two should suffice. If my presence is necessary for the entire duration of the conference than I have more things to worry about than a treaty between the Qing and Yi dynasties."
Director Cha appears to catch on to the severity of the situation, for he shifts his weight nervously. "Well, yes, but with Minister Kawasaki-san's hands tied like this having officials from both dynasties without mediation will be—
"Director, this is not up for debate." Voldemort retorts, and the temperature drop in the room seems to be enough to stop the man in his tracks. "If you are incapable of handling the matter yourself, then I will be perfectly happy to find someone else to replace you."
The man pales. "But… but my Lord—
The Dark Lord's eyes narrow. Voldemort opens his mouth, ready to remind the man that 'replacing' is not just a matter of firing someone off and hiring someone else, especially if you personally displease the Dark Lord, when he is interrupted by the limpet on his shoulder.
Saiph makes a pitiful noise, his fingers curling into the lapels of his father's robes as he scrunches against him and buries his nose into his neck. Voldemort breathes sharply through his nose, reminding himself that Saiph is sensitive to his emotions, and harboring homicidal rage for the man in front of him is definitely the sort of thing that will set the child off.
It's as if everyone in the room had somehow managed to forget the hilarious sight of a baby sleeping on the Dark Lord's shoulder. The whole rooms seems to startle at the abrupt sound, except Voldemort, who merely scowls. Director Cha doesn't seem to know what to make of it, eyes bulging as his mouth opens and closes.
At least Sai is currently making himself useful for something; he's become an adequate meeting timer as of late.
"If Kawasaki-san is in need of any more assistance, he is free to contact my office. You are dismissed, Director."
With a sharp tug from Lucius the man is stumbling out the door before Voldemort ends him permanently. His assistant bows repeatedly, before she too darts out the door as if her death is imminent if she stays any longer. Considering the circumstances, that might not really be untrue. Voldemort has been on a short fuse these past few days.
He gives an accusatory look at the limpet on his shoulder, sniffling. There's a reason for that.
Saiph perks his head up, blinking those stupidly beautiful green eyes at him. Even if most of the child's physical features are similar to his own, those eyes are always enough to remind him that this child is more than just his. That, and his stupidly emotional personality. Still, it's difficult to deny him anything when he turns those big, sparkling eyes at him.
"Fine, fine," he sighs, standing up. "But only for an hour this time, I mean it."
As usual, Saiph cheers up once they're walking outside. He spends some time cooing at the birds bathing in the water fountains, and Voldemort makes sure to stop at every little frog and snail they come across. Saiph could stare at them for hours. He especially likes Crookshanks, whom they find sunbathing on a marble bench halfway down the path. Voldemort sits there for some time, letting Saiph pet the demon creature, much to the thing's displeasure. The baby falls asleep in the cat's soft fur after a half hour, and Voldemort hoists him back into his arms to walk him towards the mansion. As far as he and Saiph are concerned, this has been a surprisingly good morning. There have been few water works, Saiph has yet to become inconsolable, and he actually ate his breakfast without throwing it all over the place this morning. And now he is taking a proper nap before lunchtime, just like he's supposed to, and they will hopefully manage to avoid an afternoon tantrum because of it.
He's tried sneaking out of the room once Saiph has fallen asleep, but the baby wakes up like clockwork about fifteen minutes after he's left every single time, so he's started keeping him in a bassinet in the room connected to his office.
It's grueling work, raising a child. He probably should have known this, having two of the finicky creatures already. But now that he thinks back on it he was never very… present for those years. He briefly remembers Cepheus and Asterope as tiny little creatures with big water blue eyes and an enormous penchant for trouble, and before that, little wiggly things with ten fingers and toes, but he never worried for them like this. It was no small comfort, knowing Harry was around to take care of them for the majority of their lives. Harry liked doing it, and quite frankly was far better at it than Voldemort, so he saw no reason to change that status quo. He doesn't remember Harry ever having this difficult of a time with parenting, either.
He wonders if perhaps he's just terrible at it.
Voldemort has never been terrible at anything in his entire life, so it's a difficult thought to swallow.
Usually if he puts great thought and effort into an endeavor he finds great success; the more thought and effort he tries to put into parenting, the more it seems to backfire.
Maybe he should accept that this is one part of his life he will forever be a failure in, but the thought of failing at anything— even something as arbitrary as parenting— sat poorly with him. Maybe because parenting wasn't actually all that arbitrary; some might say it's the most important trial in your life.
As if on cue, a low, plaintive whine rises weakly in the air. The Dark Lord sighs as he gets up from his chair, wondering how he has been so thoroughly defeated by a two year-old.
To his unending relief Saiph is not actually crying; he appears content enough in his crib, making cooing noises as he holds his stuffed rabbit and gnaws on one of it's ears. When Voldemort nears he grins toothily and holds out his hands to be held. Or at least, that's what Voldemort had assumed; the moment he hauls the boy out he kicks his feet tenaciously, until Voldemort has to put him down. The reason becomes clear soon enough— it appears the boy wants to explore.
"Absolutely not." The Dark Lord forbids, immediately. There are too many things in this office— and the house at large— that can cause irreparable damage to an infant.
Saiph looks up at him with wet, vermarine eyes. "No?" He says, voice watery.
Voldemort stares at the ceiling, as if it might give him strength. He is not capable of handling tears right now. It seems he'll have to come up with a compromise.
He sticks his hand out. "You may walk with me, but you are not allowed to let go of my hand, understood?"
Sai nods, sticking his hand over Voldemort's much larger one as he continues on his toddling trek around the room.
He stops periodically to pick up things he can put in his mouth, and Voldemort has to find a way to pry it out of his hands in a manner that doesn't elicit tears; he pulls out just about every book he can reach off the shelf just to watch in delight as they fall to the floor, which are promptly magicked back to their places once his attention is sufficiently occupied elsewhere; a great deal of attention is given to the quills on his desk, and he's vaguely worried about Saiph chewing on the ends of them before dismissing it as a battle not worth fighting; they spend at least half an hour attempting to climb onto various pieces of furniture. All in all it's an extremely unproductive afternoon, as far as work is concerned. He should be more irritated by this, but somehow he finds the day pleasant nonetheless. At least Saiph isn't inconsolably crying.
Without anyone to witness, it is an easy thing to smile slightly in the warm afternoon, watching Saiph try to climb up the arm of the leather sofa.
"What this?" He asks, sometime later, as they have explored the far side of the office, where they have stumbled upon a dead mouse that has escaped the notice of the house elves.
"A mouse." Voldemort replies. Fortunately Saiph does not try to touch it as he has everything else they've found on their afternoon exploration, as if a part of him inherently recognizes the dead from the living. He wonders if that part of him came from Harry.
"Bye-bye mouse." He says, solemnly, his hand held in Voldemort's as they stare at the dead mouse together.
He eyes the boy speculatively. As of now, none of his children have shown much aptitude for death magic, but then they are young still, and he doesn't spend much time with them. Perhaps the twins have shown uncanny sensitivity to death as well. Saiph does not notice his gaze, eyes the color of death concentrated on the mouse as he gnaws at his rabbit's ear.
Finally the boy turns his gaze away from the dead creature, green eyes fluttering back up to him. "Walk now?"
They walked two hours ago. He supposes it's about time for another one. Maybe the walk, combined with this afternoon exploration, will tire him out enough for an afternoon nap.
This is, of course, how Hermione finds them.
At least it's her, and not any of the endless list of people who would have been much worse. Harry's best friend has seen it all at this point, and is tactful enough not to remark upon the scene she intrudes upon. Voldemort straightens up to his full height, dropping Saiph's hand.
"Hello, Sai," she greets, before giving him a respectful nod. "My Lord."
"Granger," he intones, with an impassive look that doesn't betray the sinking feeling in his stomach. She was supposed to be in India this week; if she has returned, there is a dire situation that requires his immediate attention.
From the look of her expression, she is equally as unhappy with the turn of events.
"Aun' 'Mione!" Saiph returns delight, recognizing the woman immediately. She spares the young child a tight smile, but returns her attention quickly to Voldemort.
Voldemort does not sigh, but it is a near thing.
"Sit," he motions towards the chairs across from his desk, tugging Saiph along so he can sit across from her. After grabby hands tug at the hem of his robes, with great resignation he grabs the child so he can sit in his lap. They spend a moment briefly struggling over the parchment on his desk, before Saiph realizes he will not be allowed to touch them and begins to behave himself. After that matter is settled, he turns to the more graver one at hand. "Well?"
For a moment, she is not fast enough clearing her expression of amusement. He supposes it was probably an amusing scene, but it unsettles him nonetheless. He is the Dark Lord, not a babysitter, no matter what this limpet may have others thinking of him.
Granger takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry to say, my Lord, but—
Crookshanks mews sadly at the sniffling baby. Saiph continues to snuffle and hiccup, but at least now his wails have stopped.
He is plopped onto the floor besides the fur ball, both tiny fists buried in the cat's ginger fur. But even Crookshanks' presence is not enough to appease the boy. His father is leaving, and he knows it. Even at only two years-old, he knows what it means when he sees luggage in the foyer.
"I expect you two to be on your best behavior," he tells his mischievous twins, who stand to attention before him. "And to look after your brother."
"Yes father," the chirrup in response, in a vaguely respectful tone. It's about all he can ask for currently.
"And behave for your grandmother; don't give her any trouble." At this, he directs towards his eldest son. Cepheus at least has the decency to look a bit guilty. After his 'gnome industries' attempt, he should be.
"I didn't know the gnomes would revolt." He defends, seriously.
"I don't care." His father retorts. "I don't want to hear about any sort of 'experiments' or 'inventions' while I am away."
Cepheus gives a nod that could mean anything; Asterope is examining the lemon print of her sundress, scowling as she attempts to pick off ginger cat hair. He has a feeling his orders are not going to get anywhere. But at least he made an attempt.
He raises his hand to levitate his luggage towards him. Saiph gives one look at it, then the fireplace, and begins to cry in earnest. Asterope whirls around, ducking down next to him to gather him up in her arms. She makes some shushing noises, but it does nothing to deter the toddler. Since she refuses to take the cat along with them— probably due to the hair— this just makes it worse. Cepheus covers his ears at the ungodly noise. Voldemort wishes he could do the same, but there is an entourage of Death Eaters waiting by the floo as an audience.
"Enough," he snaps at Saiph, with enough heat that it startles the boy out of his tears. The pitiful, betrayed look is somehow even worse than the wailing.
He has to look away before he does something he'll most likely come to regret later, like hug the boy, or decide to stay.
He sends one last look to the twins instead. "Take care of yourselves." He orders them, to which they nod, this time with all the seriousness they can muster at their young age.
Voldemort does not hear about any gnome experiments one awry— this time, it is far worse.
Saiph has apparently joined his mother at St. Mungo's.
"Why was I not notified earlier?" He's all but spitting fire as he rounds on Lucius, who has known him long enough to immediately kneel in a sign of deference.
"I deeply apologize my Lord, but you specifically instructed us not to bother you with anything unrelated to—
"This is obviously an exception!"
He doesn't have time for this. The settlement for the Chinese/Korean border can wait. Actually, it kind of can't, but somehow this has completely eclipsed the international conflict that was on the brink of causing a war. He whips his wand through the air; Lucius flinches violently, but all that comes out of his wand is a nonverbal spell to snap his trunk shut and levitate it towards him.
"Walk with me," he commands his follower, as he stalks out of the room.
Lucius scrambles to his feet, hastening to keep up as they set a brisk pace down the hall. "Granger— " At this, he even manages not to make a face as he usually does, "contacted me with information from the… the Weasley's— " Again, he manages to say the name aloud without sneering, a testament to the graveness of the situation indeed. "She said Saiph was refusing to eat. They thought it would be a temporary issue, but that coupled with a continued insomnia and, I quote, 'endless crying', has made them come to the decision to bring him to St. Mungo's. They performed an initial evaluation and found he was not ill. However, he is still refusing to eat, so he remains at the hospital on an IV drip."
His son was being fed out of a tube?
He genuinely doesn't know who to blame in this situation. All he can feel right now is rage, directionless, impotent, and completely uncontrollable. He suppresses the urge to crucio everyone involved in this stupid debate; each and everyone of them deserve to be tortured by his hand, from Director Cha to Emperor Wu. He'd love nothing more than to burn this whole palace to the ground. A voice in his head, that sounds suspiciously like Harry, reminds him that this is his anger speaking, and he had promised to never take action from anger again. So he refrains, but gleefully entertains the idea anyhow.
They round a corner so quickly Lucius near stumbles; the international floo parlor lies just ahead.
"My— My Lord," Lucius starts, hesitating in a way that means he fully expects to be cursed for his impudence, "What of the treaty?"
"Tell them that they have five days to come up with a solution that does not involve bloodshed." He grabs a handful of floo powder, tossing it into the fireplace. As the green flames erupt, he turns back to give Lucius a look that could kill lesser men. "If they do not, I will personally raze both their countries to the ground." He decrees, coldly, before stepping into the flames.
"You are a terrible, inconvenient bother of a barnacle, do you know that?" He tells the toddler. Predictably, the baby does not respond.
Saiph continues to sleep in his arms, as he has been for almost eighteen hours now.
Voldemort doesn't even bother to try to put him down and escape; the limpet will only cry and scream at the mere idea of him leaving again, and it is simply not worth the effort. It's far easier to just hold him the entire time than even think about that particular headache.
The healers tell him there is nothing physically wrong with him; from the perspective of the usual gamut of childhood illnesses that put children his age in the hospital, he is in perfect health. No colic, no dragon pox, no pixie fever. However, his blood pressure is apparently quite high and his nutrient levels are far lower than they should be during this crucial stage of his growth, and that's to say nothing of all the havoc a lack of sleep can wreak upon his fragile body. These symptoms are not borne of illness, though. From what the healers say, they are physical manifestations of his extreme anxiety.
Even with his considerable research on the subject of the male pregnancy potion, he hadn't realized that the method of conception creates a powerful magical bond between bearer and child. It's more than just Harry being not physically present; right now, all of Harry's vast reserves of magic have turned inward as they fight to keep the unborn child from dying. To Saiph, who still has his prenatal magical bond with Harry, it feels as if Harry's magic has cut off entirely, as it would if he had died. This is why Saiph has been having such a difficult time being away from Harry; to be so violently disconnected from a presence that he has felt since before he was even alive was incredibly traumatic, especially for a child his age. Cepheus and Asterope have apparently been a bit maudlin as well since Harry has been hospitalized, but as they are older and their magical cores are large and can sustain themselves, the connection is no longer as strong.
In the case of male pregnancies, to separate an infant like Saiph from their mother at this age was extremely detrimental. Apparently the hospital had written to tell him all of this when Harry had originally been hospitalized, but as he rarely checks his own mail it had gotten lost in the non-urgent pile on his secretary's desk.
To a lesser extent, Saiph's magic was also connected to his own. This was nothing as extreme as his connection to Harry, but rather much like the connection a child his age would have with their sire in a regular pregnancy. Harry's magic may have grown and protected him since conception, but obviously his own magic had to have been involved at some point to conceive him in the first place. That would explain why the infant would raise holy hell whenever Voldemort tried to leave the room; after being abruptly severed from his mother, the child had latched on to his only remaining bond with his father.
And then Voldemort had gone and severed that as well by traveling to the other side of the world.
(Apparently, they had warned him against travel in that damnable letter as well.)
He feels a bit dense, really.
Was he truly so horrible of a parent, that he couldn't tell something was wrong? That this sort of behavior was anomalous for his child? That he didn't even know his child well enough to know what was normal behavior to begin with? Saiph was in the hospital, and it was entirely his fault.
Perhaps this outcome isn't actually all that surprising. He always knew he would be a horrible father; this was merely confirmation of that fact. He'd thought he'd done an alright job with the twins; at the very least, they looked upon him positively and had no negative associations with him, never cried or got angry at him, and seemed to enjoy his presence. He managed to keep them alive all this time with minimal injuries— although there was that terrible tumble Asterope took off her broom when she was five— or grave illnesses, but he had no delusions in thinking that was solely from his own merit. Of course not. Most of that could be attributed to Harry. Or rather, all of it, he should say. The only reason he never irreparably damaged the twins for life was because Harry was around to stop him.
"What is he thinking, really, leaving you with me." He mutters to himself caustically, as he stares out the window of Saiph's hospital room. It is a predictably gloomy London afternoon outside, but it seems fitting for his current mood.
Harry didn't need to put himself in a magically induced coma for the last three months of his pregnancy. Twenty-eight weeks was certainly dangerous, but with the highest standard in neonatal hospital care and his own impressive magic most of the more severe risks from such a premature birth could be avoided. All the same, Harry hadn't liked the idea of extracting the baby prematurely if they could at all help it, so he had opted to induce his own unconsciousness to better utilize his magic to protect the baby. The healers still don't entirely understand what went wrong with this pregnancy, but as male pregnancies already have prolific complications no one was entirely surprised when things took a turn for the worse.
He turns his head slightly to look at the child held in his arms.
Honestly he should be counting his blessings that Saiph had been born perfectly healthy without any complications to speak of.
He hadn't been overly worried with the twins— although let it not be said he was completely without worry— since Harry was not only astronomically powerful but also immortal, so the usually risky male pregnancy was not nearly as fatal as it normally was. Of course there was always concern over the fetus itself, but the twins had hit all the growth marks and had never seemed in any danger. The extraction process was quick and straightforward, and then they had two healthy, if not weirdly quiet, infants at hand. The second pregnancy, however, was a completely different story. A male pregnancy was rare enough— to try it a second time was even rarer. There were accounts, of course, but they were few and far between. But if anyone could attempt such an impossible feat, it would of course be Harry.
They had discussed it at length, before ultimately deciding to go through with it. It was a decidedly more austere process; Harry did not galavant off to other worlds with his friends in tow, staying out late and traveling all over the place. He ate a very specific diet and was careful not to overexert himself. He didn't really slow down until a few weeks before the twins were born, but with Saiph he had been confined to bed rest by the twentieth week. It had been harrowing for a few weeks, but then they had a perfect, healthy, and exuberant baby and most of those worries faded away in the face of his beaming smile.
It is only because he has warded the room and was secure in the knowledge of his solitude that he allows himself to hold Saiph just a bit tighter, burying his nose in the boy's soft, feathery hair as he closes his eyes.
He could have lost Saiph, then, just as he could lose his unborn daughter right now.
"Why did I let that brat talk me into having another one?" He hisses quietly to the sleeping child. The parseltongue is perhaps overkill, since there is no one in the room to keep their conversation private to, but all the same the words are so intimate he doesn't think he could speak them in any other tongue. And yet, he cannot keep them as simple thoughts. "How am I supposed to take care of all of you without him?"
It was an unfathomable thought, but seeing Harry so unnaturally still had planted the seed of terror in his mind. Harry was immortal, but that immortality, much like his own, was not infallible. What if he died from this? It seemed improbable, but truly, how was Voldemort to know. And the baby… well, the baby was certainly not infallible. Even within the formidable protection of Harry's magic there were all sorts of things that could go wrong, so many ways for that life to be snuffed out before he even had a chance to hold her in his arms.
And that was to say nothing of the children he could hold now.
How was he supposed to protect Saiph when he'd already managed to put the child in the hospital? How was he supposed to protect the twins, who had inherited Harry's supernatural abilities to traverse dimensions and rip apart spacetime, and we're already learning to use it to cause mischief? How was he supposed to raise them without emotionally scarring them in the process?
"I can't lose you," he murmurs, into the child's soft hair. "Any of you."
After almost two days of sleeping with intermittent periods of feeding between, Saiph seems almost back to his usual self. Or as normal as he had been before, at least. The one exception to that was his exceptional clinginess, somehow even worse than before.
He truly seemed to become some kind of marine invertebrate, attaching to him like an unmovable sessile, often times even refusing the simple act of being put down for a handful of minutes.
It was beyond tedious, but at least now he knew why the child was behaving in such a way. And, truth be told, he might even prefer it this way. At least with Saiph attached to him like a mollusk of some kind Voldemort knows where he is and can keep an eye on him. It wasn't so bad, he supposed. They more or less fell into the same routine they had had before, except for the few instances where Voldemort could get him in his bed in another room, or keep him occupied in his playpin. These days if he wanted the boy to take a nap he would have to take one with him, or at the very least sit there and occupy himself with the boy snuggled on his chest. If he wanted to occupy Saiph with his toys he had to sit on the floor with him, well within reach of those grabby hands. Aside from that, it was back to normal, with a few added potions from St. Mungo's to recover the nutrients he had lost from his stint refusing food, and a checkup with his pediatric healer in a week's time.
So the cloudy afternoon found them once again making their way through the gardens, as they did at least three or four times a day.
He has begun to monologue these walks in parseltongue, as he has learned the quickest way to get Saiph to sleep is through a monotonous rundown of the environment around them. Something about his voice apparently soothes the boy, so he catalogues their surroundings, or recites potion brewing instructions.
Today he has already gone through all the potions in the first year curriculum, and Saiph has yet to lose his battle with sleep, so he turns to the passing scenery.
"And here we have a distant cousin of yours, the snail." He tells the boy, who yawns sleepily. "At first glance, you might be skeptical of your connection to the gastropod family, but I have since come to believe you have somehow turned yourself into a mollusk."
The snail pokes its eyes out from beneath it's swirling shell, only to retract them when it notices they are still there.
"You see, limpets are distant cousins of both the gastropods and the mollusks, though I suspect you take after your mollusk cousins, in form if not in function. Although your more parasitic tendencies resemble the barnacle, your impressive speed at inopportune times leads me to believe you are, indeed, a limpet."
Saiph blinks droopy green eyes at him, in what he thinks is agreement.
"Attempts to turn you back into a regular human child have proved fruitless thus far, but rest assured I intend to find a solution." He adds, scowling. "I will not have you continue this behavior for much longer, do you understand? I will allow it for now, due to the circumstances, but you are not allowed to stay a limpet forever."
"Lim'et." Sai mumbles, in an attempt to copy him.
"Yes, limpet." Voldemort agrees. "That is what you are. A clingy limpet."
He means to say this with irritation, but instead his tone is almost fond.
Saiph is asleep soon after that, his small back rising and falling with each breath. He's fairly sure the limpet is drooling all over him, but at this point he's relieved he's sleeping at all. Every win, no matter how small, is a victory to be celebrated as far as parenting is concerned. He's had to learn that lesson the hard way.
It's been all of three weeks since Harry's been asleep, but it seems so much longer. His relationship with Saiph has changed to the point he's absolutely bewildered to think of how they were before. Spending almost every hour of his day with the barnacle has certainly changed his opinion on the little creature; he now knows what Saiph's favorite toy was (his rabbit), the easiest way to get him to sleep (walking outdoors), the best way to lure him in and out of the bath (bubbles), and the fastest way to get him properly dressed (pants were a lost cause). He knew that Saiph liked all fruits but not to feed him grapes (choking hazard— learned that the hard way), and that he couldn't leave the house without the boy's rabbit or blanket (also learned that the hard way).
Saiph was more than just the sum of his illogical tendencies, though. He was a lot like Harry, in that he tended to smile at Voldemort for no real reason at all. He was also quite curious, and an annoyingly fast learner. He was also getting quite good at wandless magic, especially in regards to the locks on his crib and playpin.
He finds Crookshanks napping on his usual stone bench, and moves to sit beside the fleaball. There was nothing Saiph hated more than waking up from a nap, especially an afternoon one. The best way to avoid any residual crankiness was to have the infuriating feline nearby for the boy to play with immediately upon awakening. He supposes that's enough of a silver lining for having to take the creature in. That, and Crookshanks does wonders for the mice population.
"Better a limpet than a feline," Voldemort supposes, stroking the child's back. At least limpets don't shed everywhere and have claws that tear through shirts and furniture alike. Although on second thought, Saiph's uncanny grip was likely just as bad with or without claws.
Saiph stirs a half hour later, just as Voldemort has managed to maneuver him properly onto one shoulder in order to read with his other hand. The baby gives an unhappy whine, curling against his shoulder. When he blinks his eyes open he sees a mass of ginger fur beside him, and whatever water works he had prepared upon awakening die a still death. He's content to sit quietly beside Voldemort and sink his hands into the cat's fur, and as he reads through his ancient book on esoteric runes he can't help but feel rather triumphant at his own foresight. He still would not consider himself a stellar parent by any means, but these days he's at least passable.
He looks down at Saiph. After a beat, Saiph looks back up, blinking with his big eyes.
"Daddy?" He allows the transgression only because it is in parseltongue, and no one is around to hear it.
"Yes?"
He resigns himself to the same conversation they've had for the past three weeks. Despite his uncanny intelligence, Saiph is incapable, or perhaps just unwilling, to understand Harry's absence.
But Saiph surprises him. "Eat now?"
He casts a tempus charm. It's a bit early for dinner time, but it's unusual for Saiph to willingly want food, so he's not about to argue the point. That, and he's a bit too relieved that Saiph isn't asking about Harry to look a gift horse in the mouth.
"We can eat, if you like." He refuses to baby-talk the child, and he knows Saiph is capable of understanding full sentences, even if he doesn't like using them. "What do you want to eat?"
Saiph thinks on this seriously.
"Snails!" He exclaims. Voldemort is fairly sure this is subliminal messaging talking.
He sighs. "You will not like those," he explains slowly, but Saiph is as stubborn as his mother and shakes his head vehemently, irritating Crookshanks in the process.
"Want snails." Saiph insists.
"You don't even know what those are," Voldemort retorts, exasperated.
Saiph pulls a face, and then pulls the neck of his onesie over his head like a shell. The Dark Lord sighs, realizing Saiph does, indeed, know what a snail is.
"We can't eat those." He replies. "Snails are not for eating."
He's not about to explain the nuances of escargot to a toddler.
This gives the baby pause. He considers this carefully. " 'Orms!" He decides instead.
"We can't eat worms either." Merlin, where is the child getting his culinary ambitions?
Saiph tilts his head, frowning. Crookshanks rolls over and begins to purr, a demand for attention. Saiph turns to the cat as he rubs the animal's fluffy belly. After a few beats, he looks up. "Mouse."
Voldemort almost sighs again. "You want to eat mice?" Can't he pick something normal, like fruit, or toast?
Saiph nods seriously. "Eat mouse."
"Only cats eat mice," the Dark Lord points out.
Saiph shakes his head. "Snakey eat mouse." He refutes stubbornly, referring to Nagini.
"Fine, yes. Cats and snakes eat mice." The Dark Lord amends, irritated. "All the same, humans do not eat mice."
Saiph still looks stubborn. "Aster eat mouse." He insists.
Voldemort blinks. Baby talk was absolutely insensible to him. He wishes they could just skip this phase entirely and start conversing when Saiph was capable of some modicum of eloquence.
"She go 'squeak! Squeak!'" He looks amused by the prospect. "An' then Cephy eats mouse and go 'squeak, squeak'. An' Sai eats mouse and go 'squeak, squeak'."
He frowns. It's true Saiph is a bit more eloquent in parseltongue than he is in English, but all the same none of that makes any sense to him.
"An' then mummy say no more mouse!" He giggles happily. "So Sai eat froggy instead!"
He blinks, recognition dawning. The unintelligible babble clears into a vague understanding; Saiph is recalling some kind of memory of he and his siblings eating ice mice and chocolate frogs, most likely at Hogsmeade, probably with his cousins.
"You can't eat ice mice and chocolate frogs for dinner." Voldemort tells him, gently. "Those are candies. Treats."
"No mouse? No froggy?" Saiph looks up at him sorrowfully.
"Not for dinner, no." The tears are almost inevitable. Voldemort can see them from a mile away, as Saiph's expression crumples and his lower lip begins to wobble.
He thinks quickly, unable to deal with the thought of tears. "We can have them after dinner, if you eat all your food properly."
"No mouse," Saiph repeats, tearfully.
"Not for dinner." In this, he refuses to cave to the whims of a toddler. "But you may have some after dinner. I will take you and your siblings out to Honeydukes to buy some, but only if you eat your dinner."
Saiph still does not appear fully satisfied, but he nods nonetheless.
He firmly remembers saying he'd take Saiph and his siblings— not Saiph and the entire brood of his cousins.
"Well, if you take one you kind of have to take them all," Hermione said in explanation when she'd come to drop his twins off, and arrived with far more than a pair of twins, expression sheepish. "They'll behave! For you, anyway."
The gaggle of children nod fervently.
Voldemort doesn't believe that for a minute; and more to the point, the idea of looking after this many children is terrifying.
This is why Hermione and Crookshanks are in tow as they travel to Hogsmeade for the evening. Fortunately school is not in session, so the town is not overrun with gaggles of students standing and gawking about.
In all fairness, it's not that many of them. Just the fairly well-behaved and quiet Victorie, being tugged along by Aster, and the somewhat less behaved and far louder Teddy, who is firmly preoccupied by Cepheus. The other three are easily corralled by their Aunt Hermione, who tells them with extreme severity that they'll be grounded for months if they misbehave in the presence of the Dark Lord. He's sure they've all heard stories about him— some wildly exaggerated, others completely true— so that shuts them up quick. Hugo, who has tagged along with his mother, is too small to understand, but keeps quiet nonetheless.
Saiph obediently holds his hand as they walk through the small, sleepy village, curious green eyes darting about, too many things trying to catch his attention at once. He dutifully keeps hold of Voldemort's hand though, content to watch all these curiosities from afar.
They make it into Honeydukes without incident; the Flume's know who he is immediately, a vague look of terror on their faces as the door opens to reveal the tall and brooding form of the Dark Lord. That being said their fear morphs into bewilderment as Saiph toddles behind him, still holding his hand, and afterwards his twin siblings and their cousins. The small shop feels crowded with all of them inside, Crookshanks included, so he tells them all to choose quickly. That is an idea doomed to fail, since they are kids literally in a candy shop, and none of them can decide what they like best. In the end, to save himself time and effort he buys each of them one of everything, and they leave the store with giant bags of candy. The sugar will make them all into hell raising heathens soon enough, but he won't have to deal with them by that point.
It occurs to him that this is the first time he and Sai have had an outing together, without Harry involved. He thinks he handled it very well, all things considered. From Hermione's face it appears she thinks something of the same.
He remembers the day Saiph was born.
He was actually there for it, unlike with the twins. He had made it a priority to do so, precisely because of that. It was galvanizing to know the first person the twins had laid eyes on was someone other than him. He had no one to blame but himself though; he hadn't realized how important that event would come to be to him, and hadn't planned accordingly. At any rate he knew better the second time.
He met the twins a week after their birth. Objectively that wasn't that long of a time period, but he feels as if they were much larger than the strange creature he held in his hands that day. He was so frail and small, so easily destroyed, it was humbling to hold him in his hands. He was barely larger than the size of his own hand. He'd never seen fingers that small, it was a wonder they could move, could grip onto him with a surprising strength. He should have known then that the boy would grow into a limpet.
He'd never felt comfortable around children, even his own. But Saiph had latched onto him the whole day and hadn't let go, much to Harry's amusement. He didn't understand the child's fascination with him, and fortunately it had dissipated with age. It's come back full force now though, and he doesn't know what to make of it.
"Your mother will be awake soon," he murmurs to the creature, who blinks up at him sleepily.
"Mama," Saiph agrees, eyes drooping.
It is far too early for any normal human to be awake, but the night has been stressful and Voldemort had given up sleep as a lost cause long ago. Saiph has been anxious and moody all day, no doubt due to the stress and anxiety levels of those around him. The healers had been called and Voldemort had been informed that they would be extracting his daughter today whether they wanted to or not. Apparently she wasn't one to wait around— he had to wonder how much she would end up taking after him, with that level of impatience.
Asterope and Cepheus were passed out on the couches opposite of him, the long hours a bit too much for their young bodies. Cepheus was sporting a bandaid across his cheek, evidence of yet another of his inventions gone wrong. He tried to launch himself into outer space with some kind of rocket out of the Weasley's backyard, and Voldemort thought it an apt lesson to make his cuts and bruises heal on their own. He was lucky he hadn't broken his neck with that stunt. And where had he even gotten the idea to use a volatile potion as the catalyst for his fuel, anyway? He turns an accusing look to his daughter, her favorite blanket covering her up to her chin. Someone had been breaking into his library.
His attention returns to Saiph then, who is still making a valiant effort to remain awake after his feeding. He'd woken up half an hour ago from hunger, and the Dark Lord realizes with no small amount of guilt that he'd forgotten to feed the boy over the course of the tumultuous day. He felt awful about it; he knew with painful intimacy how terrible it was to go to bed hungry. It was an experience he never wanted any of his children to have to know. He felt so guilty he let Saiph eat all the chocolate frogs he wanted— in hindsight, a foolish move. The sugar had kept the boy up far longer than he should be, and at this point it would be dawn soon enough.
"Where Mama?" He asks drowsily, his head falling onto his shoulder.
"Your mother is in the other room," Voldemort informs him. "Would you like to see him?"
"Mama." Saiph agrees. He takes that as a yes.
He rises from his seat on the leather chair across from the twins' commandeered beds, and moves into the adjoining room from their sitting lounge. Harry is fast asleep in his hospital bed, nothing but the muggle machine beside him beeping away to confirm whether he was even alive at all. The majority of his upper body is wrapped tightly in sealing paper, the ink pulsing a quiet blue glow in time with his heart beat.
While Saiph drinks in the sight— and feeling— of Harry's presence, Voldemort's attention drifts to the bassinet within arm's reach of the young man. At this distance, the intangible aura surrounding the boy is heavy in the air. The crib is situated so closely so the child inside can remain within easily reachable distance for Harry's magic. He wonders if Saiph can see it, what it would look like, this thread of magic connecting them. He is powerful enough to recognize the magical presence in the air for what it is, but he is not gifted in magical sensitivity like his young son. He leans over the bed to get a better look at the bassinet across; his as of yet unnamed daughter appears well enough, considering the circumstances.
She had screamed bloody murder during the extraction process, but apparently that is an auspicious sign. Good lungs, or something. It didn't make it any easier on his ears, though. At any rate she is very small, but the healers say the added weeks of development were successful in making sure her organs were fully matured and capable of working on their own. All the same they had lain her atop Harry for the first few hours of her life, the skin to skin contact acting as a fluid layer for magical transfusion. Now that they have had enough time to observe her vitals in earnest, she has been given her own crib to sleep in— still close enough to Harry, but far enough to give his magical core time to rest and regenerate.
It's not that he doesn't want her, not in the least. He was stupidly emotionally attached to her since the moment he knew of her existence. All the same this entire process has just cemented the foolishness of the highly coveted but extremely dangerous male pregnancy potion. If Harry wasn't the Master of Death, he would have never survived any of these trials, and playing with fate like this gave him an uneasy, sickening feeling. He has never been one to care about counting blessings, but he feels humbled nonetheless to see both Harry and his daughter breathing on their own. That Saiph was safe and healthy in his arms, and his twins were as irritating and trouble-making as usual but mostly unharmed and in one piece down the hall.
"Do you want to see your sister?" He asks Sai, once he seems to be reassured of Harry's continued presence.
Sai looks down the hall.
"Not that sister," he adds, to Saiph's confusion. It's clear the two year-old doesn't understand the concept of birth. It's useless to try to explain it to him, so instead he walks around the bed to stand by the crib.
He carefully leans Saiph over so the toddler can peer into the crib. He blinks his big green eyes, mouth opening. For the life of him, Voldemort can't tell if that's a look of recognition or blank disinterest.
"Sister," Sai repeats, blankly.
"Yes, sister." He answers, this time in the snake tongue. It might be easier to explain to the boy this way.
"What that?" Sai tilts his head, looking up at him.
"That's…" He doesn't actually know how to explain the concept of siblings. "Like Cepheus, and Asterope. They're your family."
Sai sticks his fingers in his mouth, sucking thoughtfully. "Fam'ly," He echoes. He looks down at Harry. "Fam'ly?"
He nods. "Yes. Your mother is part of your family. So am I. So are your cousins."
He doesn't know how to explain such abstract concepts to someone so young, and fortunately that seems to satisfy Saiph, for he doesn't ask any more questions. He merely stares down contemplatively at the sleeping newborn, looking at it in the same way he likes to look at frogs and snails— a curious, foreign creature. In the boy's defense, infants do tend to look like strange little aliens. It had been supremely fascinating, watching first the twins and now Saiph as they grew, their ambiguous newborn features and mannerisms beginning to grow into unique expressions and personalities. The littlest of them all though, sleeping in her crib, is a scrunched up, red-faced thing that could be anyone's.
"Sister," Saiph repeats, joining him in his observation of the little thing.
"Yes. Little sister." He says. "You're a big brother now."
SAILOR ムーン - BLUNTSIDE