Warning Signs Read Desolation
Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.
Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.
Chapter Ten
The heavy dungeon door creaked open, and a gust of the cold, musty air reached his nose as he stepped into the dark space. He strode across the stone floor to the right side of the room, reaching the long bench upon which thirty nests lay in a neat row.
With deft hands, Voldemort slowly lifted one the fat toads off its treasure and removed the little egg from the nest. Holding it up close to his face, inspecting it closely, he saw that the previously pearl white surface had taken on a green tint, spreading from the bottom to the tip, creating a pretty ombré effect. That meant the egg was in the middle of its transmutation. Three more days, and it will hatch, Voldemort evaluated with a pleased smile, before putting the egg back into its nest and covering it with the brooding toad.
The eggs are in a very fragile state and in need of supervision, thought Voldemort. Perhaps a house-elf is suitable to take care of that.
"Elf," he called out, and immediately, there was a pop to his right. It was the lanky creature with huge green eyes that he had received from the Malfoy family, Voldemort noted. It studied him closely, almost cunningly, with dark judgement in its eyes. Voldemort instantly tensed, looking down at the little creature with growing suspicion. He recognised in the back of his mind that he had taken note of this particular elf at several occasions before this. It seemed to have a peculiar ability to appear right when he needed it.
"I must say, the swiftness of your attention is far superior to your peers," he mused in a cold voice, narrowing his eyes when the elf started to shiver in fear, adopting a shamed expression. "It is almost as if you're constantly lying in wait for the moment I'll call for you. Why is that?"
"Dobby lives to serve master," the elf claimed and bowed so deeply his long nose was squished against the stone floor. "Dobby always does Dobby's best to give master good service, sir."
"So you do lie in wait for my call?" Voldemort questioned with growing suspicion, feeling fury starting to boil in the depths of his mind. "Do you neglect your other duties?"
"Oh no, master!" Dobby exclaimed with impossibly wide eyes. "Dobby is paying attention to master, he is. But Dobby is also completing all tasks as best he can."
It's not denying it. Voldemort levelled a dark glare onto the quivering creature. "I do not think I need to point out that spying on ones master is not prudent for a house-elf."
The elf let out a fearful sob and bowed deeply again. "No, master," he squeaked. "Dobby apologises. Dobby –" Disgustingly, the elf broke down in snivels and hiccups. "Dobby only wishes to keep an eye on master, just to know what master is planning, so that Dobby can be prepared –" The elf gasped fearfully when Voldemort levelled his wand on it.
"Know your place," he hissed as fury clouded his senses. How dare he? A mere house-elf? "I am starting to suspect a hidden agenda here." What had the elf learned? On whose orders was it acting? "What did the Malfoys tell you before you left their service?"
"Nothing, master! Dobby swears – Dobby could never lie to master! Dobby just did what Dobby thought best!"
An abnormality, thought Voldemort with distain, the Killing Curse on the tip of his tongue. An elf with its own wishes and agendas, aside from those of its master – far too dangerous to be kept alive.
"Unless it has been obliviated," a soul shard supplied right as he was about to dispose of the creature. "It might act subconsciously on an order it has received, if the Malfoys indeed did send it to you without dismissing its service completely. You could search its mind."
"No! Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!"
"It's connected to Harry," a far calmer voice supplied – the one that was in the closest proximity to him. "It has been telling him things, making escape plans. I see it now ... easier when you know what to look for."
"Would the Malfoys plot Harry's escape?" another shard questioned before scoffing. "I find that hard to believe."
"That disrespectful little pest needs to die before it causes harm to the operation, or to your human Horcrux."
"I said kill it! Kill it now!"
Feeling an intense surge of fury, inspired by the myriad of voices clouding up his mind, Voldemort slammed his Occlumency Shields down and let out a relieved breath when everything instantly went silent. Now, the only sound that could be heard was the pathetic snivelling of the elf. Disgusting creature!
"Legilimens!" Voldemort intoned, entering the elf's mind with terrible force, ripping his way through at a furious speed. In the background, he heard vaguely how the elf screamed bloody murder, and silently rejoiced in the feeling of once more possessing the power to inflict pain on somebody else.
The intricate nooks and crannies of Dobby's mind contained many memories of him acting out of his own free will, side-stepping or outright ignoring his masters' orders sometimes. The realisation that this flawed elf was a gift from the Malfoys made Voldemort grind his teeth against the dark fury, and he once again questioned the family's loyalty to him in the privacy of his mind.
He filed through the elf's mind very thoroughly, and yet, no sign of manipulation or long-lasting orders which could be working subconsciously were to be found. It truly seemed like the elf was an abnormality, acting out of its own free will.
Until; one repressed memory, hidden behind a layer of obscuring magic. Voldemort ripped his way through, and was met by the scowling face of Severus Snape, peering down at him inside a darkly lit hallway. Focusing on the elf's recollection, he realised that it was a memory from this past Easter, and that Snape had been invited to dinner at the Malfoy estate to celebrate with his close friends and godson.
"Listen closely, Dobby, this is very important," Snape said in a hushed tone, leaning down to the elf after casting a look over his shoulder, towards a half-open door, leading into a brightly lit up dining room. "I have reason to believe that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will soon return, and I doubt that we have much time before that happens. If Lucius is called to his side, and you happen to somehow be in a position to learn of his plans, you must do what you can to keep me informed. In the previous war, the Dark Lord used Malfoy Manor as one of his headquarters, and should he repeat that, I will trust you to watch him as closely as you dare without being found out."
"Yes, Master Snape, sir. Dobby will do his best –"
"– Yes, yes," Snape snapped impatiently, casting another look over his shoulder, "pay attention; it is equally as important that should the Dark Lord get his hands on Harry Potter, I will trust you to remove him from his possession and bring him to safety, if you find yourself in the position to do so."
"Yes, master, of course Dobby will keep Harry Potter safe –"
"Good," said Snape and straightened, before levelling his wand on the small elf. "It is imperative that no-one learns of this, so I shall lock away the memory inside your mind. You will still act on it, since it is an order, but you will have no recollection of this conversation."
The house-elf nodded and closed its eyes as Snape swiftly performed the Memory Charm.
After Voldemort had slipped out of Dobby's mind, he was met with a pair of darkly glaring green eyes, looking up at him from the floor, where the elf lay in a heap, looking like a very ugly broken toy. After freezing the elf with the Full Body-Bind Curse, Voldemort allowed himself to sink into dark musings.
If Snape was the Malfoy heir's godfather, he would be considered extended family, and would have some sway over the house-elves. Taking into account that this particular elf displayed an abnormal amount of autonomy, it could possibly choose on whose orders it would act. Additionally, when the Malfoys had transferred the elf's services to their master, they would have renounced their own ties to it, but they could have neglected to include Snape. That would mean that, subconscious or not, Snape's order would still be in effect even after the elf had left its former family.
Dark thoughts filled his mind; how many layers of deception did Snape make use of? It was clear that the facade he had used during their last meeting carried some truth to it; Snape certainly seemed devoted to Harry, and Voldemort recalled how he as a younger man had pleaded for him to spare Lily Potter. But what lay beneath that facade? Was he loyal to Dumbledore? He had claimed to hate Lord Voldemort for killing Lily Potter, the love of his life, while still being a supporter of the Dark side?
It was obvious, however, that whatever side Snape stood on, he was plotting to work against his lord. Whether this was on Dumbledore's orders or not would have to be investigated.
Ever so slowly, with a nasty smirk on his face, Voldemort crouched in front of the little elf, which looked up at him with pure hatred radiating out of his huge green eyes. "Congratulations," Voldemort said silkily, "you have just been promoted ... to bait. Imperio!"
The entire fortress was buzzing with motion – healers running from room to room, evaluating patients under the stern supervision of Healer Abbott; patients carefully slipping out of bed to view their surroundings and get a sense of freedom; relatives of the patients running after them, complaining about their health and urging them back to bed.
Quirinus couldn't stand any of it and kept to his room, keeping it dark and gloomy as he sat in his armchair in front of the fireplace, leafing through one of his absolute favourite Muggle novels; American Psycho. Probably the only good thing that had come out of last year, Quirinus mused dryly, thinking of his horrible decision to travel the world. Why couldn't he just have stayed in good old Britain?
His travels had taught him a good lot of things – most dark and sinister, but some of them interesting and valuable. Such as the fact that he had a flare for learning new languages; it had merely taken him two weeks of living in India to get good enough at Hindi to get around. He had also learned that he was quite terrified of vampires, and that he really loved the Indian wizards sense of style; he had loved it well enough to get himself a turban of his own, after all, and he could truly say he cherished it.
But all those experiences paled in comparison to what had occurred at the end of his travels, when he had moved from Greece into Albania, and encountered a dark forest that piqued his interest ... Why did I ever enter that forest?
Quirinus kept leafing through the novel, but the words on the pages didn't register with his muddled mind. All he could think of was last night, and the terror of his first mission as a Death Eater. His eyes kept flicking between the page and his left arm, where the Dark Mark was burned onto the skin beneath his purple sleeve, and a choking feeling crept up on his neck, making it hard to breathe.
Broken sobs escaped his mouth, and he leaned his forehead heavily in his right hand, shivering with terror and regret of what he had done. Memories of Azkaban's dark hallways and its gaunt inhabitants haunted him; faces of murderers, abusers, rapists and thieves staring back at him with gleeful expressions. They were in there for a reason, and I let them out.
Quirinus questioned his existence with deep regret, wondering what he could accomplish in this state – being the Dark Lord's puppet. How many more crimes would he commit against his own will? Because he was too much of a coward to stand up for what was right rather than what was easy. How many more would be murdered in front of him before this was over? How many of those murders would be on his hands?
As Quirinus sat in his armchair, sobbing, he slowly became aware of a light scratching noise coming from the side of his dresser. The noise came in waves; it sounded for a second, and then it went silent, only to sound again for a couple of more second, and falling silent again. The noise brought him back to reality and he turned in his chair to try to see where the noise came from. When he didn't see anything, he arose and put the book down on his bed.
He sneaked closer to the dresser, trying to spy the origin of the sound, and took out his wand in preparation. If he wasn't mistaken, that noise sounded just like vermin. And sure enough, as he peered into the darkness next to the dresser, he caught sight of a fat, dust-brown coloured rat scratching away at the wall to open up the little crack that could be seen there.
Quirinus sneered in disgust, wondering why the house-elves hadn't taken care of the rat-problem yet, and aimed his wand. "Evanesco!" he intoned and a light beam flew out of the tip of his wand and at the rat, but amazingly, right before it hit its target, the rat scurried to the side, looking up at him with intelligent black eyes. Quirinus frowned and tried again, but the rat kept evading his spells. All of a sudden, it scurried between his legs deeper into the room, and when he whipped around to catch it, another Vanishing Spell on the tip of his tongue, he watched it transform into a man.
"Stop! Stop you imbecile! It's me!" Wormtail squeaked, holding his fat hands up in front of his panicked face.
Quirinus stared at the man in disbelief, not lowering his wand. "What are you doing in here?" he demanded with outrage, not comprehending why Wormtail would invite himself into his room like this.
The plump little man sniffled pitifully and glared up at him with his beady little eyes. "Oh look at you. Think you're all important, don't you, with your funny little boots, balancing that ridiculous turban on you tiny little head."
"Excuse me?" Quirinus exclaimed in outrage. "Why are you in here? To declare your distaste towards my fashion sense? Have you had a good look at yourself recently? Do you even own a mirror?"
"Why would I?" Wormtail squeaked, scrunching his pointy little face up to show a pair of large front teeth. "I don't have anywhere to store it. We aren't all so favoured by our Lord that we get our own rooms."
Quirinus raised his eyebrows at the pure jealousy in Wormtail's voice, and pretended to look around the very tiny space. "Room," he pointed out. "Singular."
"You think you're funny, don't you?" Wormtail accused, stalking closer in a way that was probably supposed to look intimidating, but only looked silly in Quirinus' opinion. "What great thing did you do to get you in our Lord's favour anyway?"
"I brought him back?" Quirinus supplied and earned a dark sneer from the other man.
"I could have done that," Wormtail claimed furiously. "If I'd only known, I could have been the one – and I would have done a right better job than you have, for sure."
"Oh really?" Quirinus challenged, starting to get fed up with this strange rivalry. "But that's not the case, is it? I was the one who brought him back, so it is I who get all the privileges."
Wormtail sniffled angrily, and twisted his face into an ugly smile. "For now. The Dark Lord has already started to turn to me instead of you – I'll see you fall from grace, Quirrell. You have nothing on me. I got to accompany our Lord personally to Azkaban last night. I'm the Animagus – the useful one. You? You're expendable, Quirrell. You've come as far as you can. Me? I'll climb the ladder and get past and beyond you before long. And you'll be left behind, opening doors and taking people's cloaks."
And with those words, Wormtail transformed back into a rat and scurried over to the other side of the room and disappeared into a tiny hole Quirinus hadn't noticed until now.
Oh, you just wait and see Wormtail, he thought spitefully, blood still boiling. You just wait and see ...
The light of the moon shone through the tall windows in the first floor study; a rectangular room containing a heavy desk with a couple of handsome leather armchairs in front of it. In one end stood a handsome empire mahogany fireplace with a mirror on top; in the other stood Lord Voldemort, holding Peter Pettigrew's left arm in a punishing grip.
Curious. Very curious. Voldemort carefully poked the Dark Mark on Wormtail's flabby arm and watched as the red tattoo turned black in an instant. It was obvious to him now that something was indeed terribly wrong with Wormtail's version of the mark.
With deep concentration, he thought back to the time when he had burned it onto his follower's skin – the night of his destruction. Wormtail had come to him, tempted by his offers of grandeur, and revealed the secret location of his supposed best friends. As a reward, Voldemort had marked him ... then and there?
Examining the memory carefully, Voldemort recoiled in outrage. He had marked Wormtail without the ceremony? That would explain why it acted unpredictably, and would have summoned Wormtail along the other Death Eaters. But why had he decided to do so? And why had he not, until now, thought the decision strange?
"My Lord?" squeaked Wormtail fearfully once Voldemort dropped his arm and moved to stand by the window, looking out at the billowing ocean. "Did you find out what is wrong with it?"
"Yes," Voldemort answered shortly, narrowing his eyes in thought. I could not have been in my right mind ... Have I marked other Death Eaters this way?
Behind his back, Wormtail was scuffling his feet nervously, probably wondering if he would get an explanation or if he would have to ask for one. "Leave," Voldemort instructed quietly before he got the chance to try.
"Y-yes, my Lord," squeaked the man, and seemed to move slowly to the door. Annoyingly, however, he stopped before getting to the door. Even more annoyingly, after a short pause, he spoke again. "I must express my thanks for being allowed to stay here," he simpered, sniffling happing when Voldemort slowly turned back around and levelled his red eyes onto him.
"Lord Voldemort always provides what is necessary for his loyal followers," he said in a quiet voice, laced with promises of intense pain if he continued to overstep his boundaries.
"Yes, yes thank you, my Lord," Wormtail insisted nervously, apparently choosing to ignore the implied warning. "I am merely wondering, my Lord, where my room shall be. It seems to me like all rooms are taken. Even that Quirrell person has his own room."
Voldemort watched his obnoxious follower with a glint of evil in his eyes, deciding on what mild punishment he should dish out for Wormtail's insolent attitude. At length, he said, "Why, Wormtail, I had thought it obvious. You shall have no room – what use would a rat make of one? Sleep in your Animagus form."
At first, Wormtail looked about to protest, but once he dared meet eyes with his lord, he went pale as a sheet and hurriedly shuffled back into his hunched posture, twining his nervous, long-nailed hands together pitifully. "Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord." And then, mercifully, he left.
This surely is discouraging, Voldemort mused, turning back to look out the window. Not only does my reaction to that prophesy mystify me, but now it appears that my spell craft had turned sloppy as well?
"If his Dark Mark is indeed faulty, it will have to be done over again," mused the dark voice of one of his soul shards. "But will it be worth the extra work? His only redeeming quality is his Animagus form – but can you trust him to do your bidding? After all, he betrayed his best friends – what is stopping him from betraying you next?"
"He is nothing but a disgrace," insisted another. "A poor excuse for a wizard. Kill him!"
"You have learned all his secrets already," agreed a third voice. "He has nothing left to give, and his loyalty is weak at best."
Voldemort nodded slowly to himself. That is sensible. I do have one last use for him ... But his life or death does little matter in the long run. My observations, however ...
Dark suspicions filled his mind, possible suspects popping up one after the other, the name Severus Snape ringing loudly in his ears after the little bit of intelligence he had learned from the house-elf earlier that day.
He forcefully brought back memories from 10 years back, scanning them closely for clues, growing annoyed with their obscurity. As far as he could tell, he was behaving normally, but every now and then, his mind seemed to switch and turned muddled by a strong feeling of ... fear? What is this? He got a recollection of hearing the Prophesy for the first time – rushed, gleeful words streaming out of a young Severus Snape's mouth. And his own reaction – a mind clouded by fear; a desperation to find out what it all meant and how he could stop it; a blind trust in Snape's story, despite his previous mistrust in Divination.
That couldn't have been me, he thought desperately, racking his brain for more clues. Why did I act like that? He stood there for a long time, staring out at the billowing ocean, trying to make sense of his discoveries.
At last, he felt exhausted and unsatisfied; plagued by the mystery. And the voices of his soul shards were running wild with speculations inside his head, giving him a raging headache. Silencing them with a firm Occlumency barrier, Voldemort cleared his mind of all dark thoughts. I need a distraction.
Quirinus felt refreshed. After this dreary day it had felt nice with a long hot bath to relax his tense body. The bathroom in connection to his own room didn't have a tub, so he had ventured to the first floor to use one up there, which was why he ran into Wormtail right as he was scurrying down the corridor after leaving the Dark Lord's office.
Both caught by surprise, they crashed into each other unexpectedly. Quirrell let out an undignified yelp while Wormtail squeaked pitifully, right before they took in the sight of one another, and their eyes instantly filled up with dark, ugly hatred.
"Watch where you're going," Quirrell demanded, straightening his robes, feeling disgusted that his clean body had come into contact with something so dirty.
"You're the one who should watch it, you lanky klutz!" Wormtail screeched in unhinged fury, already steaming with anger, as if something had happened before their encounter.
"What's wrong?" Quirinus couldn't help but utter tauntingly, so infuriated by the little man that he couldn't take it anymore. "Your little meeting with our Lord didn't go very well? He didn't let you climb the ladder, as you put it?"
"SHUT UP!" Wormtail snarled and pulled out his wand, his watery eyes spread wide, making him look positively possessed. Quickly, Quirinus took out his own wand, just in time to throw up a Shield Charm against Wormtail's sudden red-beamed spell. It crashed into the shield and bounced back, suddenly zooming back towards Wormtail, who squeaked and transformed, just in time to evade it.
Next, he scurried off along the shadow-cast sides of the corridor, so quickly that Quirinus barely had the time to register what was happening. And then, he disappeared from view.
Quirinus was still boiling with rage and had half a mind to track the little pest down and give him a good cursing. Next time I see him, he promised himself, I'll challenge him to a proper duel. And then, we'll see who the better one is. And if he runs off then, he'll just be a coward.
Satisfied with his decision, Quirinus let out a deep breath and started to walk back to his room, deciding to treat himself to a nice cup of tea and biscuits.
An excited smirk slowly curled the corners of Voldemort's lips once he reached the door of one of the guest rooms. He lifted his left hand to identify the Locking Spells that had been used, and flicked his wand to undo them once he recognised their patterns.
The lock clicked open, the door swung inwards and he stepped into the room. Inside of the dark room, only lit up by the soft sheen of the moon, a pair of eerily glowing grey eyes peered at him from the shadowed bed.
"Good evening, Black," he greeted quietly as the door slipped closed behind him.
Not saying a word, he took the time to light the brass candle holders hanging off the walls, before conjuring a comfortable black armchair. As he took a seat in the chair, which stood with its back facing the door, he kept eye-contact with the shaggy black dog which lay on top of the bedcovers, staring back at him with ice-cold hatred.
"It is good to see that you are indeed recovering," he observed, closely watching Black's reactions. So far, his expression had not changed. "According to Healer Abbott, your muscles and organs are in a very good state, in comparison to the other patients. Impressive, isn't it, the healthy amount of exercise one can get from simply transforming into an animal?"
Black was still watching him with a stony expression, a growl on the tip of his tongue. But additionally, a tint of wonder had seeped into the dog's steel grey eyes. No doubt, Black was trying his best to discern his purpose. Voldemort allowed himself a moment of amusement, carefully indulged in the depth of his mind so that no signs of it would be seen. Dangerous feeling, curiosity. You'd better be careful, Black.
"But then again, how you kept your sanity is all the more impressive. They don't care much for dogs, do they, Dementors?" He curled his mouth into a smile which actually made that growl escape black's lips. Voldemort simply continued smiling until Black fell silent once again. "How fortunate, then, that Lord Voldemort took mercy and broke you out of there ..." Black started growling once again, but this time, Voldemort kept talking. "I bet you would have survived a whole lifetime in Azkaban the way you were handling yourself. You must be grateful."
With a furious bark, Black flew off the bed and transformed into his human form mid-leap, throwing himself right at Voldemort with raised hands, ready to strike. The moment he came close enough to nearly touch Voldemort's lounging form, however, he hit an invisible barrier and bounced backwards, falling heavily onto the Persian carpet at Voldemort's feet.
"Now, that wasn't very polite," Voldemort observed lazily while Black struggled to his feet, backing away with a wild expression on his face.
"Shut up!" he snarled in a wheezy voice, no doubt sounding like that from lack of use. With a furious expression he pointed an accusing finger at the seated Dark Lord. "Don't say another word, you monster! I don't want anything from you, and I sure as hell don't feel gratitude!"
Voldemort stretched his mouth into a chilling smile and arose from his seat. "If not gratitude; what do you feel?" Slowly, he stepped closer to Black, who was backing away step by step towards the cold stone wall. "Anger? Hatred? Fear?"
"Oh that's right! I fucking hate you! But I don't fear you, Voldemort!" Black snarled and contradictorily pressed his back flush against the wall with a highly guarded expression. "If you're going to kill me, just do it already."
Voldemort just barely contained a sinister chuckle. "I do not intend to kill you, Black," he answered quietly, coming to a stop right in front of the ill-kept man, getting a whiff of the horrible stench radiating out of his grey torn suit. Ignoring the smell, he took in Black's furious but also curious expression. "What gave you that impression?"
The wild-looking man offered no reply, but only stood glaring, radiating suspicion. "Is it because you fought against me in the past?" Voldemort questioned in a silky tone, moving softly over to the window to stand basking in the moonlight, giving his subject some space and some false sense of security. "Is it because you single-handedly killed 58 of my Death Eaters?"
"How would you know the exact number?" Black growled suspiciously, paling with fear.
"You kept count," Voldemort explained simply, smirking evilly over his shoulder. "You forced my hand last night, when you wouldn't speak, which is why I know more about you now than I would have otherwise." He paused and watched as Black visibly started caving under the pressure. Apparently, there were things the man was desperately trying to hide from his sight – and Voldemort had a pretty good idea of what that might be. "I know that you did not commit the murder you were imprisoned for ... I also know that you want nothing more than to avenge James Potter, your best friend, which is why your deepest wish is to see me dead," he smiled wickedly as Black righted himself, putting on a brave front.
"That's right," he growled in his raspy voice. "Peter got himself killed in that explosion, so that leaves you, Voldemort."
"Did he?" Voldemort asked simply, still smiling, letting that question hang in the air until a mystified expression stole over Black's face. A sliver of doubt; of uncertainty. "And perhaps most importantly, I also know the reason why you have been starving yourself. Why you deemed it necessary to grow thin enough to slip through the bars ... The news of Harry Potter's disappearance." Black's eyes widened with fear – and the rush that that look inspired in Voldemort made it impossible to hold back a satisfied chuckle, which didn't work against him in this stage. If anything, his laughter seemed to unnerve Black even more. "You want to see him," Voldemort announced with triumph, "to make sure he's all right. He is your godson after all."
Black stood furiously growling at him now, hunched back as if readying himself to spring at his enemy. "What do you want?" he barked.
Yes, Black, thought Voldemort gleefully, be intrigued. With measured steps, Voldemort glided close enough to almost touch chests with Black, and leaned in to his left ear. "I might indulge you, if you behave," he whispered softly, and Black seemed torn between wanting to back away and stay close enough to hear what he said. "You heard the prison guards gossip about the deed – how Quirrell abducted the boy from Hogwarts, and then simply ... disappeared ... What they didn't know was that Quirrell ... brought Harry ... to me."
At those words, Black actually backed away, fast. He scrambled backwards and came to a halt as he slammed himself against the room's wardrobe, which rattled in protest behind him. Once again, he raised an accusing finger at the Dark Lord. "You ... What did you do to him? Where is he?"
"Safe," Voldemort answered and watched Black's pained expression hungrily, enjoying himself immensely. For the second time in ten years, the first one being the night when he faced Severus Snape, he was genuinely having fun. "It turned out that I have use of the boy, so he is under my protection ... Do you wish to see him?"
Black's eyes were so wide they bulged outwards in their sockets. "Yes!" Black barked, turning unhinged; finally showing some of the effect the Dementors had had on his mind. "I must see him! You must let me see him!"
"Lord Voldemort takes no orders," Voldemort stated firmly, piercing Black's panting form with a deadly look. "But he can be merciful, to those who please him."
Black blinked back at him, with annoyance and incomprehension; fear and desperation; hate and hope. The span of his emotions was truly amusing. How could one feel so many dirty, weakening emotions at once? Didn't Black realise how his letting his emotions control his actions made him weak and easy to manipulate?
"What will I have to do?" Black rasped out in a quiet voice, looking as if he hated himself for uttering those words.
"Cooperate with me," Voldemort instructed in a cold, demanding voice. "Do as I say, and you will be rewarded. As a matter of fact, I am feeling generous today, so I will offer you a gift as proof of my good-will, if you accept this condition. You will do anything I say."
With a slow nod, staring at him with suspicious grey eyes filled with self-loathing, Black gave in. "If I can see Harry – and if you can prove to me that he is truly here – then I'll do as you say."
Voldemort held back a triumphant smile, and instead kept his expression impassive, just to make sure Black didn't suddenly think he had the Dark Lord all figured out. "Elf," he called out, and waited the appropriate few seconds before the small creature appeared. "Bleak, go get Wormtail for me," he ordered, and as the elf disappeared, he watched Black's expression hungrily as it contorted with an array of new emotions; excitement; wonder; disbelief; murderous intent; worry; pain; violent rage.
"Wormtail?" he rasped out. "But Peter's dead."
Voldemort simply smiled and stayed silent, just looking at Black as he started fidgeting, lost in his own dark memories of loss and betrayal. They stood in silence for over a minute, and a few times, Black looked about to say something, but once he caught sight of Voldemort's evilly amused expression, he seemed to think better of it. Then, there was a tentative knock on the door. Voldemort gestured for the door to open itself, and at once when it swung inwards and revealed the plump man on the other side, he made another gesture to make Wormtail's wand fly into his hand. "Enter," he said then, smiling sinisterly.
"My Lord?" Wormtail squeaked worriedly, but stepped into the room nonetheless, casting a frightened look behind him as the door fell shut. "You called for me?"
With a furious growl, Black threw himself at his enemy, tearing and punching, roaring furiously for his revenge. Wormtail squeaked pitifully in surprise and terror as he took the blows. "Help! My Lord! Please! Help!"
For one glorious moment, Wormtail's frantic eyes found Voldemort's, and he got to watch as the realisation that he was beyond saving dawned on the pathetic little man.
After realising that no help was coming, Wormtail transformed into a rat and scurried to find some small hole in the wall to escape through. But he didn't make it far, because Black transformed into a dog and followed, cornering him quickly.
There was a horrible squeak as Wormtail got caught in the dog's jaws.
Then, a crunch sounded.
Afterwards, silence rang between the walls, and the mood turned raw and deliciously dark.
The silence was broken a moment later by raw, muffled sobs which sounded from the corner where Black sat shivering, back in human form.
"That is my gift to you, Black," Voldemort stated quietly, enjoying the aftermath of murder. "Enjoy."
Then, with one last smile, he replaced the Locking Charms on the door and Disapparated.