21 June 1992
Azkaban Prison
The next morning saw Sirius wake with the usual drudgery that permeated every inhabitant on the island; there was never any fanfare on Azkaban. Their days began at sunrise, when the dementors stalked the halls to deliver daily nutrient potions and the newest edition of the Daily Prophet, the prisoners' sole resource in Azkaban. After that, their wardens only ever followed an arbitrary patrol schedule based on their own hunger pangs.
The prisoners, for the most part, were left to themselves—unless they contrived some iota of joy during their internment, that is.
Many may have conceptualized Azkaban as a perpetual asylum of screaming horrors and never-ending anguish. They would be wrong. In reality, tedium filled most of the hours as the prisoners sat, barely more animated than soulless husks, often too catatonic to even experience the world around them and without reason to exercise their atrophied minds.
As for Sirius, his mind was too occupied that morning to do any more than crawl towards his cell's entrance to perfunctorily drain his day's supplements, paying no heed to its sterile fragrance and empty flavor, before retreating back to contemplate his future plans.
It was all well and good that he could escape from Azkaban, but where he'd run afoul during his first escape was neglecting to plan how to survive in a world that hunted for him at every turn. No matter how much Sirius attributed the thoughts of yesterday to the dementors' presence, he couldn't convince himself otherwise of the fact that Harry, and the rest of his friends, would have been so much safer had Sirius never entered his life.
'I'm a liability.' He concluded. 'Everything I tried to accomplish ended in failure, not only for me, but for Harry too.'
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Sirius was determined to learn from the mistakes of his past life and truly make a difference this time around. Someone, somehow, had given him a chance at redemption. Sirius did not plan on wasting it, despite what his track record might claim. In recognition of his own recklessness, it was especially important to Sirius that he devise how he planned to support himself and Harry now, while he was in relatively little danger, rather than offer himself back up to the whims of Dumbledore and hope for the best.
'I promised Harry a home.' He somberly reflected. 'And he never left the Dursley's.'
Sirius couldn't even go to Remus's, assuming the unlucky man even had room for him in the first place. His friendship with Remus had never been as solid as it had with James and Sirius knew, in the depths of his heart, that they had been too distrustful of each other in the past to ever warrant a return to the innocent friendship they shared during their school days.
Sirius had suspected his friend of spying on the Order and Remus, in turn, had not bothered to interact with Sirius in any capacity until it was absolutely necessary that night in the Shrieking Shack. They had deceived themselves into thinking their friendship impermeable, both as growing teenagers eager to find accepting family and as disenfranchised men looking for a supporting and familiar shoulder to help carry their burdens.
A petty part of Sirius also wanted to rage at his friend for extending this unfair treatment to Harry as well. That was perhaps the most egregious thing Remus had done in Sirius's mind. He didn't much care if people abandoned him—Sirius was used to that. Leaving their mutual friend's toddler, essentially family to them, to be whisked away without even the most basic of interaction, however? That was unacceptable.
'If he wants to drown in self-pity, then I won't be the one to pull him free.' He bitterly decided. 'I've tolerated that habit for long enough. Remus can come to me if he ever wants to reestablish our friendship but, as it stands, he deserves to face his own treatment for once.'
"What's got you so dour over there?" His cousin's taunting voice cut through his thoughts. "Are you thinking your friends again?"
"Be quiet Bellatrix."
"Or maybe you're thinking of precious ickle Potter… the live one, of course. Not the one you betrayed." She continued, ignoring his words. "They say he's the Chosen One—but look at him!" She mockingly waved a copy of the Daily Prophet that had pasted his godson's image on the front cover.
Harry wasn't even aware that he'd been photographed, so lost in those childlike trances that blocked out everything around them. "He wouldn't be out of place living on the streets with those ragged clothes and skinny frame… it must be his mudblood inheritance shining through!" She snickered at her own deduction before crumpling the paper and discarding it to a corner of her cell as she continued to leer at him.
"Harry's twice as refined as you, Bellatrix."
"How would you know? You haven't even met him." She interrupted herself to gaily cackle at the statement. "And you never will! Such is the life of traitorous scum like yourself. You'd never believe the stories they wrote of you, the plots everyone dreamt up of a decade long plan to weasel your way into the hearts of the Potters only to leave the door open for their death. It was like vermin leaving their holes at the scent of food! One after another, witches and wizards flocked to the ministry to give their testimonies of your budding deceit!"
"I did not betray the Potters!" Sirius roared, his patience worn thin. "You know that, you deranged bat."
"Tut, tut Sirius." She admonished. "You have to stop lying to yourself; you've been found guilty, and nobody believes otherwise. You're the most duplicitous person I know—not even your friend Pettigrew can compare to you!"
"That rat isn't my friend. I'll kill him when I get the chance."
"It's in your nature, Sirius." Bellatrix ignored his solemn outburst to continue her lecture. "You're a traitor to your House and a traitor to your friends. Who did you think would attempt to save you when you scorned both blood and bonds?"
There was an uneasy silence, bar the occasional moan from nearby cells, before Sirius responded, his words deliberate and precise. His mind was seething and ready to spit the most vile vitriol it could develop, but he knew that was what Bellatrix wanted. Instead, he forcefully calmed himself to a degree that wouldn't cause him to descend into a screaming, incoherent rage before approaching the challenge laid down by his cousin.
"At least I'm true to myself, Bellatrix. Toujours Pur," he spat in distaste, a bit of his resentment rising to the back of his throat, "the Blacks don't even know what that means anymore. They've been too warped by their surroundings."
She didn't even blink at his accusation. "Bold words from the boy that ran away from home. Tell me, Siri, what makes you think you know better than the generations before you? Why is the biggest disappointment in the family the only one to know the true meaning of our house?"
"It's not your House, Lestrange. Not anymore." Sirius glowered at her, leveling the decades of resentment he had stored for his heritage. She did not deserve the name of Black. Not if Sirius shared that name. To even hear her claiming such, of pointing toward their shared relation, threatened to set his blood to boiling. "Do you know how many Blacks there are?" He asked, yet not waiting for her response, he vehemently yelled the answer across the hall. "One! I alone am the last living Black! And the House fell because its own members sold themselves into slavery!
"Do you think I ever wanted to be my family's last hope?" He hacked out a laugh filled with scorn. "I'd rather watch it burn! But no, they went and forced their legacy on me. I didn't abandon the family, Bellatrix. They deserted me, heaping the smoking refuse of their actions on my shoulders."
"My, aren't you vicious today. Did it feel good for the little baby to throw his tantrum?" She idly drawled, rolling over onto her stomach and placing her hands under her chin in a manner that highlighted the paleness of her skin and the wideness of her eyes as they stared, unblinking, at him in mock sympathy. Yet, Sirius knew he had touched a nerve. Her eyes had focused on him and her smile, previously a wild rictus, had sharpened into a display of bared teeth.
"There just seems to be one issue with your logic, dear cousin." She began. "You can't parade your independence and dedication to the family's ideals and at the same time cower behind Dumbledore whenever it's convenient.
"You aren't the last Black. You were the first of this generation to pervert our ideals. Not even mother's greatest mistake was so eager to break from our House. We at least had to force that useless leech out to preserve our dignity. You left on your own free will."
"And yet I'm not the one with a brand burned into my flesh." Sirius countered, tapping his pale, unblemished forearm in mockery. "How can you rally under the banner of our House knowing that you've given yourself away as property to someone else?"
"This mark is an honor!" She screeched with passion, all marks of civility vanishing under her cries. Even her hands, formerly supporting her head, came crashing onto the stone floor in a display of her fervor. "It is the crowning jewel of my being, the sole guide for my worship! It is not a brand, as you surface moralists are so quick to denounce, but a sacred bond between my Lord and his devout!"
Wide-eyed and panting, Bellatrix's eyes bore into Sirius with an acidic hate but before she could continue her tirade, a pair of dementors approached them, no doubt having felt the influx of emotion. Wisps of fog seemed to emit from under their tattered cloaks as they made their way down the aisle and, in their wake, Sirius could hear the effects they had on the bystanders: groans mixed with pleas for mercy and wails for respite. Soon enough, Sirius too fell under their influence as they stationed themselves on either side of Bellatrix's cell—and his by relation.
With their backs turned to him, the dementors did not affect Sirius to the degree that they did Bellatrix, but he could still hardly breathe due to the dense pressure exerted by the creatures. The haunting presence forced him to watch in a dumb sort of hypnosis as their attention reduced Bellatrix to a broken mess, desperately clutching at her forearm and rocking on her knees. Her face crumbled into a haze of agony and incoherent babbles spewed from her throat for countless minutes until, finally, she lay unresponsive, an undignified heap sprawled on the ground and showing no aspects of life save for the smallest rising and fall of irregular breathes.
His satisfaction at seeing her so completely dismantled prompted the two tormentors to turn towards him but he quickly bit down on that impulse as they drew incrementally closer, fastening his emotion to thoughts of revenge and punishment so as to cover the resultant joy. His delight at Bellatrix's pain was not worth the forfeiture of his sanity. The pair of dementors hesitated for a moment longer, seemingly considering the merits of wrestling through those complex emotions in search of Sirius's hidden treasure, before departing down the corridor, away from their victims.
Sirius spent the rest of the day in silence. Hours later, Bellatrix would try to reengage him with conversation, but the man ignored her taunts and she too eventually fell silent, but not before trying to inflame him through reminiscing with Rodolphus and Rabastan about the various miseries they'd committed in Voldemort's service. Those too fell on deaf ears. While their first retellings of the horrors Sirius himself had been the one to discover—arriving at the McKinnons to a scene of bloody mutilation flashed through his mind—he had long since grown numb to their excited murmurs. Not even the reverence in which they spoke of Frank and Alice's torture garnered any notable reaction from him. Nor did any of their claims of future destruction pierce his indifference; he knew, more than they could ever imagine, the falsity behind their plots of escaping this place through their own actions.
5 July 1992
Azkaban Prison
Weeks passed by in monotonous repetition and, ever since the two closely administered sessions between Sirius and the dementors, he had tuned out the doldrum of the prison in its entirety. On occasion, he would catch Bellatrix watching him, but never rose to the bait of meeting her stare. He had more important things to focus on then childish insults and futile proclamations of what their shared heritage stood for. Bellatrix was committed to her ideology, and it opposed Sirius directly. There was nothing he could do, nor was he willing to even try to persuade her otherwise. Bellatrix was a lost cause in his book. She always had been.
Instead, he constantly turned his plans for the future around in his mind, looking for any possible obstacles or better solutions. It was the height of tedium and made all that more difficult by the constant presence of the dementors causing his already foggy mind to fumble his thoughts and leave his plans scrambled or mutated to the point of incoherence.
Most worrisome, however, was that Sirius knew he couldn't rely on anything going his way once he escaped Azkaban. Grimmauld Place was a wreck—not to mention the first place the Ministry would check—and he couldn't walk into Hogwarts expecting Dumbledore to solve all of his issues. 'That's not to mention the likelihood of me actually reaching Hogwarts unmolested.' He scoffed at the optimistic thinking.
The headmaster hadn't even helped Sirius get his freedom last time! 'I had just exchanged one prison for another.' He thought and, feeling Bellatrix's eyes on him again, couldn't even say the atmosphere between the two differed too significantly.
As much as Sirius hated to admit it, Bellatrix had a point when she spoke of his broken bonds. Sirius was alone. Not even his connection to Harry had survived the years of absence. Sirius couldn't expect a group of friends to be waiting from him when he arrived back on Britain; he'd have to start over from scratch. The last time, he had only established connections through sheer luck. Had Lupin not seen the proof of Pettigrew's survival, Sirius was sure he would have died by the wand of his former friend, if not his teeth.
That scenario could not happen. This Sirius pledged to himself. He would fulfill his duty and protect Harry this time. His godson did not deserve to be the one cleaning up for everyone—he'd spent his entire childhood doing that already.
That was why Sirius was voluntarily suffering in prison when he could have escaped the instant he returned to this time. He knew that, so long as he stayed put, he'd be under no pressure. Once he left however… then the clock would start ticking. He hadn't done enough last time. Now, he would leave no stone unturned, even if all he had to work with were hazy recollections of second-hand stories told to him by Harry and Remus.
'If only my memories are willing to cooperate, this would be so much simpler.' Sirius groused in momentary defeat. 'What happened in the world before the Summer of 1993? Think, you old dog! Who can I trust?'
Such were the common musings of Sirius Black during his time in Azkaban prison. Surrounded on all sides by the enemy, he dedicated himself, not to his own salvation, but that of the only person he truly cared about: his godson, Harry Potter.
13 July 1992
Azkaban Prison
"He's not coming to save you, Bellatrix."
Sirius couldn't help it. He was a Marauder; slinging insults and taunts defined him. So, when their wardens once again rendered his crazed cousin insensate through their depressive force, Sirius indulged in the urge to push the needle just that little bit deeper. He had only persevered as well as he had due to his animagus form, but that was no reason to avoid taking advantage of her weakness. Death Eaters lived their whole lives lauding their unequal station over everyone else. It was only right that Sirius give them a taste of their own medicine.
So, when everyone one else on this desolate island was too feeble to even walk the space of their cells, Sirius took the time to deride Bellatrix. 'And if I speak loudly enough for the other Death Eaters to hear? Well, it's not as if my message is exclusive to her.'
"You're going to stay trapped in this prison until your last breath."
Her baleful glare pierced a curtain of matted hair that had fallen across her face during the dementors' torturous visit. Sirius offered a weary, patronizing smile.
"The Dark Lord isn't dead. He… He will rise again!" She stuttered.
"Maybe he's still out there; maybe he isn't." Sirius acknowledged with a shrug belying his true intentions. "But if a toddler didn't off him, why hasn't he saved you yet? His 'most faithful servants…'" Sirius sneered at her, "he threw them away without a single thought!"
"Our Lord is waiting… in the shadows… learning every weakness so that… when he strikes… he can crush the mudbloods and blood-traitors with contemptuous ease." She panted in idolatrous fervor.
"He's a coward, then. Voldemort," that one word alone wrenched indignant hisses from all who heard, "ran into exile because he was too weak to openly contend against Dumbledore."
Sirius knew that was wrong, but he also knew that phrasing it as such would gain a much more appreciated rise out of Bellatrix than simply stating he was a wraith haunting some far-off land.
Bellatrix was about to reply, but Sirius quickly interrupted her. "No wonder he marked Pettigrew so quickly. Those two vermin are cut from the same cloth. I don't doubt that he is Voldemort's favorite among all others!"
Blank eyes stared at him in uncomprehending speechlessness until every facet of Bellatrix's visage broke. A violet kaleidoscope of hues swirled through her eyes and, even in her exhausted and weakened state, impossible breezes tossed her hair in a display of unrestrained magic. In shaking fury, Bellatrix pushed herself upright and roughly staggered to the bars of her cell, collapsing into them when her legs failed to hold her upright.
"You know nothing!" She shrieked with tumultuous emotion. "That incompetent cretin can never compare to my lord's true followers! He is worthless, an annoyance that only lives until our tolerance of him fades!"
"Maybe they absconded together." Sirius mused, content to finally be the one tormenting his cousin. "We certainly haven't heard any news on them for… 10 years, is it? For all we know, the two could have run off to a random muggle community and settled down to live the rest of their lives in anonymity."
"The Dark Lord would never even conceive of such absurd shamefulness!" She ranted. "All will bow to his power and a simpering coward of Pettigrew's standard is unworthy to even witness the Lord in person!"
He was enjoying this, perhaps too much, Sirius acknowledged. Still, the dementors had left for the day and surely, he reasoned, they wouldn't notice one speck of joy in an ocean of misery.
"Please Black, stop vocalizing your sordid perversions." A trembling whisper from behind his cell's walls sounded. "Your needless antagonism of Bellatrix helps no one, not even yourself. It will only end in our collective punishment and suffering."
"You're such a spoilsport, Dolohov." Sirius sighed, temporarily turning his attention from the livid countenance of his target. "That's why you never had any friends or made a name for yourself in the world: you never challenged yourself, never tested yourself against adversity." Sirius paused after his response, seemingly deciding to end the communication there. However, he couldn't resist one last jibe.
"It's okay, though. We both know you would have been found wanting."
With one last glance at the frenzy he'd whipped Bellatrix into, Sirius decided that he'd done enough prodding for the day. He wasn't even sure Bellatrix was capable of hearing anything due to the state he was in. It would be much better to save some of his material for a later date. He could only have so much fun in Azkaban, after all, a mirage of levity in a desert of agony.
16 July 1992
Azkaban Prison
"Voldemort." Sirius spoke, well accustomed to the flinches. While he too had once acted in the same way, he knew that there was nothing the man could do in his current state. The wizarding world had removed the taboo; Voldemort was but a wraith in exile. His name, for the time being at least, was powerless.
'I wonder what will happen first?' He mused, observing the reactions sputtering down the hall in amusement. 'Will his followers lose their reverence over his name, or will they die from indignation?'
"What a pretentious title. You'd think with how brilliant everyone claimed he was, he'd have chosen a better pseudonym to hide his true name."
Shouts of "lies!" and "Insolence!" clamored down the corridor. With the contemptuous patience befitting his family, Sirius met their protest with utter calmness. His mother had spewed worse at him during Sunday brunch.
"Come now, you Death Eaters marked blood purity as your impetus." He mocked. "Surely, you'd have at least paid enough attention to the Sacred Names? There is no House of Voldemort"—another round of cringes rippled along the cells— "and any self-respecting pureblood would rather die than lose the honor of their heritage."
"He's the heir of Slytherin!" Rabastan hoarsely shouted. "The blood of legend flows in his veins!"
"Slytherin." The name tasted like bile to Sirius, and he spat it out just the same. "I wasn't aware that a single radical with no prior history warranted the title of legend…
"Perhaps your confusing fanatical worship with actual legacy." He surmised. "But then, that would go against your doctrine, wouldn't it? After all, how could an unknown like Salazar Slytherin, the oldest of his line, stand apart from the noble families of his time? One man a House does not make. Why is it that you place so much reverence on a single man's legacy when, for some of you, your Houses are infinitely more prestigious?"
"House doesn't matter." Dolohov rasped in response, his trembling voice reaching Sirius's ears through the wall separating them. "It's the purity of blood that counts. The Blacks are example enough of that. One turned muggle; another abandoned his tradition in favor of ignorant concepts of equality to join a caste seeking to usurp Britain's rightful inhabitants.
"Slytherin is different. Only the most worthy of the title can achieve its recognition. Our Lord is no mere member of a lineage, his inheritance doesn't rest purely in birth but demands a sufficient power to demonstrate the superiority of Slytherin's might; the Dark Lord is the first to match—and even succeed—the standards of Britain's first great sorcerer. In the centuries since Slytherin's time, only our Lord has proven himself worthy to bear the name."
Others were quick to jump onto Dolohov's point. None were silent. "Traitor" and "muggle-lover" were the most complimentary of their insults. Sirius could even make out the occasional school-yard appellations of "dunderhead" and "imbecile" circulating throughout the current of pompous hate. The pettiness on display even made him reevaluate his opinion of Snape for a moment. He, at least, wasn't so fanatical as to make a fool of himself ignoring grounded logic.
"Purity should hold true in any metric." Sirius rebutted, long used to the cacophony of derision. "There should be no exchange or sacrifice, no defilement of one part to keep another. The Blacks knew this best—until they seemingly forgot it, that is." He offered a smile across the hall to Bellatrix, who he knew was going to take offense to his next words.
"It's remarkable, really, how the Houses nowadays can be both anchored to the past yet molded to the present. Anyone can tell you the motto of Black: Toujours Pur. Yet, none of you know what it truly means." He patiently waited out the resultant crash of insults.
Some may have taken it as him succumbing to the abuse or realizing that his fellows were obstinate in their beliefs. Sirius only allowed them to vent so that he wouldn't need to repeat himself later.
"You've become too English!" He laughed in the face of their scorn. "My House's motto isn't 'Always Pure!' It's Toujours Pur! There's a difference, but you incompetents are too blind to notice it. Too ignorant to understand it!"
The voice of Rodolphus Lestrange sounded clearest in the next round of voices—and he provided Sirius exactly what he was looking for. "Don't play us for fools. If your point is that it's French, then your mind has clearly gone to the dementors. We much preferred you as a whimpering, sobbing mess."
Sirius chuckled. "You can only wish for that, Rodolphus. My point," He suddenly looked towards Bellatrix and steadily held her gaze for the first time that day, "is that you've butchered our legacy to fit in rather than stand firm. You can't aptly translate Toujours Pur into English because it will always be more than 'Always Pure!'
"You've probably forgotten, so stringent was the emphasis on the translation of our history to ensure our past remained spotless, but it could just as easily be read as 'Still Pure.' It's ironic that, in tying blood purity into our past, you mutilated what our House stood for. It's so easy to say that we've always been pure and to constantly look backwards at history. But the Blacks didn't rise to power by looking backwards. Our legacy ruled in the present so that there would be something to look back on!
"So, tell me, Bellatrix Black," by this point Sirius's voice had taken on a grave but passionate whisper that had every dissident quiet down so as to hear what he was going to say. Sirius's next words were the culmination of all his time spent thinking about the House of Black and his position in it. Despite what some may have believed, he wore the name with pride and admired his ancestors just as much as any other member of his family.
"How are you Still Pure after pledging your life to one unequal to our prestige and bearing his slaver's brand like a badge of honor? You do not deserve the name of Black! I will strike you from the family—but history won't forget you. No, I'll ensure that the world remembers the shame and damage you brought to one of the oldest Houses in history! You have failed the House of Black—and your efforts have doomed it to extinction."
Silence reigned in Azkaban. Not even a whimper or moan sounded across the floor as everyone held their breath, waiting for Bellatrix's response to Sirius's claims. They would not have to wait long. Sirius watched as her jaw wordlessly opened and closed for a moment before, gnashing in renewed zeal, began ejecting her angered reply.
"You dare presume to lecture me on purity and the truth of Black history?" She seethed. "To label me a traitor? A fraud? You, who balked at our ways and hid, cowering, at our rituals?
"What were your words all those years ago? Barbarisms? You may not remember those days when you'd plead to any sympathetic ear your pathetic whining and ambivalence to tradition. We held you! Nurtured you even as you refused to accept our teachings! Even throughout all of your rebellion, the House of Black stood by its heir. Oh, how we wished that it could have been anyone else but you chosen for lordship! The sniveling little brat that would rather make a mockery of our name than do his duty and lead the House towards greatness. And how did you repay us? By denouncing our ways and running away like the scared little boy you are, too frightened to face retribution for your gall."
Rough cheers and hollers erupted from every cell but neither Sirius nor Bellatrix paid them any heed. They were too focused on each other. The distance between them seemed closer than ever as they locked eyes, urging the other to fold.
What Bellatrix had said wasn't completely false, Sirius could acknowledge that much. However, he meant all that he had said as well. It was an issue that had plagued him for years, knowing that everything Voldemort based himself on was anathema to his House's ideals.
Yet, Bellatrix's final statement is what rang most true in his ears and resolved his determination to face Bellatrix head on. He did run away from his House. He was too scared to confront them as a Son of Black, heir or not. He had failed in his duty and, as much as he'd publicly lay the blame at the feet of others, he knew that it was his responsibility to control the House's actions. And so, the fervent, wild tumult of Bellatrix's violet stare met the cold and focused grey eyes of Sirius who, this time, didn't back down. If he was going to impart anything on Bellatrix, it would be that his House will not tolerate disunity.
Always Pure.
Still Pure.
Toujours Pur.
There could be no debate. When Sirius eventually makes his escape from Azkaban, Bellatrix will know that he'll take the name of Black with him. No Black blood will remain trapped here, paying penitence to fear and torment. He will not abandon the name, only prune the branches that have grown too sickly and twisted.
Neither backed down, nor did Sirius think either of them would. Not when her words had stirred such excitement and noise. To show weakness now in front of her taciturn comrades would only invalidate her and, despite her renown for lunacy, there was no avenue available to her should she be the one to relent, no mercurial action that could explain her breaking away.
All too soon, Sirius felt the icy tendrils take hold. Yet he remained locked in their match of resolve. Even as his muscles stiffened and the rowdy cheers surrounding them morphed into piteous groans, Sirius held firm. It was only when the investigative squad of abyssal creatures blocked the two relatives from view that Sirius allowed himself to relent and let his head fall to the floor, the rest of his body already on the way, letting the shallow pond of despair swallow his conscience among whispers of familial fidelity and screams of bloodcurdling heartbreak.
A/N:
I hope this doesn't come across as a bashing fic. I'm aware that in both chapters now, I've cast a negative perception on Dumbledore and Remus. Keep in mind that these are Sirius's perceptions and shouldn't be treated as universal.
For those curious, this will probably be the most 'political' chapter of the story. I find it odd that someone like Voldemort can get away with campaigning blood purity when he has no house to tie his name to and a text called the "Sacred Twenty Eight" exists. Likewise, everyone worships the founders, but they're single individuals, not dynasties, and not even that old in relation to other houses (assuming of course the houses can trace their lineage to before England). For those interested, check out the HP wiki's family tree on the Slytherin Family. He (for it only gives Salazar) is only defined in his relation to the Gaunts; there is no "House of Slytherin." This chapter attempts to reconcile those notions.
I don't know how many of you actually care about my incorporation of French but it's a valid point. There is no such thing as a perfect translation. Differing interpretations even occur when examining your own language. Therefore, I approached Toujours Pur with that mindset. Toujours means both Always and Still. One for looking at legacy; one for looking at yourself in the present. Blood purity looks firmly at the past. Sirius rejects the destruction caused by Voldemort because it ruins his House's purity in the moment and, thus, future generations won't be able to claim that they were "always pure."
Finally, I came up with a concept while writing this and would like to share it with the audience. Rowling was probably unaware of the Japanese Shinigami and the connections that could be made with that entity and dementors. However, and here I'm thinking of the concept of the Shinigami 'eating' souls, what would happen if a dementor attacked Voldemort while he was a wraith (I know Rowling writes out that possibility by having the dementors side with Voldemort but ignore that for the sake of discussion)? Being prime soul shard (hence getting ejected from his body in 1981 and Quirrell in 1991), would he be defeated? Obviously his horcruxes would survive, but Voldemort would be powerless until one of them possessed something and, even then, restricted to the state that soul was when he created it. Leave a comment with your opinion.
All criticism welcome. Remember to favorite and follow, etc.
Beta position still available if interested.