"How's the head?"

The voice was so solicitous that Jack would have done a double take to make sure it was really Voldemort – if not for the fact that his head was pounding so hard he thought it was going to explode any minute. Couple that with the nausea he was feeling, and he was about as miserable as he could remember feeling any time recently. But of course, he wasn't going to share that with the bad guys.

"It's ducky."

It must have been pretty obvious that he wasn't telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, because Voldemort frowned – which made him look a lot more like Jack expected.

"Bella, get my brother something to drink."

"Yes, Master."

She left, but Jack was watching Voldemort.

"I told you not to call me that."

He might be miserable, but he wasn't going to let that slide.

Voldemort smiled.

"It's a fact, Jack. Why shouldn't I? We share the same blood, you and I."

"I'm not magical."

The smile faded.

"I know."

"Then why don't you be a good little bad guy and just zap me back to my house…"

"Because there's something I need from you, first."

"It better not be a kidney. I'm using both of mine just now."

"This is a little more complicated than that, little brother. I-"

He was interrupted by the return of the dark haired woman, who was now carrying a glass of water. Voldemort moved aside, obviously unwilling to play nursemaid, and Bellatrix handed the glass over to Jack, who shook his head.

"I'm not thirsty."

He actually was, but as sick as he felt, he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to drink anything just then. Besides, he wasn't dumb enough to accept a drink from an enemy. Who knew what kind of poison was in it? And she probably spit in it, too – just for spite.

"It's not poisoned, little brother."

"Don't call me that."

"I need you healthy, Jack," Voldemort said, deciding that for the moment he wouldn't continue the argument about their relationship. "You and I are going to take a trip. And to do that, we need to get you on your feet."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Yes, you are."

Voldemort gestured imperiously to Bella, who hid her scowl and sat on the edge of the bed Jack was on, using her hand to help him into a more upright position. He would have struggled if not for the fact that he needed to concentrate on keeping his brain from sliding out from behind his eyeballs – which it felt like it was trying to do – and he was trying very hard not to toss his cookies all over the place. When she held the glass to his lips, however, he turned his head.

"I'm not-"

"Drink it, Muggle."

"Be nice, Bella." The last thing Voldemort wanted was Jack to be any more on the defensive than he already was.

Since her back was to her master, Bellatrix Lestrange didn't bother to hide her contempt for what she was being forced to do – even though she was very much a servant of the Dark Lord.

"I give you my word it isn't poisoned," she said, assuming that was what was keeping the man from drinking the proffered water.

"And I'm sure your word is as good as gold," Jack said, sarcastically, reaching up and weakly pushing the glass away from his face.

Her eyes flashed dark fires of hatred, but he'd had worse looks tossed at him – she was a rookie compared to some Goa'uld he'd met – and it didn't even faze him.

"Jack…"

"Just tell me what you want," O'Neill said. "I'm not in the mood for a bunch of riddles…"

Voldemort frowned, trying to decide if Jack was using the word riddle as a thinly veiled insult. He decided that since O'Neill apparently didn't have all that much knowledge of the wizard world, he probably didn't remember that their father's name was Riddle.

"Leave us, Bella."

She obeyed immediately, more than willing to get away from the Muggle before she decided to give him what he deserved and incurred her master's wrath by killing him.

Without her support, Jack went flat once more, but forced himself into an upright position, bracing himself on a very wobbly arm. Voldemort noticed, of course, and reached into his robe, pulling out a wand. Where most people would have flinched at the sight of a wand in the hand of the Dark Lord, Jack wasn't one of them. Even if he had concerns about being zapped by Voldemort, he didn't have the strength to do anything about it anyways. Not feeling as lousy as he did just then. His best bet was to just keep Voldemort chatting until he got his strength back, and then find a way to get the hell out of wherever he was.

But Voldemort didn't zap him. He simply waved his wand, muttering a single word, and there were suddenly several cushions and pillows on the simple bed that Jack had been lain on when the Deatheaters had brought him in. Realizing what he had in mind, Jack propped himself up with the pillows, leaning against them with a grateful sigh that he couldn't hide.

"You weren't supposed to be injured," Voldemort told him.

Jack raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"You expected me to come peacefully?"

"I had hoped they would be able to subdue you without harming you."

"Yeah, well…"

"You are much stronger than I expected – or than they expected."

"Flattery won't get you far."

At this point, Jack wasn't going to go all that far, flattered or not.

"It is not flattery, little brother," Voldemort said, smoothly. "It's the truth. You're a powerful warrior in your own right – and had you been magical, you and I would have been an unstoppable team."

"I'm not on your team," Jack snapped. "And stop calling me-"

"I need your help."

"Too bad."

"It's a small thing, Jack," Voldemort continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "I need you to get something for me." Something only you can get for me, apparently."

"Yeah? What?"

"A prophecy."