Fair warning, this chapter gets a bit brutal...

There was a reason you weren't supposed to apparate while drunk or otherwise incapacitated. Sirius materialized on the front drive of the Averys' country house (the nearest Death Eater stronghold he knew of) and immediately collapsed onto the wet pavement. He'd splinched himself. It shouldn't be a surprise. He looked at his left hand with dizzy detachment and watched the blood running down his wrist to soak his bandage. Three fingers and half of his hand were gone. At least he still had the thumb and index fingers. Be annoying to lose those. Figures it would be the left arm he'd splinch, the pain, numbing potion, and infection in it making it hard to concentrate. Too bad he hadn't splinched a bit higher up, to get rid of the stupid burn.

He heard a crack and the sound of little feet slapping against stone. The wrinkled, brown face of a house elf of indeterminate age, gender and approbation suddenly loomed over him. "Mister Black, sir?"

Sirius grinned at it. "That's right. Sirius Black, at your service. I'm back." He giggled a little.

The elf's eyes widened. "Wizards is not at elf's service!" it scolded. "Isn't proper!" The little thing frowned. "Sir is bleeding. Sookie is checking with Mistress if Mister Black is to be coming inside." So saying, it disapparated again.

Sirius blinked up at the cold rain, then decided to sit up. He had just about managed it, despite the lightheadedness and the onset of vigorous shivering, when the house elf reappeared, this time accompanied by Elaine Avery. "Sirius Black?"

"In the flesh."

"Merlin, child, you're covered in blood! Is that... where are your fingers?! Ferula! Where have you been? Richard was so upset and worried! We thought you were dead! Let's get you inside. Sookie, take him in." More bandages appeared and wound around his mutilated hand as she spoke. Then the house elf snapped its fingers to levitate him inside. She bustled him through to a cozy sitting room and deposited him on a couch. "Winston! Young Sirius Black is visiting. Keep him company for a few minutes but don't touch him. Sookie, fetch the healing kit. I'll be right back." She whipped around and stalked back out of the room. The house elf vanished again.

Sirius looked around to spot a middle-aged, rather fat wizard sitting in the chair between the hearth and a heavily decorated Christmas tree. It was Richard's father, Winston Avery. Sirius had met the wizard before, when he was a child, but not in a long time. From what he could remember, the man was... odd. Winston was currently staring at him with a curious expression.

"Do you like brooms?" he asked suddenly.

"Er... yes?" That was not the question Sirius would have expected the Lord of the House to ask of an unexpected guest who was supposed to be dead and who showed up to bleed all over the cushions on Christmas Day.

"Wonderful! Look at this!" He got up and crossed the room to sit down next to Sirius. He held up the latest issue of Quidditch Times and started showing Sirius all the pictures. Even weirder, he seemed most interested in the various broomsticks for their shapes and colors rather than their speed, maneuverability, who was riding them, or other more practical qualities. Fortunately, Sirius was still high enough on his various potions to just roll with it. He started pointing out the interesting cloud formations in the backgrounds of the quidditch photos, which Winston seized upon with utter delight. "That one! That one looks like a fwooper!"

"And that one looks like a billiwig."

"And that one looks like a niffler!"

"And that one looks like a-"

"Sirius!" He had barely turned his head before Avery slammed into him from the side and crushed him with a hug.

"Ow, you-"

"You're alive!"

"Yeah, I know, and you're squeezing my bum arm."

"Oh, sorry!" Avery... No, Richard, Sirius corrected himself. In a house full of Averys, he really needed to use first names, even in his own head. Richard let go of him immediately, but his hands instead found their way to Sirius' cheeks. "I couldn't believe it when Mum told me you were down here..."

"Why are you wearing a dressing gown at two in the afternoon on Christmas?"

Richard laughed. "That's the first thing that comes to your mind?"

"It's pretty shocking. I can see your hairless, pasty chest. Also, your hair is bleeding into it." There was a dark pink stain slowly spreading down the fuzzy white collar.

Richard's face fell. "I... I was in the bathroom. I don't want to talk about it."

"Something happen on the raid today?"

"How did you know there was a raid?"

Sirius grinned and slapped him on the shoulder. "Most of my jailors were called to obliviate the muggles. You saved me, Richard! You and Audrey."

..."Oh." He sat back and looked at Sirius with a critical eye. "Mum said you were hurt..."

"So I did. Let's see what we're dealing with, Sirius. Winston, go back to your chair. We're busy," Elaine said. Sirius hadn't even noticed her come back. She started muttering basic diagnostic charms.

"This one looks like a griffin!" Winston whispered loudly, brandishing his magazine, before obeying his wife.

"Merlin's teeth, Sirius, no wonder you splinched! You have a fever, and this burn..."

"Yeah, I could have told you that. I've been sick ever since they took me."

Richard took one look and snapped his gaze up to Sirius wonderingly. "You just got back, didn't you?"

"Yep."

"As in, you apparated straight here from wherever you've been."

"That's how apparition works, mate."

"The Dark Lord doesn't know where you are?" Elaine asked sharply.

"And he's been calling you?"

Sirius nodded. "He never stopped calling, not once."

"Why did you come here, then, instead of going straight to him?" Richard asked, clear fear in his voice.

"Because this was the closest. Way closer than headquarters. I'd never have made it there. Besides, if you were on a mission today, that means he's on a mission too. That can't be interrupted, Richard, not just for me. Don't worry. I'll go to him." He grinned again. "I just might need a little help getting there."

Richard slowly nodded. "I still... I don't have full access to headquarters, and I need to finish cleaning up and join the obliviators anyway. I'll call Evan. Evan Rosier, I mean. Even if he's... out... his house elf can take a message for him to come here as soon as possible. He'll get you to headquarters."

"Thank you."

Richard squeezed his good hand and touched his forehead to Sirius'. He really smelled like blood. What had he done today? "I'm happy you're back, boss."

"So am I."

"I'll see you later."

He got up and hurried away. Elaine submerged his hand in a whole basin of Dittany, frowning as the solution rapidly turned a dark red. "You'll need a blood replenisher," she observed.

"Sirius Black, do you like end tables? Or- or maybe guillotines?" Winston asked. He was sorting through a magazine rack. Well. Something was definitely wrong with that man.

The fire turned green, distracting Sirius from Winston's latest picture-containing reading material, an old edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. A thin man with dark brown hair and a mustache stepped out of the fire. He looked about twenty-five. He was wearing the thick black robes of a Death Eater on a mission.

He froze on the rug before the fire, staring at Sirius in shock. "Black?"

"Yep. Rosier, I presume? Sorry, I kind of forgot what you look like..."

"Evan!" Winston shouted, bouncing up to shake the newcomer's hand. "Happy Christmas, sonny!"

"Happy Christmas, sir," Evan Rosier said automatically, still staring at Sirius.

"Do you know if the Dark Lord is back at headquarters?"

"Tom!" Winston cried. "Oh, invite him to dinner tomorrow, won't you, boys?"

Rosier flinched. "Mr. Avery, you're not supposed to use that name!"

"Oh, sorry. Voldemort! Invite Lord Voldemort for dinner!"

"Shhh!"

"Dad, go to your room," fourteen-year-old Morgan Avery said. It was she who had explained to Sirius, after Elaine and Richard left for the Ministry, that her father Winston had run afoul of an incorrectly brewed Baruffio's Brain Elixir a few years out of Hogwarts while studying for an Arithmancy mastery. It had left him with odd obsessions (picture books, carpentry schematics, and philosophical proofs of blood supremacy), complete lack of interest in anything outside his obsessions and his social life, utter fearlessness, and an unpredictable temperament that collectively amounted to an inability to function independently. It was less than a year after he'd married Elaine, and less than a month before the old Lord Avery abruptly died of dragon pox. All of Winston's siblings remained underage at the time, leaving the brain-damaged Winston to inherit the seat, with Elaine quietly taking the reigns as his regent. The timing of it all was not lost on Sirius, nor on Morgan, who spoke of her mother in awed tones. She and her brother still treated Winston with love and respect, fortunately, even if they had both surpassed him years ago in terms of attention and self-control.

"Morgan, you should go to your room too," Rosier said quietly. The young witch obediently got up and left without another word, pulling her addlepated sire along behind her.

Once they were gone, Rosier finally answered Sirius. "Yes, the Dark Lord has finished his task and returned to headquarters."

"Great! Let's go."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I've been waiting for someone to take me there."

"And you have been waiting to drag someone else into this... why?"

"I'd rather not splinch myself again." He held up his hand with its two remaining fingers, then just to be extra convincing heaved himself to his feet, wobbled a little, and staggered over to Rosier, almost running into him.

"Oh."

"Thanks for this, Rosier. I'll owe you one." He offered Rosier his right arm. The Death Eater sighed.

"I'm doing this for the Dark Lord and for Richard and Madam Avery, Black, not for you. Are you going to mask up?"

"Mask burned down." Sirius pulled the white, monogrammed towel Sookie had given him over his head instead. He took out his wand and jabbed it at the towel, which became an enormous curly white wig and beard. "Ho ho ho, Happy Christmas." He pocketed his wand and once again offered his arm. Rosier sighed again, and took it. Merlin, messing with Death Eaters really appealed to Sirius' current, chemically disinhibited state of mind. Spending time with Winston hadn't helped. He should probably try to curb that impulse when he got in the room with Voldemort.

Rosier's grip tightened, and they disapparated to the covered entryway of Death Eater headquarters. Sirius nearly collapsed to his knees again, only kept upright by Rosier's steady hand. He waited a few seconds for the world to stop spinning, then started walking, allowing Rosier to guide him as if he were more off-balance than he actually was. Unsurprisingly, the place was pretty quiet, with so much of the usual foot traffic diverted to the Ministry's obliviation squads. Rosier led him not to a conference room but rather into a malodorous hallway Sirius had only passed by before yet never entered. They turned into a small infirmary with only two beds but a huge potions stock. Rosier pushed Sirius to sit on one of the beds, lit the nearest candelabra with a word, and ordered him to wait.

He didn't wait long. Bella burst into the room first, shrieking his name like a war cry. She ripped off his Father Christmas wig, shrieked again in wordless delight, and hugged him. There was no gentleness in her savage embrace; she squeezed as if she was trying to stop his lungs, all the while sobbing into his shoulder. Her short hair tickled his neck.

"Ow... can't... breathe..." he whispered.

Voldemort arrived next, his face a mask of fury, eyes wild and red. He banished Bella off of him, throwing her across the room to smack into the far wall. Then he turned his wand on Sirius. "You! Crucio!"

Sirius knew it was coming. He had even joked about it to Moody. Foreknowledge was no preparation. Living with pain for weeks on end was no preparation. Every nerve that had healed burned again. Every muscle contorted. Every bone groaned and begged to break. He joined his voice to the silent screams of his body. It was a symphony of agony, though fortunately only a short overture to the great opera he had previously suffered at Bella's hands. It stopped. He felt Bella's hands on his shuddering flesh and heard her voice pleading with the Dark Lord, "No, please, punish me! Spare him, my Lord!"

"Step aside, Bella," Voldemort snarled. Sirius started laughing, mostly at Bella's madness. It would be so funny if Voldemort ended up killing her one day because of this kind of thing.

"Sirius?" Bella whispered. Her hopeful, worried face swam into his vision. Two hands reached down, grabbed her shoulders, and hauled her backwards. "No! Sirius! Let me go, Dolph!"

"Control. Your. Wife. Rodolphus," Voldemort hissed.

"My Lord! Please do not kill him! He did not betray us! I know it!"

"Silencio. Locomotor mortis."

"Thank you." Voldemort knelt down next to Sirius, who was still breathlessly laughing. Delicately, the Dark Lord took hold of Sirius' wounded arm and lifted it up. He ran a finger along the bandage, and Sirius could feel a whisper of magic seeping into his arm. The Dark Lord glared down. Sirius took a few gulping breaths and forced himself to stillness.

"My Lord," he finally managed.

"You have returned to us."

"The first moment I could, my Lord."

"Oscausi." Sirius' mouth was sealed shut, lips melded together with the rest of the skin of his face. "I do not believe you. Crucio!"

Sirius writhed and screamed again, though muffled now, more like loud, desperate humming. Then the curse abated, and he was left weak and sucking in air on the floor.

"I say you are returned only in vain effort to save yourself from the rot I have inflicted upon you from afar. After all, the Order could not mend what Lord Voldemort has cursed. Is that it, Sirius? Have you come crawling back to beg for healing?"

Sirius could not answer, obviously. Rather than using the Oscausi countercurse, Voldemort ripped his lips open again with a severing charm. Sirius yelled out hoarsely in pain and spat blood. Voldemort kept casting severing charms, tearing new wounds in his chest, belly, and legs. Sirius realized hazily coming back like this had been a terrible mistake. Voldemort was too angry, perhaps too afraid, to pay heed to his justifications. "Accio." Sirius' right eye leapt from its socket. He yelled again and clapped his hand over it, surprised to find the globe still there, hanging on his face, rather than flown all the way to Voldemort's hand. He even watched the vision in it flicker surreally for a few seconds before it faded. Sirius trembled in fear and shock. He almost preferred the Cruciatus. It hurt more, but it hurt so much as to eliminate thought. He was terrified now that the Dark Lord was going to slowly rip him apart. Since he wasn't using Dark magic to do it, he could take as long as he liked, healing the wounds only to re-inflict them...

"Well, Rodolphus? Young Rosier? I have heard Bella's opinion, baseless and deluded by familial ties as it is. What say you two? Is it possible Heir Black returns to us without ulterior motive? Morsmord-Flagrante." Sirius' Dark Mark seared white-hot. The bandage overlying it started smoking. He yelped once then bit down hard on his tongue, forcing himself merely to breathe, rather than make any noise. He knew instinctually the Dark Lord would be even more annoyed if the others had to shout over him to answer. Voldemort was asking Rodolphus his opinion, and he hadn't done anything permanently disabling with Dark magic yet. That meant he might still have a slim chance to survive this. Maybe. If the stars aligned and he didn't cock it all up. Voldemort looked to the two corners of the room.

"I reserve judgment, my Lord," Rodolphus said quietly. It was the same tone he tended to use to calm Bella when she was in a fury. "Sirius has shown great promise. I will not deny I have been proud of his successes and... dispirited when we thought him lost. I saw him days before the attack on Malfoy Manor, and I can attest he was still weak. I was therefore not surprised he was overcome in that fight, because of physical disability. I was surprised when he was reported missing and not captured or dead. I would like to hear his explanation for that, if he has one. Yet I acknowledge my bias, my Lord. If his story and the evidence in his mind are unsatisfactory to you, I bow to your wisdom. Always."

Rosier coughed when Voldemort next glared at him expectantly. Reluctantly, he spoke. "My Lord, I cannot profess to know him or therefore guess his motives. I can tell you he returned to the Avery's house under his own power: he said his hand he injured during apparition, and I believe him. There were Dittany and blood-soaked bandages still there when I came to fetch him that would support a fresh injury. And that he came to that country house and not straight here is also no surprise to me, if he were held at Potter mansion as you suspected. The Averys' is much closer than here or Lestrange Manor would have been. He could barely walk as it was. Frankly, I'm astounded he managed to apparate at all."

Voldemort impatiently flicked his wand. The Flagrante curse, thankfully, he dismissed, though the pain of the hideous burn it had left remained, biting deeper into his flesh than it had even the day of the attack on Malfoy Manor. The smoldering bandages were also vanished, and Voldemort grabbed his arm roughly to inspect his oozing amputated fingers.

Voldemort snorted. "No, there was no burn here. No matter. It changes nothing. He has merely hurt himself more on the way, like an idiot."

This time, the Cruciatus lasted longer. At the end, Voldemort dove into Sirius' mind with a vengeance. Sirius could barely keep up, shoving every safe memory he had to the forefront in no particular sequence. He thought of pressing his wand to his own Dark Mark to call for help, and how it had burned, a pain that had never ended ever since. From that thought, it was only too easy to relive the pain of Bella's Cruciatus as well. He held onto the awful sensation for as long as he could stand it before allowing Voldemort to move them along, because he knew even the Dark Lord would not be unaffected and would (hopefully) be more cautious not to prod too deep. He recalled the sound of Moody summoning the Fiendfyre, and the sight of it roaring uncontrolled through Malfoy Manor, the feeling of horrible, smothering heat. He remembered sitting in Fleamont's lab, half delirious and burning with fever. He remembered casting the Fiendfyre countercurse to no avail. He showed glimpses of himself dueling with Moody (back in March, and not very well by his more recent standards, but there was no way to distinguish the location or time of year). He remembered James tearfully asking, no, telling him unprompted that they believed he had been kidnapped and held under the Imperious curse. He remembered Walburga shouting at people to "go away!" outside his hospital room while he struggled to hold a quill to paper. He felt the pull of James' accio, sending him tumbling down the stairs, just barely escaping the reaching flames. He remembered the texture of Fleamont's goopiest burn salve, and the sight of six other potions lined up for him to take. He remembered watching four Ministry owls carrying summons for all but two of the people gathered 'round a lunch table. He broke his wand out of a locked cabinet in the Potters' kitchen (again, back in March). He asked smiling, dripping Richard where the Dark Lord was. For kicks, he showed old Winston and his strange furniture catalogue, prattling face lit by Christmas lights. He remembered the most recent time he Confunded Peter (last Christmas, as a lark to make him go looking for strawberries in the snow). And finally, with most attention to detail, he remembered how he had felt, walking alone across the Potter's lawn with an almost euphoric sense of purpose, right hand gripping his cherry wand, left hand in its sling, zig-zagging a little as he walked because the potions Fleamont had given him upset his disequilibrium, only to splinch himself when he apparated, at which point it was plain he could go no further without help.

Voldemort reached further, then, seeking out more, about his friends, about the Potters, about Moody. Sirius had to scramble to find memories that would seem to justify his friends' belief in his innocence despite what should be clear evidence to the contrary. The Marauders were easy enough, mostly Hogwarts memories. He threw in a few awkward conversations from the last month, mostly the bits where they fretted over his health or anxiously tried to reassure Sirius they didn't blame him for anything he had been "forced to do" and that he could decide to talk to them in his own time. He focused more on Fleamont than Euphemia, the frustrating time the experienced potioneer had had fighting the Dark Mark's burn, and his initial opinion that it was caused by Fiendfyre. Remus' voice drifted across: I didn't know Fiendfyre could do that... He flicked back two years ago, when Fleamont had brought him home from Grimmauld Place, after his father had delivered yet another terrible beating. Moody was a struggle, and he settled on a recent complaining session where he'd been more angry about having to live in hiding than anything else, and also scenes from St. Mungo's where Moody had witnessed and suffered Walburga's infamous temper while Sirius looked on mutely. Voldemort looked for Dumbledore next, but here Sirius was resolute, showing only his countless disciplinary encounters at Hogwarts and innocent snatches of his meeting with the headmaster back in March (I am sorry you have been put in this position, Sirius... I will of course offer whatever protection I can...). Again, there was no sign in that memory to give away the season.

Finally, it was over. Voldemort withdrew. Sirius breathed again and closed his uninjured eye a moment. "Did the old fool not think to confirm your presumed Imperious-cursed innocence with Legilimency?" Voldemort asked softly.

"He did," Sirius said. His words were slurred from his ragged lips, and thick with blood, but he ignored the discomfort and kept speaking, coughing occasionally when blood dripped back in his throat. "He ffound exaggly what he was looking for, Vellatrix casting the curse on fme... It was when she was teaching it to hme vack in the sfring, and we... fragticed on eachother. Vut then the negz thing he... found was her casting the Cruciatus on me, and unlike... you, fmy Lord, he could not, or at least would not, fpush fpast it to find anything else... of value. He told fme he pfitied me, and left it at that."

He heard a satisfied sound above him. When he opened his eye again, Voldemort was grinning down at him. "Your friends are so... indescribably gullible." He laughed, high and cold, not the strange breathy giggle Sirius had heard before. "Truly, you were a rose amongst thorns in that circle, my treasured servant. Rodolphus, Bella, you may rejoice in my mercy." He ran bare fingers over Sirius' bleeding lips. It was a gentle touch, alarmingly intimate. "Osaperi. Episkey. Anapneo." Sirius' mouth was mended, oh, sweet Merlin. And his throat and windpipe were cleared. Voldemort gently picked up his dangling eyeball next and pushed it back into place, whispering spells to repair the damaged tissue and ward off infection. It was revolting, but Sirius was not stupid enough to flinch.

"Thank you, my Lord," he murmured. "And thank you for never giving up on your summons..."

"It hurt you," Voldemort reminded him, now sealing up the other cuts he had inflicted in his rage. "It hurt you terribly, if I say so myself."

"It did. But it saved me. They fooled themselves first, but if I had not been so ill, they would have surely questioned me more closely. Nor would I have been able to summon tears so easily to confirm their fears on my behalf."

"Nor would you have lost your fingers returning to me," Voldemort mused.

"Worth it," Sirius said, simply.

"We will restore them to you, for your faithfulness," Voldemort promised, almost crooning now. He was amazingly expressive, Sirius thought deliriously. "Vulnera Sanentur." The gaping wound in Sirius' hand knit closed in an instant. "Frigus, Lenire..." He blew on Sirius' arm, and his breath fogged in the air it was so cold. Whether the cold soothed the burn, or Voldemort's newfound lack of ire did, Sirius had no idea. Whichever it was, he was glad. He relaxed fully for the first time in weeks. Voldemort then picked him up and set him on the bed, again without using magic. Why was such a thin man so physically strong? The Dark Lord paused and arched one eyebrow. He reached down and picked up Sirius' Father Christmas beard, that had ended up beneath him. He held it up for a moment. Bits of it were tipped in blood, now. "What is this?" he asked the room at large. In the far corner but still in his line of sight, Sirius noticed Rosier twitch.

Sirius grinned weakly. "My disguise, since I lost my old Mask. Seemed seasonal."

There was the creepy giggle! Voldemort draped the mass of white curls over Sirius' chest and patted his shoulder. "Invigore!" Sirius' head suddenly cleared of its weary fog with the strengthening charm. Hopefully, that was just a bonus gift from the Dark Lord and he wasn't actually expected to get up and do anything in the near future. "I missed my jester. You will never leave me again. Rodolphus, you may release your wife. Bella, go summon Theodosius. He will prepare a new batch of Skelegro, same recipe I wrote for Selwyn's arm. We have fifteen bones to replace, Sirius," he explained as Bella ran from the room, "and no scaffolding available to us. It will take time, but I will make your hand whole again. Until then..." he drew his wand and traced a circle in the air. A trail of quicksilver formed in its wake. The liquid fell together at the center of the circle, writhed a moment in the air, then formed three ghostly silver fingers and flew to Sirius' hand. It felt like cool water. It looked like very pretty poison.

"Looks like mercury. It isn't, is it?" he asked without thinking. He watched the strange fingers curl and straighten as if they were his own. He pressed the little finger against his thumb. It had a lot of surface tension, but there was some give. He decided it was still liquid, even in this shaped and more solid-looking form. The apparent solidity must be the result of the mystical container.

Fortunately, although there was at least one strangled gasp at his cheek, probably Rosier, Voldemort only grinned. "It is, actually. But it is contained and will not harm you. That is why I healed the area first. Your life and your mind are too precious to us to risk poisoning it over time, but nor would I have you handicapped and suffering even longer than you have. The sickbed has claimed you too long. No more. You are mine. My weapon, my wand, my chosen follower."

"I live to serve, my Lord."

"You do. You do, indeed..." He reached a pale hand out to the side and summoned a large, empty jar over from the shelf. He waved his wand, and several little red rivulets rose up from the floor and from his clothes. Sirius' spilled blood coalesced into a dark red orb that Voldemort caught in his jar, filling it halfway. He pointed the wand inside the jar and effortlessly moved it through a very tight, very intricate pattern with a mutter of "Geminio." The blood bubbled and multiplied to fill the whole container. He poured that off into another flask that he handed to Rodolphus, then used a refilling charm on his own. Voldemort smiled coldly and straightened. "Rodolphus, you will come with me back to the home of Sirius' erstwhile captors. Assuming we are in luck and the house remains empty still, we will tear down the wards and vandalize the place. It may behoove us all to preserve the sympathies our enemies yet hold for young Sirius. Likely the ruse will not be believed a second time, but... imagine how the Potters will weep when they find they failed to protect their foster son from us yet again, their home painted in his blood. And on Christmas no less! Come. There is no time to waste."

Author's note: the rule is that magic can completely repair injuries that are not caused by Dark magic, so cuts and blood loss from severing charms, splinching, even the eyeball thing are all totally reversible if you know what you're doing (which Voldemort does). Dark curses can only be totally healed with the correct countercurses (assuming those exist) and otherwise have to be managed to contain the damage and facilitate the body's natural healing. Moody's eye wasn't reparable because a Dark curse took it out. No doubt, Sirius will have a gnarly scar from his burn. In answer to a review, yes, it might indeed have worked to amputate the arm above the elbow and regrow it, but Fleamont didn't want to experiment for several reasons: a) it would have taken awhile, b) there was no way for them to recreate the Dark Mark on a mouse or something to make sure it worked first, c) I'm assuming someone must have thought of this idea earlier in Potterverse history with other types of curses and run into trouble, or else there's no reason for Dumbledore to lose his hand in Book 6. Sirius is the run-headfirst-into-danger Gryffindor; Fleamont is more tempered with maturity and doesn't want to inadvertently maim his foster-son unless he has no choice. He might have gotten to the point of amputating Sirius' arm eventually if Sirius hadn't run off first.

Luckily for Sirius, Voldemort is first and foremost a possessive bastard. He hates being betrayed, but he almost hates people taking his things more. Thus, once he was reassured Sirius hadn't actually betrayed him, all the anger over Sirius' failure to avoid capture etc transferred over to the people who took Voldie's toy away. Hence, he thinks it's hilarious to go pull one over on the Potters (and/or murder them if they come home too early, of course).

Avery is my favorite, and now so is his dad. His mom is a piece of work, though, seems normal and nice, but then turns out she's about as bad as Abraxas in her own way... but, maybe Winston Avery was originally a completely unlovable bastard after hanging out with Tom Riddle in school, and his brain injury has, implausibly, made him more tractable.