ꪻꫝꫀ ꪀ꠸ᧁꫝꪻ ᧁꪊꪖ᥅ᦔ꠸ꪖꪀ
Lord Voldemort has returned: very much alive. A displaced Tom Riddle, after fifty years in the diary, attempts to piece together the mysteries of the past while the result of multiple life debts, the meddling of Peter Pettigrew, and the ambitions of Gilderoy Lockhart, lead him to become irrevocably connected with the Potter family — Ruby, whom he owes a debt, and Harry, an Obscurial born as the seventh month dies who owes his continued survival to their three-way deal. Meanwhile, the Ministry moves fast to maintain the illusion of peace, and Hogwarts soon finds itself embroiled in a power struggle over control of a single pawn as they wait for Lord Voldemort to make his first move; Harry Potter. Sirius Black isn't the only Death Eater breaking out of prison. More like Prisoners of Azkaban.
"ꜱᴏ ᴡᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴏɴ, ʙᴏᴀᴛꜱ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ, ʙᴏʀɴᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴄᴇᴀꜱᴇʟᴇꜱꜱʟʏ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ."
― ꜰ. ꜱᴄᴏᴛᴛ ꜰɪᴛᴢɢᴇʀᴀʟᴅ, ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ɢᴀᴛꜱʙʏ
Azkaban Prison, June, 1993
Chapter One: The Dementor in the High Castle
On a craggy rock somewhere in the North Sea, the waves raged against a solitary building, which withstood the onslaught impressively, due to both the twenty-foot thick walls and the protective enchantments placed upon it. It was reminiscent of a tower from some medieval English castle.
The sounds inside the tower were eerily similar to those of T. M. Riddle's book. Except they were about a million times louder, and seemed to come from a thousand voices. This was accompanied by the ceaseless howls of the Dementor guards, which summated to a truly frightening cacophony.
On that particular night, the screaming and sobbing and whimpering was absolutely unbearable. As one voice gave out, two others started up.
The single silent inhabitant of the fortress was an absurdly large and shaggy black dog. There was something distinctly sheepdog-ish about it. In a different environment, it might have even been playful. It was the kind of dog which would probably play a rambunctious game of catch, panting joyfully and attempting to lick your face, or at least cover your hands in slobber.
However, this particular dog was inside Azkaban Prison. It was staring at the night sky through the bars of the cell, with its paws over its ears to muffle the incessant sounds in a decidedly non-doggish way. It blinked repeatedly, and if you looked closer, you would see that the dog was crying.
Dogs are not known to shed emotional tears.
It was a beautifully clear, cold night, and a new moon, so that the stars shone with the brightest light possible.
The dog was staring intently at the twenty-first brightest star in the sky (in fact, it was a group of four stars, but that was irrelevant to the dog.)
The star, whose light had travelled approximately 79 light-years to reach the mournful eyes of the dog, was named Regulus.
Here.
Again.
The very moment.
He could not forget it. It lingered always at the back of his head.
The baby mobile, twinkling with ornaments, swung above the crib. The shattered remains of the furniture crackled and bit under his feet.
Was it fear in her eyes? Of course she was afraid. This was the fourth time they had met. Her luck could only last so long.
And she held no weapon.
He should have seen the edge of a chalk drawing, peeking out from beneath her right foot. Lily Potter shielded both her child and the evidence of what she had done.
No. It had not been his eyes, but his arrogance that no magic, regardless of the sacrifice it involved, could defeat him. He had been unable to make sense of the evidence that lay before him. That had been his downfall.
Have mercy, have mercy. Take me instead. Why could he not have recognised that she spoke not to him, but to Death waiting noiselessly behind him?
If he had only bothered to put his mind to the task, the path forward would have been obvious. Simple, even. Stun the girl, rendering her sacrifice incomplete, and kill Harry Potter.
And now the magic of her sacrifice lives on, in both her children. They are the guardians as well as the benefactors of the blood in their veins.
Ten years. Ten long years of self-pity and infatigeable fury at his incorporeal state, possessing whatever weak-minded creature he happened upon and plotting his revenge.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...
Power, he thought, matters not, if the boy does not live long enough to use it, whatever it may be. Long enough to understand.
Perhaps it was good that the boy had survived. It would be so like Dumbledore to pretend Potter had succumbed to his curse, and keep him alive in secret. Fashion him into a weapon.
Dumbledore had always (erroneously) believed himself superior; in magic, intellect, tactics, secret-keeping...
A knock at the door.
Voldemort removed his gaze from the crack in the stone floor that he had been observing, and regarded the boy, who had opened the door without waiting for a response.
The boy realized his mistake, his pointed face becoming a pale mask against the red of the school uniform he wore as he tensed in fright.
"My Lord," the youngest Malfoy began shakily, "Mother sent me to tell you that Pettigrew has arrived from Hogwarts."
Voldemort allowed a few seconds to pass. People rarely paid attention when things moved too quickly. Time was needed to impress the gravity of the situation.
Then he waved his hand, motioning for him to come in and shut the door behind him, releasing a puff of cold air.
"Tell me, Draco. Does your mother also advise you to refer to adults in such a familiar manner? Surely, as one of my most loyal associates, Mister Pettigrew deserves a modicum more respect."
Draco shuddered, looking down at his feet.
"I'm sorry, My Lord. It won't happen again."
"Of course. Come closer."
He stood, placed a hand under Draco's chin, and sharply lifted it. From this vantage point, the boy reminded him of a frightened weasel, held around the neck.
So vulnerable. A quick twist of his wrist, and...
"You are the image of your grandfather."
"Mother tells me that, too, My Lord." His voice was strained, reaching into the treble register, and descending sharply on the lower note of a voice crack.
"You are excelling in your studies in combat at Durmstrang, I hear?"
"Oh yes, My Lord," said Draco, his eyes earnest and sparkling in the dim light.
But of course. The Malfoys had always been renowned for their cruelty.
Perhaps it is worth it to invest in this one. He shows potential, if only he applies himself. Besides, Lucius is terribly aware of how precarious his position is. He must acquiesce to my demands.
How many faces had this pubescent weed bloodied, as his traitorous Karkaroff cheered him on? His eyes held the empty sheen of one accustomed to inflicting pain. He had come home, Voldemort had gleaned from Narcissa's mind, with Grindelwald's symbol copied into the empty pages of his schoolbooks.
"Your parents must be very pleased," said Voldemort quietly.
Voldemort smiled, and Draco smiled nervously, too.
How gloriously, how deliciously fitting that Abraxas Malfoy, born again, should be nurtured into his loyal servant. His most treasured weapon.
Other than Bellatrix, of course.
She had gone to Azkaban with his name in her heart, but now, after all this time, would she remember him? Would those who had once followed him resent him for leading them into the pits of hell?
Which narrative would triumph? The shame of him losing to a child, or the miracle of his resurrection?
Of course, I hold the power to turn their tongues and their minds to adoring me.
"Send him in, Draco."
He released the boy, who trotted off, seeming equal parts relieved and awestruck.
A gift might be in order. His birthday was not far off.
Not long after the door shut, Peter Pettigrew shuffled in. His thin hair glistened with sweat, and Voldemort detected the scent of travelling clinging to his body.
Pettigrew made a short, awkward bow, then cleared his throat.
"Lockhart is dead, My Lord," he said. "And he failed to eliminate the spare."
Voldemort's pale hand gripped the back of the chair, his knuckles growing bloodless. Was his hand his hand? Did this arrangement of bone and sinew and skin truly belong to him? Why, then, was the bruising inconsequential to his care?
"What do you mean, Wormtail… by failed?"
It could not have failed. A twelve-year-old witch was not so hard to kill.
Nor is a mere baby, he thought ruefully. But the Mudblood Evans cannot have outwitted me. It is luck. Nothing more. And the more we try, the more consequential our advantage grows over their luck.
Pettigrew, being a cautious fellow, with a hesitant look at Voldemort, decided the risk of being the one to deliver the bad news was worth it.
"My Lord," he said, haltingly. "Have mercy upon your messenger; I fear what I am about to divulge—"
"Out with it, Wormtail!" snapped Voldemort. "Or do I have to rip the truth from your mind? I assure you, the second option is vastly more… unpleasant."
Here, he fixed his red gaze on Pettigrew. He found that he enjoyed the affect that this artifact of his resurrection via the Elixir of Life had on people.
That sent Pettigrew into a fit of stammering, but when he managed to enunciate properly, here is what he said:
"Gilderoy Lockhart was discovered dead, in the Chamber of Secrets last night. Harry Potter appears to have recovered from his injuries, as well as another boy who was injured by the basilisk."
Voldemort, calm for the moment, nodded along.
"And was anyone found missing? Anyone else unaccounted for?"
Pettigrew hesitated. "On one hand, My Lord, my plan has worked. On the other hand, the spare is missing, not dead, as I hoped. Her body was not in the Chamber, not has anyone seen her since the night Lockhart died."
"What has Dumbledore said about this?"
"Nothing, My Lord. This is the report that Thaddeus Nott has given me, through his son, who, as you will remember, is in the same year as Harry Potter."
"If she appears to be missing, perhaps Dumbledore is hiding her. But I believe that is unlikely. He would try to project the appearance of strength, now more than ever."
"My Lord?"
"Well," said Voldemort, quietly, knowing that Pettigrew had seen Lockhart's body with his own eyes, and how Ruby Potter had disappeared and with whom, "first, we will have to find the little girl, and then... lose her so that she cannot be found again, especially not by Dumbledore. It is not a complete inconvenience; I believe she may be in possession of something that belongs to me, and in finding her, we may find it. Perhaps Lockhart did play his part well, after all."
He lifted his glass in salute. In his mind's eye, he pictured the boy who Pettigrew had observed from his hiding-place.
"To good theatre, then."
Pettigrew let out a nervous chuckle.
Ruby Potter tried not to get into these kinds of situations — honestly, she didn't!
These kinds of situations meaning, knee-deep in scratchy heather and grass.
"How much longer?" asked her travelling companion.
She frowned, and fumbled with the creased, waterlogged-and-dried map purchased only about a week ago.
"Until we get to the path? At this pace, maybe an hour." Ruby paused. She could feel the soles of her shoes starting to wear thin. "Pass the water, please."
They continued on in the utter silence of the endless moor. A few fat bumblebees wiggled and wobbled for bloom to grey-purple bloom, and occasionally the silence was interrupted by the trilling, babbling call of skylarks circling ahead.
Tee was silent, too, for a while.
"It's going to be dark by then," he said evenly, studying the orange-stained horizon nestled under the overcast sky.
And we don't want to stop too close to the path. Someone might be looking.
It was the sole reason she hadn't called the Knight Bus and asked them to drop them off at Edinburgh, or better yet, London.
Lockhart hasn't got any pictures of me to send the Prophet, I don't think... but you can never be too careful. Especially with wizards. Everyone knows everyone around here.
If only I could get a message to Harry! If he sent Hedwig out, she might be able to find me, but it'd be risky. She could be followed. I could send him a letter the ordinary way, but he'd never get it in Hogwarts. Maybe I could send it to Hermione and she could give it to him; but I haven't got her address. I wonder if I could find it when we get closer?
"Let's not stop just yet," she said. "The Ministry can't detect something like Lumos out here, with no one around, the Trace'll be faint."
Tee clicked his tongue.
"At some point," he muttered under his breath, "I must've made a terrible mistake to end up here. I can't remember much. But that's all I know."
"If we keep going a bit past dark," said Ruby, "we can reach Dunecht by tomorrow, which means we can get the bus to Aberdeen. I don't know about you, but I want to sleep in a proper bed and have something to eat that isn't one of those disgusting rabbits you pull out of their holes by the ears."
"I haven't slept before a few weeks ago in the past fifty years," said Tee nastily. "Must be nice to have options."
Ruby, chastised, resolved to keep her mouth shut until sunset's colours began to bleed into twilight.
"Here seems fine," she said, gesturing to the patch of grass. "As long as it doesn't rain again."
Tee nudged the ground with his foot, as if trying to find fault with it. Unable to do so, he sat down in an ungainly manner, flung his cloak around himself, and feigned sleep.
"I killed him." For a brief moment, Ruby saw Lockhart's blood drenching his face, Tee's calculating, emotionless expression.
"Did you really kill that Vernon? Or were you bluffing?"
She saw down, too, and turned out her pockets to inspect the contents; one blackthorn-and-dragon-heartstring wand, one measure of pure fire trapped in a glass marble, Nott Senior's monocle, a folded-up picture of her, her parents, and Harry, and a few silver coins.
Ruby held the marble up to her eye and gave it a shake. The fire warmed her hands, and the red-orange-gold inside slipped and spilled like a liquid kaledoiscope.
A sudden sound made her turn. Tee was standing now, the wind blowing through the heather and making his uniform cloak flutter behind him.
He held himself strangely, as if unused to the correct posture for standing. His shoulders sloped helplessly right, then back. He then negotiated the necessary readjustment, which should have been second nature.
He was slightly on the tall and skinny side, but not gangly or gaunt enough to match the awkwardness. As it were, it seemed that his body had been grafted onto him, somehow, and he was some kind of alien.
His eyes — well — if Ruby had to come up with a coherent way to describe them, it was flat and empty and cold. Defeated. Past some crucial point.
It was like a much older, very tired person was staring at her out of a sixteen-year-old's eye sockets. His stare was blank, like two black stones embedded in his face; he exuded an empty acceptance and resignation.
It was deeply unnerving. No one's eyes should look like that.
"What?" she asked, following his gaze, but seeing nothing.
"I've been seeing things in my sleep."
"Dreaming, Tee."
"No," he corrected snappishly. "I'm an amenisiac, not an idiot. I've been seeing things. Things that happened. Really happened."
"You mean like scrying?"
"Not that either. I'm seeing things that happened to me. Remembering." Tee squinted into the distance, the shadows on his face cruel and sharp. "There's a cliff... with a black cave. The water is black too. I'm angry. I'm looking for something. Something important. I don't know what it is."
"Where is it?" asked Ruby, choosing to entertain this latest break from reality.
"The south coast. Not far from London, I think."
"We're going south anyway. We could go there. What's in this cave, anyway?"
"I don't know," Tee said, frowning. "But I think it's important."
What if it's just a nightmare? Ruby stifled the retort. At least it was a goal. Something to do.
She nodded, and went to sleep, trying to think very hard of the cave before she went to sleep, hoping that she'd see something interesting or useful. She'd scryed Tee, after all.
But a different kind of nightmare took over her subconscious.
She was trapped in a glass case filled with water, slamming her hands against the glass and screaming for help as everyone watched, her words evaporating into bubbles and causing her to panic even more.
One by one, they all began to ignore her, and filed away, until she finally slammed her fist hard enough against the glass and it shattered.
"Didn't you know?" asked Harry, half-shadow and half-real, his left eye glowing like molten emerald on the shadow side of his face, watching her as she gasped and spluttered for air amongst the splinters. "Everyone's forgotten about you."
His voice wavered.
"You left me. You forgot about me."
She reached out for his flesh-and-blood hand, but the lights flickered, and they were both swallowed by darkness.
Yes, I must free my imprisoned followers. But I wish to move quietly.
How many reside in Azkaban? How much of a disturbance will be noticed?
There are no human guards. I do not fear the Dementors. Yet, if too many prisoners are removed, they may alert the Ministry.
But, if I appear too strategic, my power may seem diminished. They must be rescued all together, or not at all.
The longer that I wait, the more likely I am to be questioned. The Dementors may have no soul, but they are creatures still. They can be swayed. Their loyalty is for sale.
"You will procure us transport to Azkaban."
Pettigrew's response seemed to come automatically, and Voldemort stifled a click of the tongue. "But transport to Azkaban is solely under the control of the Ministry of Magic, My Lord. The coordinates are unknown."
"I am aware. Have Thaddeus Nott provide the two of us a visitor's pass and authorisation for transport under false names."
Pettigrew's eyes grew wide as saucers.
"But My Lord, if you intend to move secretly—"
"There are methods, Wormtail," said Voldemort, annoyed. "Do not blame your lack of imagination on me. We should be rejoicing at the Ministry's lack of security procedures, rather than squabbling over petty details. Have a letter sent to Nott. Nott's owl will provide us with our documentation. We will be disguised. It will appear just as legitimate as his smuggling business. This time, we supply the contraband."
"Surely the Ministry will notice hundreds of people returning!"
"This contingency has been already considered. The fugitives can be taken to Malfoy or Nott Manor by Side-Along Apparation as soon as we reach the open ocean. I trust you are in possession of your wand, Wormtail, seeing as your wit has evidently abandoned you?"
"Then, My Lord?"
Voldemort said nothing, but did nothing to suppress a reflexive upwards flick of his left eyebrow.
"I will send the owl, My Lord. Promptly."
He made a noise of mild approval.
It would not do for Pettigrew's head to grow too large, too quickly.
And one should never trust a traitor. Not that he trusted anyone (trust was not in Voldemort's nature), but it was important to note that Peter Pettigrew had been one of James Potter's most trusted friends before he betrayed him.
So, why did he not turn back to the Order when I vanished? Surely, his cover story was sufficient for Black to take the fall for his crimes.
I suppose the fool panicked and staged his own murder. Very few can rise from the dead.
The documentation did not take long to arrive, and Pettigrew soon arrived with two flasks of Polyjuice Potion, obtained from Lucius Malfoy, and two hairs.
Voldemort had been surprised at Pettigrew offering him a long, blonde hair, but perhaps, he reflected, it was unsurprising. After all, no one would look for Voldemort in a small woman with a cheerful, round face.
Mind you, both of them were supposed to be dead, or at least, not alive yet.
Muggle, probably, he thought with distaste as he regarded his altered reflection.
"Australian tourists, My Lord. Both pureblood, of course, but highly unlikely to be anywhere near the Ministry."
"Of course," Voldemort repeated.
It did little to nurse his sense of injured pride.
Him. Lord Voldemort. Greatest sorcerer of all time, brushing shoulders with Muggles at rush hour. All for the sake that someone might recognise him. Not that he feared anyone; least of all, the Ministry drones, but the effect of surprise was one above all price.
Pettigrew opened the door of the telephone box, and they both stepped in.
"Newman, Sarah," said a calm, female voice from somewhere above them. "Newman, John. Special clearance to: Azkaban Prison."
Voldemort could not help but note that the disembodied voice pronounced Azkaban Prison as if it were a delightful holiday location.
"The official story that Nott suggested, if we are asked, My Lord, is that we are special detectives interviewing a possible colleague of our suspect for an international crime."
"That will do," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Though you needn't've bothered, Wormtail."
Voldemort said nothing more, his eyes rooted to the ceiling as they hurtled down. Did they even conceive of the fact that this system was perfectly designed for intruders to exploit?
The French Ministry had a golden waterfall which removed enchantments, the Germans required the visitor's wand to match exactly the one on the government files, and the Americans had their Ministry practically teeming with Aurors.
This was all very inconvenient, though, especially for the British Ministry, a sprawling mini-city which, if it were Muggle, would have its own postal code. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, seemingly further than the eyes could see, and the area was softly lit with something like starlight.
Today, they would meet Nott in the Department of Law Enforcement; which was, according to the painted arrow, down the righthand corridor.
"Down here, My Lord," whispered Pettigrew, as if he couldn't read.
At first, he was surprised that no one seemed to pay any mind to him, and then, remembered that he was disguised. That had been the point.
How long had it been since he had been simply another face in the crowd? How long since he had been synonymous with fear?
Pettigrew clearly meant to escort him, but Voldemort disliked following anyone, even for the sake of appearances, and strode ahead. They might not have made a convincing pair, upon reflection, but it did not really matter.
Pettigrew opened one of the office doors, and they stepped inside. Voldemort made a quick note of the surroundings; mahogany floors, dark green shades drawn tightly, walls littered with paintings and bookshelves heavy with trinkets.
Not to mention the medieval weaponry displayed by the windows. But then, when had the man ever been subtle?
From behind the large ebony desk stepped the broad-shouldered silhouette of Thaddeus Nott; wearing a finely wrought replica of his infamous monocle.
A shadow in the corner twitched. Theodore. The little one.
His father did not know of his presence.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask his old friend from school where the real monocle was, just to watch him splutter. But they did not have time for trifles.
"You live, My Lord," said Nott. His fingers curled against the desk, and his posture was stilted.
Frightened, perhaps? He must fear retribution after denouncing his allegiance to me.
"Did you doubt me?"
He stepped forward to claim ownership of the space, and remembered, with regret, his current appearance.
"This is a Portkey which I have prepared for you, My Lord," said Nott, placing his hand on a jade statue. "It will take you to the docks. Your boat is A31 and leaves promptly at seven past twelve. I have allotted time, of course, but should it take longer, I have access to the ledgers."
He cast a glance at the clock, stepped forward, and placed a hand on the jade statue.
The icy water lashed against the sides of the boat, and over the rim. The Polyjuice had long since worn off as they drifted close to the shore.
The Dementors waited for them. A macabre clump of black-robed figures huddled around the entrance to the fortress rising above the black, craggy island. A few slender, black, nearly dead trees had taken root in the loose soil, ready to be blown away in the next storm as a mere afterthought.
From one of them emanated a faint, bird-like clicking.
"Intruders..."
Pettigrew lashed the rope to a large outcropping of rock, but did not move to step out of the boat.
"Out of the way, Wormtail."
Voldemort pushed past him, and made his way up the rocky shore. It was natural to fear these monsters. But he was not natural. And he did not fear.
I fear no man and no ghost.
What I fear is that which I have conquered, time and time again. I am wholly without fear.
As if sensing his lack of fear, they seemed to organise themselves in a small mob between the one that spoke for them.
"Will they follow you?" he asked, but the wind tore away his voice.
He understood. These things could not be spoken to. And they had not spoken to him with words; they would not have been heard in this wind.
Will they follow you? This time, he reached and tore deep into the creature's mind, greedy and vicious. But he found that the creature was not a single creature; it was all of them. He was seeing the bloom above the surface, but not observing the true structure; a fungi-like root network of non-beings with a non-mind.
There was no leader.
Then there was opportunity...
He snatched up the bottom of the root, burrowing poison.
You will obey me, now.
They parted for him like the Red Sea, and he continued towards the castle.
"Coming, Wormtail?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.
The man shuddered, his sea-wet hair slick and sticking to his forehead as he stumbled his way up, his robes wrapped tightly around him. He gave the Dementors a wary look and hurried through the throng.
"There will be more inside, My Lord. I don't know what you've done to them, but it will need to be done again."
He waved his hand dismissively, plucked the ring of keys off the wall, and handed them to Pettigrew wordlessly. He knew who was there. Let Pettigrew take the brunt of their anger and temper it, let him find out if they resented Voldemort. Their exhaustion would make them brash.
Now, he was curious about one specific prisoner, wandering the cells until he found what he was searching for.
"That one..."
It was a large, shaggy black dog with mottled and matted fur, and all of a sudden, a man dressed in rags, with scraggly hair the same colour.
He was more skeleton than flesh; his elbows and knees were burned red from the friction of his bone rubbing against his skin, and his skin was leathery and dry, covered in scabbing from the scalding cold and the damp.
Bellatrix, a few feet behind him, skeletal too, her long black hair blowing in the bitter wind, began to laugh; a high, rattling, disbelieving laugh, her head canting back. Pettigrew lingered in the corridor.
She reached out for him, and took a tottering step forward as if longing for an embrace.
The best of my warriors... what have they done to my Death Eaters?
"Si-ri-us, My Lord," he heard her choke out, her bony finger trembling in his general direction. "Filthy... blood traitor... cousin. Leave... him... to rot!"
But Sirius heeded her not. His gaze had turned to Pettigrew; a contrast if there ever was one, plump and real flesh-and-blood.
His cracked lips pulled away to show his yellow teeth. He lunged at Pettigrew, and his bony claw of a hand made contact through the bars with the other man's leg, scrabbling for grip. He was weak from starvation, but he held on, drawing blood with his jagged nails.
Pettigrew let out a squeal that might have befitted his rat form more, yanking his foot from Sirius's grip.
Motivation, thought Voldemort. Wormtail may not know it, but he has just revealed his greatest weakness. He still feels the guilt of his betrayal, deep down; he is a Gryffindor, after all.
"Well, this is certainly interesting," said Voldemort quietly, and Sirius swivelled around to give Voldemort a look of pure hate, practically foaming at the mouth, his irritated scleras the same blood-red colour as Voldemort's irises. "Unlock the dog's cage, Wormtail."
"My Lord! He'll kill me!"
"What?" Voldemort flicked his hand dismissively. "The starved stray dog in a cage; surely a fearsome foe, far, far, greater than the weight of my displeasure."
"Obey the Dark Lord and open the door, Wormtail," said Bellatrix, seeming to regain some of her old dignity.
In an instant, Pettigrew's fumbling hands were at the lock.
"Give him something to drink, Wormtail."
Pettigrew stammered as he summoned water in the metal cup rolling along the cell floor; Voldemort was almost impressed that he managed it.
"Look at me," rasped Sirius Black. "No, look at me. Look at what they did. I'm hideous, Peter. But not as hideous as you!" He spat. "Traitor. Choices always have consequences, that's what Lily always used to tell us, didn't she?"
"Don't speak about her," muttered Pettigrew, his fingers trembling in front of him in much the way that mice anxiously groomed their whiskers.
Sirius's mouth stretched into an unnerving grimace again.
"It must have been the greatest, most important moment of your pathetic life... telling Voldemort that you, untalented, shrivelled, foolish you, could hand him the Potters."
"She wasn't who we all thought she was! She bewitched James; and no Muggle-born could have that much magic, she stole it-"
"Don't make Lily and James into villains to make yourself the hero!" barked Sirius.
"Make them into villains?" snapped Pettigrew. "All I've had to hear for the past eleven and a half years is how brave they were. What heroes. They don't know James like you and I did, Sirius. And the ones who did forgot, out of respect for his memory."
Sirius fixed his bloodshot eyes on Pettigrew's.
"No, Wormy," he said darkly. "We didn't know you."
Sirius had frightened Pettigrew, Voldemort realised, almost as much as he could.
This could be very useful.
"I think we will keep you," he said quietly. "We would very much enjoy your company. Bella?"
"Yes, My Lord?" she rasped.
"Would a family reunion bring you any comfort in your ordeal?" He reached out a finger to stroke her sunken cheek.
Bellatrix did not have the fortitude to hold back her fury, not after twelve years. She lifted her head, and gave Sirius a haughty glance out the corner of her eyes.
"Roldolphous does not keep filth in the house, My Lord, and nor does Cissy. Unless you would have him chained in the dungeons?"
"Then he will be my responsibility."
The cousins exchanged a look of hatred.
Pettigrew paled.