Realizations
-November 28, 1991-
Voldemort didn’t know what was happening, and it was throwing him off because Voldemort always knows what’s happening. One second he was preparing to make a new fur rug, and the next his precious son is naming the nameless being that had been haunting him for the past few weeks.
Greyback stares at him, his head tilted ever so slightly, his amber eyes displaying the confusion he no doubt feels as he tries to figure out what exactly just happened. Voldemort wastes no time in dismissing the mutt, no longer in the mood to deal with the werewolf’s ulterior motives and schemes.
The second the door closes---Greyback throwing him a knowing glance when he demands he leaves, as if to say, ‘You’re going crazy now?’---Voldemort whirls around to stare at the nameless being that had been driving him mad these past weeks.
“What.” Voldemort says curtly, no longer asking questions. Voldemort watches as he winces, the being shifting ever so slightly, his aristocratic features twisting into an almost apologetic glance.
“Darling---”
“Precious, can you see him?” Voldemort asked, turning to face his son, ignoring the being’s attempts at platitudes.
Little One’s eyebrows furrowed together, obviously picking up on the tension in the room that hadn’t been there seconds earlier. A nervous hand came up to tug Larry out of his resting place and gently moved him to the giant pocket on the front of his overalls. Little One began to pet the duckling softly as he looked between Voldemort and the being.
“See him, Papa?” Little One said finally, his emerald eyes shining with hesitance.
“Yes dear heart,” Voldemort said gently, not wanting to frighten his son, but firmly enough to demand more answers. “Can you see this… man?”
“Not a man.”
“Be silent.” Voldemort hissed, his eyes not leaving Little One’s figure. “Who do you see?”
“It… he Death, Papa,” Little One said, frowning when Voldemort sucked in a sharp breath. “Papa sad?”
“No darling, Papa’s not sad,” Voldemort said softly. Having a crisis, possibly. “Darling, be a love and go find Nagini, will you? Stay with her for a while. Papa…” Voldemort risked a glance behind him at the being. “Papa needs to talk to… Death.”
Little One sent one last confused glance between the two of them before he nodded and turned around, off to find Nagini. As soon as Voldemort heard the heavy doors click shut, Voldemort spun around to face the being. The being was no longer leaning against his throne, choosing instead to stand in front of him. Voldemort met the being’s glowing eyes head-on.
“Death?” he said, after a long moment of staring. The being shifted and Voldemort had to bite back a smirk at the obvious discomfort.
“Yes.” he said, a hesitant smile spreading across his face. “I am that which can never age nor die, but shall exist so long as things grow and change. I am Death.”
Voldemort nodded, ignoring the sudden chill that swept through the room. Death. The being that had been following him around, pestering him for piggy-back rides, snarkily responding to all of his meetings, the being that had slept beside him…
Voldemort sucked in another sharp breath. “Why are you here?” he demanded, refusing to cower, despite the fear that began to creep inside him.
The being---Death looked impossibly fond. “You are my friend.”
“You are Death,” Voldemort said stiffly. “I have conquered you. Aren’t you here to… take me?”
The look that Death leveled him with sent shivers rushing down his spine. Death’s eyes seemed to glow, a strangely heated look freezing him in place. Voldemort could feel the tension spike, and he didn’t know why. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Death laughed. “None shall conquer me, my Dear, not even my dearest Master. All shall befall my hand.”
Voldemort frowned. “My Horcruxes?”
“Temporary, I assure you,” Death said with a grin. “Meant to give you no more than a thousand years at best. Merely prolonging the inevitable.”
“Then why are you here?” Voldemort asked.
“Did you not ask already?” Death said, shaking his head slightly. “You are my friend.”
“How? How can I be your friend? You are Death! That doesn’t… It doesn’t make sense! Why would you be my friend? You must have an ulterior motive!” Voldemort said harshly, glaring at the bemused being.
“Must I?” he asked, and Voldemort was sure he heard fondness in the question. It set him on edge, causing him to grit his teeth. “Is it so hard to believe that I wish us to be friends?”
“Yes,” Voldemort said firmly. “What use do you have for friends? If what you say is true, I will die eventually.”
“And why should that mean we can no longer be friends?” Death asked.
“What? Because I’ll be dead!” Voldemort exclaimed. “You can’t be friends with dead people!”
“Really? I am quite good friends with Merlin, though. We sit for a game of chess every few centuries,” Death said cheekily. Voldemort huffed, blaming his undignified behavior on his frustration. “Just because you are dead, does not mean that you cease to exist.”
“That’s the literal definition!”
“No, that is the mortal definition,” Death corrected. “Mortals assume there is nothing after death because they have no way of proving it. That does not mean it does not exist.”
“Are you telling me there’s an afterlife?” Voldemort scoffed. Death hummed, moving once more to sit down on the grand stone throne.
“Of sorts,” he said, resting his chin on his hand. “There is no heaven and hell in the traditional sense. There is a resting place where souls go to be in peace before they are born once more.”
Voldemort freezes. “Reincarnation is real?”
“Souls are quite difficult to make, you know,” Death said, matter-of-factly. “They require quite a bit of energy and effort to create. It is far easier to recycle souls than it is to create new ones.”
“Is everyone reincarnated? Have... Have I been reincarnated?” Voldemort asks, the desire for knowledge overpowering his wariness for a moment. Death seemed to enjoy Voldemort’s enthusiasm, though, as he leaned forward to get closer to Voldemort’s rigid figure.
“Souls may only be reincarnated if they wish it,” Death said. “There is a final resting place where souls can finally be at peace, should they choose it. However, more often than not, souls choose to be reincarnated. As for your soul…”
Voldemort frowned when Death smiled at him, suddenly feeling naked under the intense gaze. “What?” Voldemort snapped, fighting back the rising heat in his cheeks.
“You were not reincarnated,” Death spoke, ignoring Voldemort’s obvious discomfort. “You are a new soul, one of the newest souls made. There is only one other soul that was born after you. You were created with a specific purpose, unlike all of the other recycled souls.”
Voldemort frowned. There were so many things he wanted to ask now, the answer only giving him more questions. “A specific purpose? What do you mean?”
“Soon, my Dear,” Death said with a wave of his hand. Though it wasn’t an outright dismissal, it still angered Voldemort. He was so done with these vague answers. “As for the youngest soul… It was brought to me too soon, but taken back just as fast.”
There was a melancholy expression on the figure’s face, one filled with longing and grief. The emotion was so strong that it stopped Voldemort for a second and had he been moving, Voldemort was sure he would’ve staggered back. Just as quickly as the emotion had come, it was gone.
“What… what happened?” Voldemort asked, unsure of how to proceed. Death’s eyes flitted up to Voldemort’s face for a second before they moved back to their position on the floor.
“The soul was brought back to the plain of the living, forever sealing it in Lady Magic’s realm,” Death said softly. It was the first time Voldemort had ever heard the being sound so upset. “The soul has been lost to me, and it is nearly impossible to retrieve it. Whole, at least.”
Voldemort frowned. “It was… brought back, you say?” Pieces began to click in his mind. Voldemort frowned, and suddenly, he wasn’t happy with the picture that was beginning to form. “You said… earlier, you said that I… that I took something from you.”
“Yes.”
“That I stole your Master from you,” Voldemort continued, his crimson eyes narrowing. “This soul… the soul that was brought back…”
“The soul belonged to that of my Master, yes,” Death said. “The soul was crafted perfectly to become my Master, my Dear Sister ensured that no matter what happened, the soul would become my Master so that I would no longer be alone.”
“But then your Master was… brought… back…” Voldemort froze, his entire body turning to stone. Suddenly, the fear that had been ebbing away was back full-force, and the sheer terror that gripped him nearly sent him to his knees.
Death stood, and Voldemort stumbled back, his hand instantly gripping his wand. “Darling---”
“I won’t let you have him!” Voldemort snarled, his crimson eyes locked on the figure in front of him. “That’s my son! You can’t take him! I won’t let you!”
“He was my Master before he was your son,” Death said firmly, his eyebrows drawing down into a glare. “You took him from me first.”
“So that’s why you’re here?” Voldemort demanded, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Befriend me so that you can steal my son right under my nose? I will stop you! I won’t let you take my son away from me!”
“Peace,” Death said slowly, holding up his hands. “I could not take him from you even if I wanted to. The ritual you performed on him ensured it.”
Refusing to drop his guard, Voldemort eyed his warily. “Explain.”
“When young Harry Potter died and crossed over, I stood there watching, waiting to welcome him to my domain.” Death said softly, and Voldemort grit his teeth at the longing expression on Death’s face as he spoke of Little One. “He was with me long enough for me to introduce him. Long enough for me to embrace him. That is why he recognized me, I believe. Then you performed the ritual and you stole his soul back, sealing it the land of the living through olde magics. The ritual prevents me from taking his soul in the traditional sense.
“The ritual you used trapped young Harry Potter’s soul inside his body, preserving the body and sustaining the corpse with magic. In doing so, a magical barrier is created around the soul trapped inside. The barrier locks the soul inside the body, acting as the tether that living souls use to remain inside their own bodies. Without magic, the barrier would slowly disintegrate, and the soul would have no way of staying inside the body.”
“I have several inferi that I do not maintain,” Voldemort interrupted. “When I check on them every few years, they are still functional.”
“Yes, but the soul that you originally trapped inside has escaped, leaving only an echo behind. The echo is strong enough to maintain minimum control over the facilities of the body, but there is no independent thought left, leaving them mindless puppets,” Death explained. “Their soul has crossed over to my realm, but the soul is no longer whole. The echo left behind was created by the lack of tether, and the ritual’s desire to hold the soul and body together. The soul cannot stay, but it cannot leave either. So to compensate, the soul leaves behind a piece of itself.”
“The echo?”
Death nodded. “That is why the soul is lost to me. Without a whole soul, the soul is unable to reach the final resting place, nor can it be reincarnated. And so the soul sits in limbo for eternity.”
“Can’t you… I don’t know, take the echo and put the soul back together?” Voldemort asks. Death shakes his head.
“The only way to retrieve the echo is if the body the echo is trapped in is destroyed. However, fiendfyre does not just destroy the body---”
“It destroys the echo too,” Voldemort says softly. Death nods his head once more, despair flashing through his eyes. “The soul can never be whole, and you can never take it.”
“The moment you brought Harry Potter back to life, his soul was lost to me.” Death said glumly.
“I thought you said his path was designed to always lead back to you?” Voldemort said with a frown. “What changed?”
“You did,” Death said, finally looking up at him. “You somehow changed my Dear Sister’s plans entirely. I do not know how you did it, but you somehow changed Fate.”
“So… what does this mean?” Voldemort asked, his wariness returning. “I’ve ruined your only chance at having a Master. You are doomed to be lonely once more. Do you intend to kill me?”
“That, my Dear, is where you are wrong,” Death said, standing once again. Voldemort stepped back, frowning in confusion. “I will never be lonely so long as I have you. My Master will not be lost to me so long as he remains in the Land of the Living.”
“I don’t understand,” Voldemort said warily. “What do I have to do with anything?”
Death stepped forward until he was standing in front of Voldemort’s rigid form. He let his forehead rest against Voldemort’s, and Voldemort’s breath hitched in the back of his throat. A hand comes up to cup his cheek, and Voldemort cannot help the redness that creeps onto his face when Death brushes his thumb against his cheekbone.
“He may be my Master… but you… you were created to be my companion.”
“We have to talk about this, you know.” Remus says, sitting next to him. Sirius just groans, letting his head fall back against the plush cushions of the sofa they sat on. They had finally finished their training, and though they were still confined to the Dark Lord’s castle, they were finally, allowed to relax. Sirius took that to heart, as he went in search of the comfiest furniture he could find.
It had been… awkward these past few days, to say the least. After the confrontation in the hall with Snape, the couple wasn’t sure how to proceed. Sirius wanted to apologize again, keep apologizing until Snape accepted. Remus disagreed, saying that Snape needed space.
So space was given. Despite Sirius’ desire to, they did not approach Snape outside of training, and whenever they saw each other in the hall, Remus would drag Sirius away from him in the opposite direction.
“What if we just sat here and slept instead?” Sirius suggested, brushing his hand back and forth against the sofa as if to demonstrate how nice it was. Remus just rolled his eyes.
“We can do that after we discuss what’s going on.” Remus said, shifting so that he was facing Sirius.
“What? What’s going on?” Sirius asked, exaggeratedly looking around.
“Sirius.”
Sirius let out a huff. “What do you want to talk about? The confrontation? The apology? Snape?”
“All of it, preferably,” Remus said. “But let’s start with the confrontation. Wanna explain what happened back there?”
“I apologized to him! He didn’t accept it. What more is there to talk about?” Sirius demanded. His answer was a deadpan stare. Sirius sighed, a hand coming up to drag through his long curly hair.
“Why don’t we talk about why?” Remus asked. “I mean, I’ve been telling you to apologize to him for ages but you never wanted to. What changed your mind?”
Sirius sighed, his onyx eyes trailing down to his hands clenched into fists on his lap. “I don’t know… it… It was sudden. I don’t know why I wanted to, but I just saw him and I… I just wanted to.”
Remus nodded, his lips pursed in thought. “Those things he said… about the past.”
“It’s true,” Sirius said stiffly, unconsciously tightening his fists. “What we did to him… I don’t even know why we did it, too. Looking back it all just seems so stupid. We were just kids, but it didn’t really stop when we grew up either.”
“Making amends will be difficult.” Remus said softly. “Especially if you don’t know why you’re making amends.”
“How did you do it?” Sirius asked, looking at his lover suddenly. “You and Snape, I mean.”
“How did I make amends?” Remus asked. Sirius nodded, and Remus sighed, looking off into the distance. “I didn’t really. I never apologized to him about the stuff that happened during school. But I also never actively sought him out. I was more of a bystander, but even then, I should’ve spoken up. I think treating him with respect, even when he didn’t return the favor, was enough.”
Sirius suddenly let out a loud yell and slammed his head back into the cushions, causing Remus to jump beside him. “Why is this so difficult?!”
“What on Earth is going on out here?”
Sirius looked up to see Narcissa looming over them. Her face was drawn into a pinched glare, but even then, she maintained a careful disinterest. Sirius grinned. “Hello, Cissy.” Sirius said, lifting a hand to wave.
“I could hear you from the drawing-room,” Narcissa said in response. “Is there a problem?”
“Snape.” Sirius says with a frown. “He’s… I don’t know. Everything is weird.”
“Boy problems?” Narcissa asks with a raised brow. Sirius scoffed.
“We’re not sixteen, Cissy,” he said. “This isn’t a romance problem.”
“Isn’t it?” Narcissa asked, moving around the sofa to sit in the armchair next to them. “You are sitting here, lamenting to your lover about another man. A man, may I add, that you have been pulling the proverbial pigtails of for several years now.”
Sirius sputtered. “Excuse me?!”
Narcissa sighed and sent a knowing glance to Remus, who nodded in return. “Sirius, you are still impossibly slow. Even your partner figured it out before you.”
“Figure what out?!”
“You are attracted to him.” Narcissa said simply, ignoring the way Sirius froze. Sirius stares at his cousin for a long time, his wide eyes never straying from her deadpanned expression before he lets a harsh breath of air escape his lungs. He feels his lover gently press against his shoulder.
“Siri?” he asks softly, trading nervous glances with Narcissa.
Finally, Sirius speaks. “I’m attracted to Snivellus! Oh, Merlin!”