Deathstar - Tumblr Posts
K: You, Alien Admiral out of nowhere, Tarkin’s minion, I don’t know!! Listen here you ugly Pantoran, you lay hands on my life (the Death Star) and you die, you hear me??! Something goes wrong because of you and I will make it look like an accident!! *Heavy breaths of rage and panic*
Krennic’s angry sparkling eyes locked with Thrawn’s. The Chiss Grand Admiral was shocked by the Director’s rude behaviour, but soon he realised that all this frustration was probably caused by his reputation in the Empire and that Krennic was just a maniac, arrogant man who was constantly afraid of losing his “achievment” to Tarkin or someone like him.
All Thrawn had to do was to smile calmly, even with the blaster pointed at his chest and say:
Th: I assure you I won’t touch your precious superweapon, Director. Sleep peacefully at nights… And he set aside Krennic’s blaster and walked past him, leaving the Director with a dropped jaw behind him.
#starwars #starwarsfan #starwarsfanatic #starwarsfandom #starwarsgreekfanclub #starwarsblackseries #theblackseries #theblackseries6inch #starwarsactionfigure #actionfigure #starwarshasbro #hasbro #grandadmiralthrawn #thrawn #mitthrawnuruodo #directorkrennic #orsonkrennic #krennic #starwarsrebels #starwarsrogueone #rogueone #rogue1 #deathstar #galacticempire #empire #imperial #blaster #maytheforcebewithus https://www.instagram.com/p/BzIRV66i_TU/?igshid=1che5q8y8yijn
From my Instagram.
I have two moods for Sirius:
I either ship him with James or I ship him with Voldemort.
Also, if you've not read it, go and read @metalomagnetic It Runs in The Blood (for DeathStar)
and
@gracelesslady23's and a love that I dreamt of came to me at my worst (for Prongsfoot)
I also have a third mood where Sirius goes absolutely berserk and destroys everything to protect or avenge the ones he loves
The Black Lord by irislafey is beautiful in this regard.
I have two moods for Sirius:
I either ship him with James or I ship him with Voldemort.
Also, if you've not read it, go and read @metalomagnetic It Runs in The Blood (for DeathStar)
and
@gracelesslady23's and a love that I dreamt of came to me at my worst (for Prongsfoot)
I also have a third mood where Sirius goes absolutely berserk and destroys everything to protect or avenge the ones he loves
The Black Lord by irislafey is beautiful in this regard.
Voldemort meets Sirius.
He knows this one will be different as soon as he steps foot in the messy house.
The wards that guard it are borderline dark magic, barely legal. They are well executed, as well. An auspicious beginning, Voldemort thinks, as he patiently dismantles them.
The Black scion isn’t home; Evan dutifully let Voldemort know he’s drunk in some Knockturn pub.
“He often comes to drink in Knockturn, but always alone. Never with his Gryffindor friends. He’s a mean drunk, too, my lord. Perhaps if you wish to have a semblance of a rational conversation- as much as it is possible with any Black- you shouldn’t approach him when he’s wasted.”
The walls are …colourful. The paint was once white, but the young Black heir hung posters of muggle singers everywhere. Perhaps actors, too, Voldemort isn’t familiar with what passes for famous these days in the muggle world.
He only recognises Elvis, mounted over the fireplace.
They all look the same- tall, dark haired, dressed in leather.
Pictures of his friends are up there as well. He recognises Potter in many of them- hard not to, with that trademark Potter hair. The girl draped on his arm, red head, must be his mudblood. Voldemort forgot her name. Something flowery, but it escapes him.
Bella and Evan, occasionally Rabastan often complain about Black’s entourage, but they only name Potter.
“Stupid Potter, his mudblood and the werewolf! He left us for those little worms!”
He thinks the werewolf must be the thin one, an air of misery draped over him in every picture. Greyback complained about him, too. Remus, that’s the one, it comes to Voldemort. Remus Lupin, werewolf.
“With a name like that, I had to bite him,” Greyback smirked, in one of his rare funny moods. “He was destined to be mine, but Black stole him.”
The other boy that appears in almost all the pictures, Voldemort doesn’t even try to place.
He got a report on all of them, marked as Dumbledore’s puppets, but he only remembered the important names on that list.
The girl, he knows. Only one picture with her. Marlene McKinnon. A fighter- a good fighter. She killed three Death Eaters. A Healer, too. Voldemort always looks after powerful witches. They are sorely misrepresented in this war. It upsets Bella, who is trying to recruit more girls, with little success.
She’s in Black’s lap, head thrown back, while Black sucks a bruise on her throat. Voldemort tilts his head, wastes a second more than it is needed on the picture. He’d never seen a picture this vulgar, especially put on display on a wall. The girl is engaged, isn’t she? With one of the Prewett brothers.
He scans the walls for them, but he can’t find them anywhere.
He finds muggle telephone numbers scribbled in lipstick on the walls, instead.
The most amusing- a picture ripped from a newspaper, showing the Dark Mark floating over a house. It has many sharp objects stuck in it-
Darts. Yes, that’s the name of the game.
He smiles. Black has good aim- one of the darts is stuck in the eye of the snake.
Under the bed, beneath a loose floorboard, he finds a box kept safe by no less than five curses. He opens it to find a picture of Orion Black. It is clipped from a newspaper article, cut carefully and precisely around the edges. And a letter. It’s clearly the second page of one- the first is missing.
‘-no need to play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. You know fully well it is not cursing the half-blood that bothers me, but your lack of decorum. You are a civilised young man, you represent our family, and you should act accordingly. I warned you I do not enjoy having to correspond with either McGonagall or Dumbledore, yet you’re forcing me to do so when you blatantly misbehave. Am I to presume you do not care about my displeasure, and this is why you disobey me? Or should I conclude you would like to please your father, yet you lack the self-control to do it? I struggle to pick which option is worse. This is the seventh time in a month I receive letters about your detentions. Do stop assaulting your schoolmates, or if you must, show some cunning and do not get caught. Or else we will have to have a serious conversation when you come home for Yule. I assure you, it is not a conversation you will enjoy.
Furthermore, I hear you intend to take a mudblood to one of those holiday celebrations Slughorn likes to host. Surely, I heard wrong. You would be wise to invite Helena Edgecombe to this function. Her father mentioned just the other day that she finds your company delightful.
Flitwick was accommodating enough to send me your Charms paper, along with your grade. He mentioned it was the best paper he graded in all his years of teaching, and, after reading it, I must agree it was quite extraordinary. I am half tempted to send it to my old mentor back at the Institute. Very well done, Sirius. You certainly can make me proud when it doesn’t inconvenience you.
If only you would show proof of your upbringing in your social life, as well, I would be most content.
With love,
Your father.’
The letter has blotch marks on it, as if someone cried over it. The word ‘father’, especially, is almost erased, and Voldemort imagines Black often moved his finger over it.
Bella mentioned Sirius Black was ‘unnaturally close’ to Orion, and that his father’s death broke him. She credits this event with the boy running away from Grimmauld.
Voldemort carefully arranges these apparently precious possessions back into the box, seals it under the floorboard with the same curses he found on it.
The house is messy, unorganised, clothes thrown around, bottles of alcohol everywhere, full to the brim ashtrays lying around in odd places, and burn marks on the rug.
Yet his collection of muggle records is organised in alphabetical order, neatly. And there, hidden behind the impressive collection, Voldemort finds eight tomes filled with dark magic. All illegal.
His bathroom cabinets are just as messy, and clearly his female guests left behind bottles of lipstick, or similar products. They also left behind some lingerie. A pair of pink knickers is half hidden into a tiny gap underneath the bathtub. He wonders if they belong to the same women who left her bra between the couch cushions in the living room.
Voldemort finds a secret compartment, coming out from the side of the bathroom cabinet. Hang-over potions, peppers up. Polyjuice.
Veritaserum.
Hidden further still, he finds three lethal poisons.
If he didn’t know better, Voldemort might think two different men share the house; a careless, Bohemian womaniser, a blood traitor surrounded by mudbloods and half-bloods and other blood traitors, with muggle musicians on the wall.
And the Black heir, interested in dark magic, poisons, sleeping with his father’s picture under his bed.
This will be easy, he thinks, as he sits in an appalling armchair that doesn’t fit with the rest of the furniture.
Charmed into the armrest, there’s a letter, covered in plastic for preservation. “You fucking dog, how dare you steal my armchair! Give it back, or I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life writing horrible articles about you!”
It amuses Voldemort, as it probably amuses Black, hence why he decided to place it on the armrest, permanently.
When the young man stumbles his way into the house, he contains his surprise to find Voldemort there remarkably fast.
People have been telling Voldemort Black takes after Walburga; he might, it’s too soon to tell, but his first impression is that Sirius favours his father.
Voldemort is yet to meet an unattractive Black- and he’s met them all- but the boy is something else, even for the Blacks.
His tall, broad body is on display in the muggle attire he wears, hair falling around his shoulders with a casual elegance; he is both handsome, with strong, sharp bones and beautiful, with soft lips and long, thick eyelashes, made even darker by the paleness of his eyes.
It has been so long since he felt attraction; it travels up his spine as he takes in the boy.
Who very quickly decides he will die a hero; Voldemort can see that decision forming in his eyes. Not with Legilimency. It’s just made obvious by the way his impressive shoulders straighten with pride, his jaw sets in determination, anger replacing the fear in his eyes.
And there was fear- Voldemort is intimately familiar with fear of death, can easily recognise it when it shines in front of him.
Yet he spent his life fleeing from it.
Sirius Black walks towards it, bold.
It takes only a minute of conversation to charm him; easy, indeed. Sirius’ interest is picked instantly; pride flickers in his eyes that someone like Voldemort would bother coming to kill him; even more pride when Voldemort explains he’s there to recruit him.
He is a Black, down to his last bone. He calls Voldemort a mudblood; he declares himself the purest being in existence. He speaks of his mother; the boy in the pictures is not there, the owner of muggle records, the blood traitor- no; only the Black heir speaks to Voldemort that night.
Powerful, too, like any Black. A diamond in the rough, his magic true and strong and raw as he unleashes it. Dark curses fall with a practiced ease from his wand. Fiendfyre engulfs the room in seconds.
What a treasure. As unhinged and powerful as Bella, this one.
And there it is, his pure blood spilling over the floor, staining the carpet. Voldemort has the impulse to taste it; a momentary madness, but the boy enchants him so.
His clothes are ripped and burned in places, and Voldemort can glimpse tattoos on pale skin. Voldemort wants his mark on that skin; he wants to hold the boy’s strong forearm and brand him as his own. Claim him for himself.
Sirius Black fights readily, bravely. With his wand and with his words.
But Voldemort can smell the mountain of insecurity hidden under the fury, like the boy hides his poisons under harmless perfumes.
Some men- most men- cower when confronted with violence, bend and break under pain, especially pain caused by Voldemort’s wand.
Not this one, Voldemort understands. No, violence will only be met with violence, here.
Voldemort will need a different approach.
Voldemort meets Sirius.
He knows this one will be different as soon as he steps foot in the messy house.
The wards that guard it are borderline dark magic, barely legal. They are well executed, as well. An auspicious beginning, Voldemort thinks, as he patiently dismantles them.
The Black scion isn’t home; Evan dutifully let Voldemort know he’s drunk in some Knockturn pub.
“He often comes to drink in Knockturn, but always alone. Never with his Gryffindor friends. He’s a mean drunk, too, my lord. Perhaps if you wish to have a semblance of a rational conversation- as much as it is possible with any Black- you shouldn’t approach him when he’s wasted.”
The walls are …colourful. The paint was once white, but the young Black heir hung posters of muggle singers everywhere. Perhaps actors, too, Voldemort isn’t familiar with what passes for famous these days in the muggle world.
He only recognises Elvis, mounted over the fireplace.
They all look the same- tall, dark haired, dressed in leather.
Pictures of his friends are up there as well. He recognises Potter in many of them- hard not to, with that trademark Potter hair. The girl draped on his arm, red head, must be his mudblood. Voldemort forgot her name. Something flowery, but it escapes him.
Bella and Evan, occasionally Rabastan often complain about Black’s entourage, but they only name Potter.
“Stupid Potter, his mudblood and the werewolf! He left us for those little worms!”
He thinks the werewolf must be the thin one, an air of misery draped over him in every picture. Greyback complained about him, too. Remus, that’s the one, it comes to Voldemort. Remus Lupin, werewolf.
“With a name like that, I had to bite him,” Greyback smirked, in one of his rare funny moods. “He was destined to be mine, but Black stole him.”
The other boy that appears in almost all the pictures, Voldemort doesn’t even try to place.
He got a report on all of them, marked as Dumbledore’s puppets, but he only remembered the important names on that list.
The girl, he knows. Only one picture with her. Marlene McKinnon. A fighter- a good fighter. She killed three Death Eaters. A Healer, too. Voldemort always looks after powerful witches. They are sorely misrepresented in this war. It upsets Bella, who is trying to recruit more girls, with little success.
She’s in Black’s lap, head thrown back, while Black sucks a bruise on her throat. Voldemort tilts his head, wastes a second more than it is needed on the picture. He’d never seen a picture this vulgar, especially put on display on a wall. The girl is engaged, isn’t she? With one of the Prewett brothers.
He scans the walls for them, but he can’t find them anywhere.
He finds muggle telephone numbers scribbled in lipstick on the walls, instead.
The most amusing- a picture ripped from a newspaper, showing the Dark Mark floating over a house. It has many sharp objects stuck in it-
Darts. Yes, that’s the name of the game.
He smiles. Black has good aim- one of the darts is stuck in the eye of the snake.
Under the bed, beneath a loose floorboard, he finds a box kept safe by no less than five curses. He opens it to find a picture of Orion Black. It is clipped from a newspaper article, cut carefully and precisely around the edges. And a letter. It’s clearly the second page of one- the first is missing.
‘-no need to play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. You know fully well it is not cursing the half-blood that bothers me, but your lack of decorum. You are a civilised young man, you represent our family, and you should act accordingly. I warned you I do not enjoy having to correspond with either McGonagall or Dumbledore, yet you’re forcing me to do so when you blatantly misbehave. Am I to presume you do not care about my displeasure, and this is why you disobey me? Or should I conclude you would like to please your father, yet you lack the self-control to do it? I struggle to pick which option is worse. This is the seventh time in a month I receive letters about your detentions. Do stop assaulting your schoolmates, or if you must, show some cunning and do not get caught. Or else we will have to have a serious conversation when you come home for Yule. I assure you, it is not a conversation you will enjoy.
Furthermore, I hear you intend to take a mudblood to one of those holiday celebrations Slughorn likes to host. Surely, I heard wrong. You would be wise to invite Helena Edgecombe to this function. Her father mentioned just the other day that she finds your company delightful.
Flitwick was accommodating enough to send me your Charms paper, along with your grade. He mentioned it was the best paper he graded in all his years of teaching, and, after reading it, I must agree it was quite extraordinary. I am half tempted to send it to my old mentor back at the Institute. Very well done, Sirius. You certainly can make me proud when it doesn’t inconvenience you.
If only you would show proof of your upbringing in your social life, as well, I would be most content.
With love,
Your father.’
The letter has blotch marks on it, as if someone cried over it. The word ‘father’, especially, is almost erased, and Voldemort imagines Black often moved his finger over it.
Bella mentioned Sirius Black was ‘unnaturally close’ to Orion, and that his father’s death broke him. She credits this event with the boy running away from Grimmauld.
Voldemort carefully arranges these apparently precious possessions back into the box, seals it under the floorboard with the same curses he found on it.
The house is messy, unorganised, clothes thrown around, bottles of alcohol everywhere, full to the brim ashtrays lying around in odd places, and burn marks on the rug.
Yet his collection of muggle records is organised in alphabetical order, neatly. And there, hidden behind the impressive collection, Voldemort finds eight tomes filled with dark magic. All illegal.
His bathroom cabinets are just as messy, and clearly his female guests left behind bottles of lipstick, or similar products. They also left behind some lingerie. A pair of pink knickers is half hidden into a tiny gap underneath the bathtub. He wonders if they belong to the same women who left her bra between the couch cushions in the living room.
Voldemort finds a secret compartment, coming out from the side of the bathroom cabinet. Hang-over potions, peppers up. Polyjuice.
Veritaserum.
Hidden further still, he finds three lethal poisons.
If he didn’t know better, Voldemort might think two different men share the house; a careless, Bohemian womaniser, a blood traitor surrounded by mudbloods and half-bloods and other blood traitors, with muggle musicians on the wall.
And the Black heir, interested in dark magic, poisons, sleeping with his father’s picture under his bed.
This will be easy, he thinks, as he sits in an appalling armchair that doesn’t fit with the rest of the furniture.
Charmed into the armrest, there’s a letter, covered in plastic for preservation. “You fucking dog, how dare you steal my armchair! Give it back, or I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life writing horrible articles about you!”
It amuses Voldemort, as it probably amuses Black, hence why he decided to place it on the armrest, permanently.
When the young man stumbles his way into the house, he contains his surprise to find Voldemort there remarkably fast.
People have been telling Voldemort Black takes after Walburga; he might, it’s too soon to tell, but his first impression is that Sirius favours his father.
Voldemort is yet to meet an unattractive Black- and he’s met them all- but the boy is something else, even for the Blacks.
His tall, broad body is on display in the muggle attire he wears, hair falling around his shoulders with a casual elegance; he is both handsome, with strong, sharp bones and beautiful, with soft lips and long, thick eyelashes, made even darker by the paleness of his eyes.
It has been so long since he felt attraction; it travels up his spine as he takes in the boy.
Who very quickly decides he will die a hero; Voldemort can see that decision forming in his eyes. Not with Legilimency. It’s just made obvious by the way his impressive shoulders straighten with pride, his jaw sets in determination, anger replacing the fear in his eyes.
And there was fear- Voldemort is intimately familiar with fear of death, can easily recognise it when it shines in front of him.
Yet he spent his life fleeing from it.
Sirius Black walks towards it, bold.
It takes only a minute of conversation to charm him; easy, indeed. Sirius’ interest is picked instantly; pride flickers in his eyes that someone like Voldemort would bother coming to kill him; even more pride when Voldemort explains he’s there to recruit him.
He is a Black, down to his last bone. He calls Voldemort a mudblood; he declares himself the purest being in existence. He speaks of his mother; the boy in the pictures is not there, the owner of muggle records, the blood traitor- no; only the Black heir speaks to Voldemort that night.
Powerful, too, like any Black. A diamond in the rough, his magic true and strong and raw as he unleashes it. Dark curses fall with a practiced ease from his wand. Fiendfyre engulfs the room in seconds.
What a treasure. As unhinged and powerful as Bella, this one.
And there it is, his pure blood spilling over the floor, staining the carpet. Voldemort has the impulse to taste it; a momentary madness, but the boy enchants him so.
His clothes are ripped and burned in places, and Voldemort can glimpse tattoos on pale skin. Voldemort wants his mark on that skin; he wants to hold the boy’s strong forearm and brand him as his own. Claim him for himself.
Sirius Black fights readily, bravely. With his wand and with his words.
But Voldemort can smell the mountain of insecurity hidden under the fury, like the boy hides his poisons under harmless perfumes.
Some men- most men- cower when confronted with violence, bend and break under pain, especially pain caused by Voldemort’s wand.
Not this one, Voldemort understands. No, violence will only be met with violence, here.
Voldemort will need a different approach.
Voldemort meets Sirius.
He knows this one will be different as soon as he steps foot in the messy house.
The wards that guard it are borderline dark magic, barely legal. They are well executed, as well. An auspicious beginning, Voldemort thinks, as he patiently dismantles them.
The Black scion isn’t home; Evan dutifully let Voldemort know he’s drunk in some Knockturn pub.
“He often comes to drink in Knockturn, but always alone. Never with his Gryffindor friends. He’s a mean drunk, too, my lord. Perhaps if you wish to have a semblance of a rational conversation- as much as it is possible with any Black- you shouldn’t approach him when he’s wasted.”
The walls are …colourful. The paint was once white, but the young Black heir hung posters of muggle singers everywhere. Perhaps actors, too, Voldemort isn’t familiar with what passes for famous these days in the muggle world.
He only recognises Elvis, mounted over the fireplace.
They all look the same- tall, dark haired, dressed in leather.
Pictures of his friends are up there as well. He recognises Potter in many of them- hard not to, with that trademark Potter hair. The girl draped on his arm, red head, must be his mudblood. Voldemort forgot her name. Something flowery, but it escapes him.
Bella and Evan, occasionally Rabastan often complain about Black’s entourage, but they only name Potter.
“Stupid Potter, his mudblood and the werewolf! He left us for those little worms!”
He thinks the werewolf must be the thin one, an air of misery draped over him in every picture. Greyback complained about him, too. Remus, that’s the one, it comes to Voldemort. Remus Lupin, werewolf.
“With a name like that, I had to bite him,” Greyback smirked, in one of his rare funny moods. “He was destined to be mine, but Black stole him.”
The other boy that appears in almost all the pictures, Voldemort doesn’t even try to place.
He got a report on all of them, marked as Dumbledore’s puppets, but he only remembered the important names on that list.
The girl, he knows. Only one picture with her. Marlene McKinnon. A fighter- a good fighter. She killed three Death Eaters. A Healer, too. Voldemort always looks after powerful witches. They are sorely misrepresented in this war. It upsets Bella, who is trying to recruit more girls, with little success.
She’s in Black’s lap, head thrown back, while Black sucks a bruise on her throat. Voldemort tilts his head, wastes a second more than it is needed on the picture. He’d never seen a picture this vulgar, especially put on display on a wall. The girl is engaged, isn’t she? With one of the Prewett brothers.
He scans the walls for them, but he can’t find them anywhere.
He finds muggle telephone numbers scribbled in lipstick on the walls, instead.
The most amusing- a picture ripped from a newspaper, showing the Dark Mark floating over a house. It has many sharp objects stuck in it-
Darts. Yes, that’s the name of the game.
He smiles. Black has good aim- one of the darts is stuck in the eye of the snake.
Under the bed, beneath a loose floorboard, he finds a box kept safe by no less than five curses. He opens it to find a picture of Orion Black. It is clipped from a newspaper article, cut carefully and precisely around the edges. And a letter. It’s clearly the second page of one- the first is missing.
‘-no need to play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. You know fully well it is not cursing the half-blood that bothers me, but your lack of decorum. You are a civilised young man, you represent our family, and you should act accordingly. I warned you I do not enjoy having to correspond with either McGonagall or Dumbledore, yet you’re forcing me to do so when you blatantly misbehave. Am I to presume you do not care about my displeasure, and this is why you disobey me? Or should I conclude you would like to please your father, yet you lack the self-control to do it? I struggle to pick which option is worse. This is the seventh time in a month I receive letters about your detentions. Do stop assaulting your schoolmates, or if you must, show some cunning and do not get caught. Or else we will have to have a serious conversation when you come home for Yule. I assure you, it is not a conversation you will enjoy.
Furthermore, I hear you intend to take a mudblood to one of those holiday celebrations Slughorn likes to host. Surely, I heard wrong. You would be wise to invite Helena Edgecombe to this function. Her father mentioned just the other day that she finds your company delightful.
Flitwick was accommodating enough to send me your Charms paper, along with your grade. He mentioned it was the best paper he graded in all his years of teaching, and, after reading it, I must agree it was quite extraordinary. I am half tempted to send it to my old mentor back at the Institute. Very well done, Sirius. You certainly can make me proud when it doesn’t inconvenience you.
If only you would show proof of your upbringing in your social life, as well, I would be most content.
With love,
Your father.’
The letter has blotch marks on it, as if someone cried over it. The word ‘father’, especially, is almost erased, and Voldemort imagines Black often moved his finger over it.
Bella mentioned Sirius Black was ‘unnaturally close’ to Orion, and that his father’s death broke him. She credits this event with the boy running away from Grimmauld.
Voldemort carefully arranges these apparently precious possessions back into the box, seals it under the floorboard with the same curses he found on it.
The house is messy, unorganised, clothes thrown around, bottles of alcohol everywhere, full to the brim ashtrays lying around in odd places, and burn marks on the rug.
Yet his collection of muggle records is organised in alphabetical order, neatly. And there, hidden behind the impressive collection, Voldemort finds eight tomes filled with dark magic. All illegal.
His bathroom cabinets are just as messy, and clearly his female guests left behind bottles of lipstick, or similar products. They also left behind some lingerie. A pair of pink knickers is half hidden into a tiny gap underneath the bathtub. He wonders if they belong to the same women who left her bra between the couch cushions in the living room.
Voldemort finds a secret compartment, coming out from the side of the bathroom cabinet. Hang-over potions, peppers up. Polyjuice.
Veritaserum.
Hidden further still, he finds three lethal poisons.
If he didn’t know better, Voldemort might think two different men share the house; a careless, Bohemian womaniser, a blood traitor surrounded by mudbloods and half-bloods and other blood traitors, with muggle musicians on the wall.
And the Black heir, interested in dark magic, poisons, sleeping with his father’s picture under his bed.
This will be easy, he thinks, as he sits in an appalling armchair that doesn’t fit with the rest of the furniture.
Charmed into the armrest, there’s a letter, covered in plastic for preservation. “You fucking dog, how dare you steal my armchair! Give it back, or I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life writing horrible articles about you!”
It amuses Voldemort, as it probably amuses Black, hence why he decided to place it on the armrest, permanently.
When the young man stumbles his way into the house, he contains his surprise to find Voldemort there remarkably fast.
People have been telling Voldemort Black takes after Walburga; he might, it’s too soon to tell, but his first impression is that Sirius favours his father.
Voldemort is yet to meet an unattractive Black- and he’s met them all- but the boy is something else, even for the Blacks.
His tall, broad body is on display in the muggle attire he wears, hair falling around his shoulders with a casual elegance; he is both handsome, with strong, sharp bones and beautiful, with soft lips and long, thick eyelashes, made even darker by the paleness of his eyes.
It has been so long since he felt attraction; it travels up his spine as he takes in the boy.
Who very quickly decides he will die a hero; Voldemort can see that decision forming in his eyes. Not with Legilimency. It’s just made obvious by the way his impressive shoulders straighten with pride, his jaw sets in determination, anger replacing the fear in his eyes.
And there was fear- Voldemort is intimately familiar with fear of death, can easily recognise it when it shines in front of him.
Yet he spent his life fleeing from it.
Sirius Black walks towards it, bold.
It takes only a minute of conversation to charm him; easy, indeed. Sirius’ interest is picked instantly; pride flickers in his eyes that someone like Voldemort would bother coming to kill him; even more pride when Voldemort explains he’s there to recruit him.
He is a Black, down to his last bone. He calls Voldemort a mudblood; he declares himself the purest being in existence. He speaks of his mother; the boy in the pictures is not there, the owner of muggle records, the blood traitor- no; only the Black heir speaks to Voldemort that night.
Powerful, too, like any Black. A diamond in the rough, his magic true and strong and raw as he unleashes it. Dark curses fall with a practiced ease from his wand. Fiendfyre engulfs the room in seconds.
What a treasure. As unhinged and powerful as Bella, this one.
And there it is, his pure blood spilling over the floor, staining the carpet. Voldemort has the impulse to taste it; a momentary madness, but the boy enchants him so.
His clothes are ripped and burned in places, and Voldemort can glimpse tattoos on pale skin. Voldemort wants his mark on that skin; he wants to hold the boy’s strong forearm and brand him as his own. Claim him for himself.
Sirius Black fights readily, bravely. With his wand and with his words.
But Voldemort can smell the mountain of insecurity hidden under the fury, like the boy hides his poisons under harmless perfumes.
Some men- most men- cower when confronted with violence, bend and break under pain, especially pain caused by Voldemort’s wand.
Not this one, Voldemort understands. No, violence will only be met with violence, here.
Voldemort will need a different approach.
Voldemort meets Sirius.
He knows this one will be different as soon as he steps foot in the messy house.
The wards that guard it are borderline dark magic, barely legal. They are well executed, as well. An auspicious beginning, Voldemort thinks, as he patiently dismantles them.
The Black scion isn’t home; Evan dutifully let Voldemort know he’s drunk in some Knockturn pub.
“He often comes to drink in Knockturn, but always alone. Never with his Gryffindor friends. He’s a mean drunk, too, my lord. Perhaps if you wish to have a semblance of a rational conversation- as much as it is possible with any Black- you shouldn’t approach him when he’s wasted.”
The walls are …colourful. The paint was once white, but the young Black heir hung posters of muggle singers everywhere. Perhaps actors, too, Voldemort isn’t familiar with what passes for famous these days in the muggle world.
He only recognises Elvis, mounted over the fireplace.
They all look the same- tall, dark haired, dressed in leather.
Pictures of his friends are up there as well. He recognises Potter in many of them- hard not to, with that trademark Potter hair. The girl draped on his arm, red head, must be his mudblood. Voldemort forgot her name. Something flowery, but it escapes him.
Bella and Evan, occasionally Rabastan often complain about Black’s entourage, but they only name Potter.
“Stupid Potter, his mudblood and the werewolf! He left us for those little worms!”
He thinks the werewolf must be the thin one, an air of misery draped over him in every picture. Greyback complained about him, too. Remus, that’s the one, it comes to Voldemort. Remus Lupin, werewolf.
“With a name like that, I had to bite him,” Greyback smirked, in one of his rare funny moods. “He was destined to be mine, but Black stole him.”
The other boy that appears in almost all the pictures, Voldemort doesn’t even try to place.
He got a report on all of them, marked as Dumbledore’s puppets, but he only remembered the important names on that list.
The girl, he knows. Only one picture with her. Marlene McKinnon. A fighter- a good fighter. She killed three Death Eaters. A Healer, too. Voldemort always looks after powerful witches. They are sorely misrepresented in this war. It upsets Bella, who is trying to recruit more girls, with little success.
She’s in Black’s lap, head thrown back, while Black sucks a bruise on her throat. Voldemort tilts his head, wastes a second more than it is needed on the picture. He’d never seen a picture this vulgar, especially put on display on a wall. The girl is engaged, isn’t she? With one of the Prewett brothers.
He scans the walls for them, but he can’t find them anywhere.
He finds muggle telephone numbers scribbled in lipstick on the walls, instead.
The most amusing- a picture ripped from a newspaper, showing the Dark Mark floating over a house. It has many sharp objects stuck in it-
Darts. Yes, that’s the name of the game.
He smiles. Black has good aim- one of the darts is stuck in the eye of the snake.
Under the bed, beneath a loose floorboard, he finds a box kept safe by no less than five curses. He opens it to find a picture of Orion Black. It is clipped from a newspaper article, cut carefully and precisely around the edges. And a letter. It’s clearly the second page of one- the first is missing.
‘-no need to play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. You know fully well it is not cursing the half-blood that bothers me, but your lack of decorum. You are a civilised young man, you represent our family, and you should act accordingly. I warned you I do not enjoy having to correspond with either McGonagall or Dumbledore, yet you’re forcing me to do so when you blatantly misbehave. Am I to presume you do not care about my displeasure, and this is why you disobey me? Or should I conclude you would like to please your father, yet you lack the self-control to do it? I struggle to pick which option is worse. This is the seventh time in a month I receive letters about your detentions. Do stop assaulting your schoolmates, or if you must, show some cunning and do not get caught. Or else we will have to have a serious conversation when you come home for Yule. I assure you, it is not a conversation you will enjoy.
Furthermore, I hear you intend to take a mudblood to one of those holiday celebrations Slughorn likes to host. Surely, I heard wrong. You would be wise to invite Helena Edgecombe to this function. Her father mentioned just the other day that she finds your company delightful.
Flitwick was accommodating enough to send me your Charms paper, along with your grade. He mentioned it was the best paper he graded in all his years of teaching, and, after reading it, I must agree it was quite extraordinary. I am half tempted to send it to my old mentor back at the Institute. Very well done, Sirius. You certainly can make me proud when it doesn’t inconvenience you.
If only you would show proof of your upbringing in your social life, as well, I would be most content.
With love,
Your father.’
The letter has blotch marks on it, as if someone cried over it. The word ‘father’, especially, is almost erased, and Voldemort imagines Black often moved his finger over it.
Bella mentioned Sirius Black was ‘unnaturally close’ to Orion, and that his father’s death broke him. She credits this event with the boy running away from Grimmauld.
Voldemort carefully arranges these apparently precious possessions back into the box, seals it under the floorboard with the same curses he found on it.
The house is messy, unorganised, clothes thrown around, bottles of alcohol everywhere, full to the brim ashtrays lying around in odd places, and burn marks on the rug.
Yet his collection of muggle records is organised in alphabetical order, neatly. And there, hidden behind the impressive collection, Voldemort finds eight tomes filled with dark magic. All illegal.
His bathroom cabinets are just as messy, and clearly his female guests left behind bottles of lipstick, or similar products. They also left behind some lingerie. A pair of pink knickers is half hidden into a tiny gap underneath the bathtub. He wonders if they belong to the same women who left her bra between the couch cushions in the living room.
Voldemort finds a secret compartment, coming out from the side of the bathroom cabinet. Hang-over potions, peppers up. Polyjuice.
Veritaserum.
Hidden further still, he finds three lethal poisons.
If he didn’t know better, Voldemort might think two different men share the house; a careless, Bohemian womaniser, a blood traitor surrounded by mudbloods and half-bloods and other blood traitors, with muggle musicians on the wall.
And the Black heir, interested in dark magic, poisons, sleeping with his father’s picture under his bed.
This will be easy, he thinks, as he sits in an appalling armchair that doesn’t fit with the rest of the furniture.
Charmed into the armrest, there’s a letter, covered in plastic for preservation. “You fucking dog, how dare you steal my armchair! Give it back, or I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life writing horrible articles about you!”
It amuses Voldemort, as it probably amuses Black, hence why he decided to place it on the armrest, permanently.
When the young man stumbles his way into the house, he contains his surprise to find Voldemort there remarkably fast.
People have been telling Voldemort Black takes after Walburga; he might, it’s too soon to tell, but his first impression is that Sirius favours his father.
Voldemort is yet to meet an unattractive Black- and he’s met them all- but the boy is something else, even for the Blacks.
His tall, broad body is on display in the muggle attire he wears, hair falling around his shoulders with a casual elegance; he is both handsome, with strong, sharp bones and beautiful, with soft lips and long, thick eyelashes, made even darker by the paleness of his eyes.
It has been so long since he felt attraction; it travels up his spine as he takes in the boy.
Who very quickly decides he will die a hero; Voldemort can see that decision forming in his eyes. Not with Legilimency. It’s just made obvious by the way his impressive shoulders straighten with pride, his jaw sets in determination, anger replacing the fear in his eyes.
And there was fear- Voldemort is intimately familiar with fear of death, can easily recognise it when it shines in front of him.
Yet he spent his life fleeing from it.
Sirius Black walks towards it, bold.
It takes only a minute of conversation to charm him; easy, indeed. Sirius’ interest is picked instantly; pride flickers in his eyes that someone like Voldemort would bother coming to kill him; even more pride when Voldemort explains he’s there to recruit him.
He is a Black, down to his last bone. He calls Voldemort a mudblood; he declares himself the purest being in existence. He speaks of his mother; the boy in the pictures is not there, the owner of muggle records, the blood traitor- no; only the Black heir speaks to Voldemort that night.
Powerful, too, like any Black. A diamond in the rough, his magic true and strong and raw as he unleashes it. Dark curses fall with a practiced ease from his wand. Fiendfyre engulfs the room in seconds.
What a treasure. As unhinged and powerful as Bella, this one.
And there it is, his pure blood spilling over the floor, staining the carpet. Voldemort has the impulse to taste it; a momentary madness, but the boy enchants him so.
His clothes are ripped and burned in places, and Voldemort can glimpse tattoos on pale skin. Voldemort wants his mark on that skin; he wants to hold the boy’s strong forearm and brand him as his own. Claim him for himself.
Sirius Black fights readily, bravely. With his wand and with his words.
But Voldemort can smell the mountain of insecurity hidden under the fury, like the boy hides his poisons under harmless perfumes.
Some men- most men- cower when confronted with violence, bend and break under pain, especially pain caused by Voldemort’s wand.
Not this one, Voldemort understands. No, violence will only be met with violence, here.
Voldemort will need a different approach.
I miss this anime. I demand the return of Soul Eater true to the Manga. D: