#avery jr

The rain had been falling for three days straight, turning Spinner's End into a labyrinth of overflowing gutters and slick cobblestones. Inside number seven, the air was thick with tension and the sour smell of cheap whiskey.

Severus Snape stood in the kitchen doorway, his wand concealed up his sleeve, watching his father drain another glass at the scarred wooden table. Eileen sat in the corner, her once-beautiful face hollow and distant, staring at nothing. She'd stopped trying years ago.

"Boy," Tobias said, not looking up. "Clean this mess."

The table was covered in dirty plates from the past two days, crusted with old food. Severus's jaw tightened. He'd been studying—actually studying, working on modifications to the Draught of Living Death that he thought might improve its efficacy. But there was no point in arguing.

He approached the table carefully, gathering plates with deliberate movements. His father was drunk, but that could go either way. Sometimes drunk meant unconscious. Sometimes it meant violent.

Severus had made it to the sink with the first load when his father spoke again.

"Not with your hands, you idiot. Use your freakish tricks. That's all you're good for, isn't it?"

It was a trap. It was always a trap. Use magic, get beaten for being a freak. Don't use magic, get beaten for being lazy. Severus stood frozen, trying to calculate which choice would hurt less.

"Well?" Tobias's chair scraped back. "I'm waiting."

Severus drew his wand with shaking fingers. A simple Scouring Charm—that was all. He flicked his wrist, muttered the incantation, and watched the grime disappear from the first plate.

His father's fist slammed down on the table. "THINK YOU'RE SPECIAL, DO YOU?"

"No, sir, I—"

But Tobias was already moving, faster than a drunk man should be able to. His hand cracked across Severus's face with enough force to send him stumbling sideways. The wand clattered from his grip.

"THINK YOUR FREAK TRICKS MAKE YOU BETTER THAN ME?"

Severus's hand went to his face, tasting blood where his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek. "I was just doing what you—"

The second blow was harder, catching him in the ribs. Severus went down, his hip cracking against the cabinet. Pain exploded through his side, bright and sharp. He tried to curl into himself, to protect his vital organs the way he'd learned over years of this, but his father's boot found his stomach.

"Tobias." His mother's voice, weak and thready. "Tobias, that's enough."

"Shut up, woman!" Another kick, this one to Severus's shoulder. "I'll teach this little freak some respect!"

Severus couldn't breathe. His vision swam with black spots. He reached desperately for his wand, but his father kicked it away, sending it skittering under the counter.

"Look at you," Tobias snarled, grabbing a fistful of Severus's robes. "Pathetic. Just like your mother. Just like all your freakish kind."

The fabric dug into Severus's throat as his father hauled him upright. At sixteen, Severus was nearly six feet tall, but he was painfully thin, no match for his father's brutal strength. Tobias shook him like a rag doll.

"I said GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

The front door banged open—when had his father dragged him to the entrance?—and then Severus was airborne. He had a brief, disconnected moment to register the rain, the darkness, the slick steps rushing up to meet him.

He hit the cobblestones hard. His right shoulder took the brunt of the impact, and something in it made a sound that couldn't be good. His hip screamed in protest. The back of his head cracked against stone, and for a moment the world went white.

When his vision cleared, rain was pelting his face. Every breath sent knives through his ribs. And there, inches from his bleeding nose, was a pair of polished black boots that gleamed despite the downpour.

Severus blinked water from his eyes, trying to focus. The boots were attached to legs, a body, a person standing utterly still in the rain. Tall. Wearing dark traveling robes that seemed to repel the water, remaining pristine while everything else drowned.

Instinct made Severus scramble backward despite the agony it caused, his hand reaching for a wand that wasn't there. He'd left it in the kitchen. He was wandless, hurt, and there was a stranger standing over him in Spinner's End at night.

"Peace, child," a voice said, soft as silk and twice as smooth. "I mean you no harm."

The stranger moved then, stepping forward into the light spilling from the open doorway. Severus's breath caught.

The man was perhaps thirty, though there was something ageless about him. Pale skin, aristocratic features that could have been carved from marble. Dark hair swept back from a high forehead. But it was the eyes that held Severus frozen—dark, fathomless, and fixed on him with an intensity that made every nerve ending come alive.

And the expression in those eyes... Severus had never seen anyone look at him like that. Like he was something precious. Something that had been damaged and needed protection.

"My poor boy," the stranger said, his voice carrying such genuine distress that Severus felt his throat tighten. "What has been done to you?"

Behind Severus, his father's voice erupted from the doorway: "He's no concern of yours! Move along before I call the police!"

The stranger's gaze lifted, and though his expression never changed—still that mask of gentle concern—something shifted in the air around them. The temperature dropped. The rain seemed to slow. Severus watched, transfixed, as his father's face went from red with rage to pale with something that looked almost like fear.

Tobias Snape, who had never shown fear in his life, took an involuntary step backward.

"This child," the stranger said, his voice still soft but carrying an edge like a razor wrapped in velvet, "is very much my concern. You, however, are not. Go inside. Sleep. Forget you saw me. And when you wake..." The stranger's lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "You will remember why it is unwise to raise your hand to those weaker than yourself."

Tobias's face went blank. Without another word, he turned and walked back into the house, closing the door with mechanical precision.

Severus stared. "What did you—"

"Hush now." The stranger turned back to him, and that terrible coldness vanished as if it had never existed. His face softened into lines of purest compassion. "Let me help you. Can you move?"

"I don't... I don't know who you are."

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" The stranger tilted his head, studying Severus with those penetrating eyes. "How refreshing. Here, let me introduce myself properly."

He extended one pale, long-fingered hand. Severus stared at it, his mind racing. Wizard—obviously a wizard, and a powerful one to do wandless magic like that. But who? And why was he here, on Spinner's End of all places?

"I won't hurt you, child," the stranger said gently. "I give you my word. I am here only to help."

There was something in his voice, something that made Severus believe him despite every instinct screaming that he shouldn't trust anyone. Slowly, his own hand shaking, Severus reached up.

The stranger's grip was firm but careful, mindful of Severus's injuries as he helped him to his feet. Severus swayed, his shoulder shrieking in protest, but the stranger's other hand came up to steady him.

"There we are. Good. Now, hold still."

The stranger drew his wand—pale, almost white, with strange markings along its length—and made a graceful, flowing gesture. The wand seemed to sing, a note just below hearing, and warmth flooded through Severus's body.

It was like nothing he'd ever experienced. Better than Madam Pomfrey's efficient healing spells, better than the pain potions he sometimes brewed for himself. The pain in his ribs faded to nothing. His shoulder realigned with a soft click that should have hurt but didn't. Even the constant ache in his back from hunching over cauldrons and books disappeared like morning mist.

Severus gasped, one hand going to his ribs. "How did you—"

"A simple healing spell," the stranger said, though they both knew there was nothing simple about magic that thorough. He slipped his wand away and placed both hands on Severus's shoulders, studying his face with an intensity that should have been uncomfortable but somehow wasn't. "Better?"

"Yes. I... thank you."

"You're bleeding still. Here." The stranger produced a handkerchief—silk, monogrammed with initials Severus couldn't quite make out in the darkness—and gently dabbed at the cut on Severus's cheek. His touch was impossibly tender. "There. Much better. Though you're still soaked to the bone."

With a subtle wave of his hand, the rain simply... stopped. Not overhead—Severus could still hear it drumming on the roofs around them—but on them. A bubble of warmth and dryness surrounded them both.

"Remarkable," Severus breathed.

"A simple charm." The stranger's lips curved in a small smile. "Walk with me, child. You shouldn't go back inside tonight. Not while your father is in such a state."

"He'll be worse if I don't—"

"He won't remember." The stranger's hand remained on Severus's shoulder, gentle but firm, guiding him down the street. "I've seen to that. He thinks he drank himself unconscious. Your mother is putting him to bed as we speak."

Severus twisted to look back at the house. "How do you know that?"

"I know many things." The stranger's thumb moved in a small, soothing circle on Severus's shoulder. "I know, for instance, that this is not the first time your father has struck you. I know that your mother used to try to stop him, but she gave up years ago. I know that you have learned to sleep with one eye open, to walk quietly, to make yourself small and invisible."

Severus's breath caught. "How—"

"I also know," the stranger continued, his voice softening even further, "that you are sixteen years old. That you attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where you are a Slytherin. That you are brilliant—truly brilliant—at Potions and the Dark Arts. That you have friends who speak of you with admiration and respect. And I know that despite all of this, you believe yourself to be worthless."

They had reached a small alcove beneath an awning, protected from the rain. The stranger guided Severus to sit on a low wall, then settled beside him with fluid grace. This close, Severus could see the fine details of his face—the sharp cheekbones, the elegant nose, the mouth that was somehow both cruel and kind.

"You don't know me, do you?" the stranger asked, something like amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

"No, sir," Severus admitted. His heart was racing. Everything about this felt surreal—the sudden rescue, the impossible magic, the way this powerful wizard spoke to him like he mattered.

"My name," the stranger said, as if conferring a great gift, "is Lord Voldemort."

The name hit Severus like a physical blow. Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord. The wizard Mulciber and Avery and Wilkes whispered about in the common room late at night, their voices hushed with reverence and awe. The one Regulus had mentioned in passing, his grey eyes distant with something that looked like religious fervor.

"You're..." Severus couldn't finish the sentence.

"I am," Voldemort said simply. He was watching Severus's reaction with keen interest, his head tilted slightly. "Does that frighten you?"

"I... no. I don't... Mulciber talks about you. And Avery. They say you're..." What did they say? That he was powerful beyond measure. That he was going to change the wizarding world. That he saw the worth in pure-blood wizards who had been overlooked by society. "They admire you."

"And they admire you, Severus Snape." Voldemort's voice carried a warmth that made Severus's chest ache. "They speak very highly of you. Mulciber tells me you invented your own spell in your fourth year. Avery says your grasp of Dark Magic theory surpasses students three years your senior. Young Wilkes insists you're wasted in Slughorn's classroom—that you should be studying under a true master."

Heat crept up Severus's neck. "They said that?"

"They did. And more." Voldemort shifted slightly, angling his body toward Severus. "Evan Rosier showed me an essay you wrote on the theoretical applications of blood magic. Quite remarkable for someone so young. And Regulus..." A fond smile crossed Voldemort's face. "Regulus speaks of you as a brother. He worries about you."

"Regulus worries?" The idea seemed foreign. Regulus was always so composed, so controlled.

"Of course he does. They all do." Voldemort's hand moved from Severus's shoulder to his face, cool fingers tilting Severus's chin up so their eyes met. "They see what I see—a young wizard of extraordinary talent, trapped in circumstances that would break a lesser person. They want better for you. As do I."

Severus tried to look away, uncomfortable with the intensity of that gaze, but Voldemort's grip—though gentle—was firm.

"Tell me, child," Voldemort said softly. "How long has your father hurt you?"

The question was asked with such genuine concern, such careful tenderness, that Severus found the truth spilling out before he could stop it.

"Always. Since I was small. Since before I got my Hogwarts letter." The words came faster now, years of silence breaking like a dam. "He hates magic. Hates what I am. My mother... she tried to protect me at first, but he turned his anger on her too, and she just... she stopped. She stopped trying. She stopped caring."

"And so you learned to endure alone." Voldemort's thumb brushed across Severus's cheekbone, the touch impossibly gentle. "You learned to hide your bruises. To brew pain potions in secret. To lose yourself in your studies because books and cauldrons can't hurt you the way people can."

"How do you know that?" Severus whispered.

"Because I was you once." The admission was quiet, almost intimate. "Different circumstances, perhaps. But I know what it is to be extraordinary in a world that punishes extraordinariness. To be alone with your gifts, surrounded by those who fear and resent what you are."

Severus stared at him. The Dark Lord—the most powerful wizard of their age—understood. Actually understood.

"You're not alone anymore, Severus," Voldemort said. "Do you understand that? You have friends who value you. And now you have me."

"But why?" The question burst out before Severus could stop it. "Why do you care? You don't know me. I'm nobody. I'm just—"

"Don't." The word was sharp, and Voldemort's free hand came up to cup Severus's other cheek, holding his face between his palms. "Don't ever say that. You are not nobody. You are brilliant. You are powerful. You are everything the wizarding world should treasure, and instead they leave you here, in this miserable place, to suffer at the hands of a Muggle who can't begin to comprehend your worth."

Tears burned in Severus's eyes. He tried to blink them back, but they spilled over, hot tracks down his cold cheeks.

"Oh, child." Voldemort made a soft sound of sympathy, and then he was drawing Severus forward, pulling him against his chest. "It's all right. You're safe now. I have you."

Severus stiffened in shock. No one touched him like this. Even his mother had stopped hugging him years ago. His friends at school maintained careful distance—Slytherins didn't do physical comfort. But here was the Dark Lord himself, holding him like he was something precious, one hand cradling the back of Severus's head while the other rubbed slow circles on his back.

"Let it out," Voldemort murmured, his voice barely audible over the rain. "You've been strong for so long, haven't you? Always in control. Always careful. But you don't have to be strong with me. Not here. Not now."

And something in Severus just... broke. He grabbed fistfuls of Voldemort's robes and sobbed, great heaving gasps that shook his whole body. All the fear, all the pain, all the loneliness he'd locked away for years came pouring out, and through it all Voldemort held him, steady and sure and safe.

"There," the Dark Lord said softly. "That's it. I have you, Severus. You're safe. No one will hurt you while I'm here."

They sat like that for a long time, until Severus's tears finally slowed to hiccupping breaths. Even then, Voldemort didn't pull away. He continued those soothing motions on Severus's back, patient and unhurried.

"I'm sorry," Severus finally managed, his voice wrecked. "I didn't mean to—"

"Hush. You have nothing to apologize for." Voldemort eased back just enough to look at Severus's face, producing another handkerchief to gently wipe away the tears. "Do you feel better?"

Severus nodded. He felt wrung out, exhausted, but also somehow lighter. As if crying had released some terrible pressure that had been building inside him for years.

"Good." Voldemort smiled, and it transformed his face into something almost beautiful. "Now. I want to talk to you about something important. Will you listen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just Voldemort, please. Or my Lord, if you prefer formality." He adjusted his position slightly, keeping one arm around Severus's shoulders. "I am building something remarkable, Severus. A new world. A better world. One where magical blood is respected and protected. Where talent and power are rewarded, not suppressed. Where young wizards like you—brilliant, overlooked, underestimated—can rise to the heights you deserve."

Severus's breath caught. This was what Mulciber talked about. What made Avery's eyes shine with zealous light.

"Your friends are already part of this," Voldemort continued. "Mulciber, Avery, Wilkes, Rosier—they have sworn themselves to the cause. Regulus will take his Mark as soon as he comes of age. They are building the future at my side, using their gifts to reshape our world into something worthy of them."

"The Mark?" Severus asked.

Voldemort pulled back his left sleeve, revealing the pale skin of his forearm. With a whispered word and a touch of his wand, a symbol appeared—a skull with a serpent emerging from its mouth, rendered in black ink that seemed to move beneath the skin.

"The Dark Mark," Voldemort said. "A symbol of our bond. Of our commitment to each other and to our cause. Those who bear it are mine, and I am theirs. We are bound together—a family of choice, united in purpose."

A family. The word settled in Severus's chest with unexpected weight.

"I want to offer you a place in this family," Voldemort said, his dark eyes fixed on Severus's face. "I want to give you everything you deserve—protection, purpose, power. I want to see you reach your full potential, unburdened by Muggles who can't understand you and wizards too blind to recognize your brilliance."

"I'm not of age yet," Severus said. "I'm still at Hogwarts. I can't—"

"I know." Voldemort's hand moved to Severus's hair, smoothing it back from his face with infinite gentleness. "And I'm not asking you to leave school. Your education is important. You need to learn, to grow, to perfect your craft. All I'm asking is that you consider what I'm offering. That you think about your future—your real future, not the one this world has decided for you."

"What do you mean?"

"What will happen when you graduate, Severus?" Voldemort asked. "You're a half-blood from a poverty-stricken background. Your mother's family has no influence. You have no connections, no wealth, no name to open doors for you. Do you think Slughorn's little club will help? Do you think the Ministry will see your worth?"

The words hit too close to home. Severus had thought about this, late at night when he couldn't sleep. He was brilliant, yes, but brilliance alone wouldn't get him a position at the Ministry or a teaching post at Hogwarts. Those positions went to pure-bloods with family connections, or to half-bloods wealthy enough to buy their way in.

"They'll overlook you," Voldemort said, his voice soft but inexorable. "The same way they've overlooked every talented half-blood and Muggle-born for generations. They'll offer you some minor position—perhaps brewing potions for St. Mungo's, or working in some backwater apothecary. And you'll take it, because what choice will you have? And you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what you could have been if only someone had given you a chance."

"Unless?" Severus whispered.

"Unless you choose differently." Voldemort cupped Severus's face again, his touch achingly tender. "Unless you stand with me. With us. We don't care about your blood status, Severus. We care about your power, your mind, your potential. In my new world, you won't be overlooked. You'll be celebrated. Valued. Given every resource you need to become everything you were meant to be."

It sounded like everything Severus had ever wanted. Recognition. Respect. A place where he belonged.

"What would I have to do?" he asked.

"Right now? Nothing." Voldemort smiled. "Go back to school. Excel in your classes—though I suspect you already do. Perfect your spellwork. Explore the deeper mysteries of magic. And know that when you're ready, when you've had enough of being underestimated and overlooked, I will be waiting."

He released Severus's face and reached into his robes, producing a small black card. Silver script gleamed on its surface, elegant and precise.

"If you ever need me," Voldemort said, pressing the card into Severus's palm, "hold this and speak my name. I will come. No matter where you are, no matter the circumstance. Day or night, in danger or in despair, you need only call and I will be there."

Severus stared at the card, his thumb tracing the raised letters. "Why would you do that? Why would you come for me?"

"Because you're mine now." Voldemort said it simply, as if it were obvious. "Perhaps you don't fully understand that yet, but you will. I protect what is mine, Severus. Always. And I take care of those who serve me."

"I haven't sworn to serve you," Severus pointed out, though his heart was racing.

"Not yet," Voldemort agreed. "But you will. Because you're brilliant, and brilliant people recognize the truth when they see it. The truth is that this world is broken. It crushes people like us beneath the weight of arbitrary rules and prejudices. And I am going to fix it."

He stood, drawing Severus up with him. For a moment they stood face to face, and Severus was struck again by how tall Voldemort was, how commanding his presence.

"Your mother has subdued your father," Voldemort said. "He won't wake until morning, and when he does, he'll remember only that he drank too much. You can return home safely. But remember, Severus—this doesn't have to be your life forever. You have a choice now. You have a future."

"Thank you," Severus said, the words inadequate for everything he was feeling. "For... for everything. For healing me. For listening. For..."

"For seeing you," Voldemort finished gently. "You're welcome, child. It was my privilege."

He reached out one last time, his hand cupping the back of Severus's head, and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Severus's forehead. The gesture was almost paternal, protective in a way that made Severus's chest ache.

"Be safe," Voldemort murmured. "Study well. And remember—you're not alone anymore. You never have to be alone again."

Then he stepped back, his robes swirling around him, and with a soft crack he was gone.

Severus stood in the rain for a long moment, the card clutched against his chest. The warmth of Voldemort's magic still lingered on his skin, and he could still feel the ghost of that embrace, the weight of those gentle hands.

For the first time in years, Severus Snape felt something other than despair.

He felt hope. He felt seen. He felt chosen.

He felt like he mattered.

The Hogwarts Express rattled through the countryside, carrying students back to school after the winter holidays. In a compartment near the rear of the train, Severus sat with his friends—Mulciber, Avery, Wilkes, Rosier, and Regulus Black.

"You're quiet," Regulus observed. At fifteen, he was already developing the austere beauty of the Black family, all sharp cheekbones and grey eyes. "More than usual, I mean."

Severus touched the card in his pocket, feeling its edges against his fingers. He'd carried it every day since that night, a talisman against the darkness.

"I met him," he said quietly.

The effect was instantaneous. All five of his friends went still, their attention zeroing in on him with laser focus.

"Him?" Mulciber breathed. "The Dark Lord?"

Severus nodded. "He came to Spinner's End. He... my father threw me out of the house. I landed at his feet."

"Merlin," Avery whispered. "What happened?"

"He healed me. Talked to me. He..." How could Severus explain what it had felt like? The gentleness, the understanding, the way Voldemort had held him while he cried? "He told me about what you're building. About the new world."

"And?" Rosier leaned forward, his eyes bright with intensity. "What did you think?"

"I think," Severus said slowly, "that he's right. About everything. About how the wizarding world treats people like us. About how brilliant wizards are overlooked because of blood or money or connections. About how things need to change."

Regulus's hand found Severus's shoulder, squeezing gently. "He asked about you, you know. After he recruited me. Wanted to know how you were doing, whether you were safe."

"He cares about his people," Wilkes said. "Really cares. Not like Dumbledore and his platitudes about love and tolerance. The Dark Lord actually does something."

"He gave me a way to contact him," Severus admitted, pulling out the card. "Said if I ever needed him, I only had to call."

His friends stared at the card with something like reverence.

"That's rare," Mulciber said. "Most of us have to go through channels. The fact that he gave you direct access..."

"It means he sees your potential," Avery finished. "He knows what you could become."

"What we could all become," Rosier added. "Together. That's what this is about—all of us rising together, building something better."

"Tell us everything," Regulus said. "Every word he said to you. We want to know."

So Severus told them. He described the gentleness in Voldemort's voice, the way he'd healed Severus's injuries with such casual power. The way he'd held Severus while he cried, offering comfort without judgment. The vision he'd painted of a future where talent was rewarded, where wizards like them could rise to greatness.

His friends listened with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting with their own experiences. Mulciber described the first time Voldemort had praised his dueling skills. Avery talked about how the Dark Lord had helped him master a particularly difficult curse. Rosier spoke of late-night conversations about magical theory that had expanded his understanding of what was possible.

And Regulus, quiet Regulus, described the moment he'd taken the Mark.

"It hurt," he admitted, his hand unconsciously going to his left forearm. "But not in a bad way. It was like... like coming home. Like finally belonging somewhere. He held my arm while the magic worked, and he told me I was brave. That he was proud of me." His grey eyes met Severus's. "I'd never had anyone say they were proud of me before. Not my parents. Not Sirius. But the Dark Lord looked at me and saw worth."

Severus understood. He understood completely.

"He sees all of us," Wilkes said. "That's what makes him different. He doesn't just use us—he values us. Invests in us. Wants us to succeed."

"When you're ready," Avery said to Severus, "he'll welcome you. We all will. You'll be one of us. Officially."

"A family," Severus murmured, remembering Voldemort's words.

"Exactly." Regulus's hand squeezed his shoulder again. "A family that chooses to be together. That protects each other. That builds something lasting."

The compartment fell into comfortable silence, the six of them simply existing together. Outside, the landscape rolled past, but Severus barely noticed. He was thinking about that night in Spinner's End. About gentle hands and soothing words. About being held while he cried, about being told he was brilliant, about being promised a future.

About being chosen.

"He's extraordinary," Severus said finally. "Everything you said about him—it's all true. He's going to change everything."

His friends nodded, their faces bright with belief and purpose.

None of them noticed what was missing from Severus's description. None of them thought to question why a wizard as powerful as Voldemort would take such personal interest in a sixteen-year-old half-blood. None of them wondered if there was something off about the way the Dark Lord had held Severus, touched him, promised him things that sounded too good to be true.

They were all too young, too damaged, too desperate to belong to see the manipulation for what it was.

And Severus, who had never been wanted in his life, who had never felt protected or valued or loved, was the most vulnerable of all.

He touched the card in his pocket again, feeling its weight. A lifeline. A promise. A future.

He didn't realize it was also a leash.

He only knew that finally, finally, someone wanted him.

And that was enough.

In a manor house far from Hogwarts, Lord Voldemort sat in his study, a glass of wine in one hand. Before him, a silver bowl of water showed images from the Hogwarts Express—six young wizards in a compartment, talking with hushed reverence about their Lord.

His eyes lingered on Severus Snape. The boy was gesturing as he spoke, his usually guarded face open and animated in a way it never was with anyone else. Mulciber said something that made Severus smile—actually smile, a rare expression that transformed his sallow face into something almost handsome.

"Perfect," Voldemort murmured to himself. "Absolutely perfect."

The boy was brilliant, as his followers had promised. But more than that, he was broken in exactly the right ways. Desperate for approval. Starving for affection. Willing to do anything for someone who showed him genuine care.

And Voldemort had been so very careful to show him care. Gentle touches. Soothing words. The promise of protection and belonging. It had been almost too easy, really. The boy had been so touch-starved, so emotionally neglected, that simple kindness had cracked him wide open.

Now Severus Snape would be his. Completely, utterly his. Loyal unto death, because Voldemort had saved him. Had seen him. Had made him feel valued for the first time in his miserable life.

The boy didn't realize he was being groomed. None of them did. They all thought themselves so clever, these young Death Eaters. They believed they had chosen this path freely.

They had no idea that every choice had been carefully orchestrated. Every moment of kindness calculated. Every promise a chain disguised as a gift.

Voldemort took a sip of wine, his eyes still on Severus's face in the water.

"Mine," he said softly. "You're mine now, Severus Snape. And you always will be."

The image in the bowl rippled and faded, but Voldemort's smile remained.

If there was one thing Regulus found admirable in Barty, it was his ability to squeeze himself in conversations that did not concern him, shift the focus entirely, and beat the other party up.

He and Regulus sat at a small table (well, Regulus sat in a chair, Barty sat on the god damn table like an uncultured swine),  in the corner of the library, far away from the bright lamps that felt like it was searing into Regulus’ head, and far away from prying eyes. In front of him was a thick stack of books waiting to be checked out, all material and notes in preparation for the upcoming finals. Barty was, as per usual, slacking off, (god knows how he managed the twelve owls. Regulus would love to open him up and study his brain)

“What are you so worried about, Princess?” Barty asked, in a false sickening sweet concerned tone as he fiddled and played around with his wand, sneaking sending a first year’s quill flying across the library, “Mummy Dearest up your ass about exam grades?” 

“When is she not?” Regulus said, annoyance creeping into his tone as he opened a thick dusty textbook regarding transfiguration. (blasted subject, but Blacks do not get lower than a perfect score in any subject), he had so much better things to do but finals but alas.

And for a few minutes, there was nothing but the comfortable sound of pages turning and Barty humming.

“Black.”

Regulus looked up, meeting the eyes of…

“Avery.” he said in acknowledgement, his voice still and monotone despite the slight irritation crossing over him once more. If only Evan could walk here a little damn faster, they could check out the books and leave.. They’d planned to meet immediately after the final class, yet he was already running ten minutes past the agreed time. Punctuality was supposed to be ingrained into both of the Rosiers and Blacks, yet Evan always had no regard for time management. 

The other boy sneered, a look of mild contempt crossing his face (honestly, you’d think being in the upper echelon of the wixen society would motivate you to properly school your expressions..) 

Regulus on the other hand, minded his facial expressions, and after a moment of silence, asked, “Well? What do you need?” 

“I saw you talking with the blood traitor earlier,” Avery announced. “Awfully friendly, you two seemed to be.”

The words struck Regulus immediately, sending a small sense of panic through him—if his mother found out—no—if anyone else had seen them—he fought to keep all emotions off of his face. He felt Barty shift on the table, finally looking up from balancing playing cards. 

“Really now?” Regulus said, staring into Avery’s eyes, as if daring him to continue speaking. 

He’d just had somewhat of a reconciliation with Sirius, he wasn’t about to let an Avery ruin everything. 

Barty lazily balanced another card to form the house, he crossed his legs (still on the table, still mannerless but he made it look handsome in his own barbaric way), “You sure? I dunno, Avery, vision isn’t exactly your strong suit.” he said, referencing a quidditch tryout at the beginning of the year where Avery tried for seeker and missed the damn snitch when it was two feet away from him. “Might have been Potter, you know. Or Lupin.” 

The snitch was caught with ease by Regulus, who had basically been on the other side of the field moments prior. 

Regulus hadn’t told anyone about making up with Sirius, Barty had no idea what was going on, he just loved to get on people’s nerves and would never resist a chance to piss off Avery. 

Avery grit his teeth, and doubled down instead of, perhaps, choosing the smarter route of not attempting to blackmail a Black. 

“My eyesight is perfectly fine, Crouch. Mind your own business” Avery said, “In fact—it's good enough to see the two little Black brothers hugging. Tell me, does anyone know about your sweet new patched up relationship? I think your cousins will be pleased.”

And there it was, finally at last, the threat. A seemingly very feasible threat too, Regulus knew very well that Bellatrix wouldn’t hesitate for a single second to throw him to the wolves. Family loyalty be damned, she loved nothing more than conflict and sucking up to his mother. Narcissa..she would be pleased, perhaps not in public and certainly not in front of their family, but she’d always been kinder privately. In their twisted family, the only other person still on the tree that Regulus can stand was her. 

But regardless, Bellatrix. 

It was such a shame, if only Avery wasn’t such a whore and went around attempting to create bastards at every turn, the blackmail might have worked. 

“Yes, I’m sure Bella and Cissy would be thrilled. I’m also sure your mother would be thrilled to find out you’ve been getting close with every other woman than the one you're engaged to.” Regulus said, tilting his head as an  almost coyly as a small smile graced his face. Behind him, he could hear Barty snicker. 

It was slightly amusing to see Avery flush crimson from the realization, then turn panicked once understanding that he no longer had the upper hand, (as if he’d ever had the upper hand in the first place.)

Honestly, Avery was a right fool for even trying. Bellatrix might squeal resulting in.. a variety of consequences, none pleasant, but a careful word or two from Regulus at the dinner table would send Avery and his family falling at least five steps down the social ladder minimum, let alone the fact that the git had already bribed off a few wixen from keeping the produced fetus. 

“Uh oh~Avy’s in a bind, eh?” Barty said, his voice light and mocking, he was seemingly taking great pleasure at the entire interaction. “What are you going to do? I don’t think you can solve this like you usually do, Reggie doesn’t need money nor want your prick up his ass.” 

“Shut your mouth.” Avery snapped, his hands clenched, “Stay out of this, Crouch.”

Which was obviously the wrong thing to say, there was nothing more than being told “no” Barty loved, other than ignoring said person and continuing with whatever heinous atrocities he wanted to do. 

“What to do, What to do..I don’t think He would want his followers going around piping every warm body. How many little halfblood babies have you created so far?” Barty continued. 

He, it was always about the Dark Lord now, and Regulus knew that approval was what Avery seeked the most. Desperation practically dripped all over from his under the layer of faux confidence and bruised ego. He craved to be accepted into the ranks after his older sister had run off to marry a mudblood, and he knew he and his family had to pay the price allowing such a mishap to occur. 

It was a shame desperation had led him to believe the best idea was to attempt to intimate Regulus Black. A good word could allow him to walk in with open arms and minimum doubts (who would dare insinuate that someone personally recommended by the Black family would be wrong?)

A bad word? 

The best case would be if Avery was left alive, with his limbs attached.

“Shut up, Crouch,” Avery spat, “It’s a shame your sister’s illness didn’t pass onto you—Black should hold your leash a little tighter, there’s been quite a lot of talk about you associating with mudbloods and filth.” 

Honestly, it seemed Avery had a death wish today. 

The loss of Barty’s younger sister took away the last bit of restraint he had, and his father had delivered the news with the usual cruel and cold efficiency of a man who has long forsaken his family--a simple letter consisting of no more than two sentences. She was eight, not old enough to attend Hogwarts, and only beginning to have a few accidental magical outbursts. 

Regulus remembers the autumn of their fourth year, he remembers Barty receiving a letter, he remembers Barty crumbling at the Great Hall, he remembers sobbing in the middle of the night, and Barty refusing to leave the dorm. Regulus remembers picking up the broken parts of Barty and trying his best to fit all the pieces together. He never was the same again, despite Regulus and Evan’s best efforts. There was no fixing a puzzle missing a corner piece, all you could really do was arrange the rest and hope the flaws go unnoticed.

The air tinged with sparks as Barty ripped out his wand with a feverish mania, and a small cutting spell made its way on the other boy’s cheek, spraying crimson on the table. Quite a tame spell, Regulus was more surprised Barty didn’t go for something more violent, chaotic, or flashy to start. 

However, sensing things were unfortunately going to end up messy once more, he cast a quick silencing spell and an notice-me-not charm so they wouldn’t get kicked out of the library. 

“You’re going to regret that!” Avery yelled, a hand clutching his bleeding cheek, and another shoved down his robes for his wand. 

Regulus sighed, pondering if he should lower the silencing spell and just let the vulture discover them. He could always just pay some third year to swap places with him to scrub caldrons. (Blacks do not do manual labor, another thing his mother often said, Blacks do not lower themselves to the duties of the common.)

Besides, a duel in the library? How tasteless.

“Barty.” Regulus finally said, “Let him breathe.” He spoke in a casual tone, not looking up and only flipping to another page in his book. 

A look of mild annoyance crossed Barty’s face, he let out a dramatic huff before releasing Avery’s neck and dropping him to the ground, he dusted his hands, turned around, and returned to the darker haired boy’s side with a pout on his face. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” Regulus murmured, glancing up, “A little longer and he would have needed a healer, do you know how exhausting it’ll be convincing Slughorn to not expel you?” 

“You never let me have any fun,” Barty whined. 

“You don’t listen to me.”

“Hey! at least he’s not disfigured? That’s listening, no?”

“Lets leave the books here. Evan can check them out.” Regulus said, standing up from his chair and preparing to leave. He undone the silencing spell, gathered his belongings, and paused before walking off. 

Soon enough, once the charms were lifted, Muliciber, Snape, and the rest of the boot licking wannabe Death Eaters came scrambling over. They hovered uncertainly between the bookshelves and Avery, unsure if they could approach without getting hexed into next week. 

“Control your dog, Black,” Someone hissed, looking down at the damage Barty did.

To his credit, the insult slid right off of Barty, who seemed amused, “Woof?”

Regulus resisted the temptation to sigh again. (Any sound not a word that came out of your mouth was unbecoming, instilled in his brain, courtesy of his mother.)

“Avery,” he called instead.

The body lying on the ground flinched and raised it’s head, Regulus saw fear in its eyes and couldn’t help but let a smirk crawl up on his face.

Fear, terror, dread. Exactly how it should be. It must have been way too long that everyone forgot how to fear the Blacks. Avery grew cocky, he grew bold and flew too close to the sun. 

“Mind your manners when talking to your superiors. Red doesn’t look good on you.”

And with that, he strolled out of the library, (with Barty on his heels of course). 

“How many times have I told you to stop picking fights?” Regulus sighed, as they fell back into their routine of Barty dueling someone, getting injured, and Regulus having to patch him up. 

Barty let a grin crawl up his face while he ripped his tie off, quickly unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it off and revealing a few shallow cuts that Avery had managed to be successful to land. “Too many?”

Regulus appraised the damage for a moment, and was appreciative that it was a lot less than expected, (once Barty’s arm had been barely holding on, and they definitely could not go to Pomfrey because Barty’s imbecile ass started the fight, and his father would be notified.)

Getting to work, he disinfected the wound and performed a simple healing charm which neatly sewed the skin back together. At the beginning, Barty would hiss in pain when the alcohol dug into his flesh and the charms pulled at his skin. 

Not anymore, they were beyond that. As the years passed, small cuts turned into dozen, dozen turned into tens, and grew bigger and bigger until there was always a risk of passing from too much blood loss. Regulus had grown used to it (he was too old to be repulsed by blood) , and Barty acted like the pain pleased him instead. 

“What kind of dog are you? Disobedient and doesn’t listen to orders,” he muttered, tracing over the scars left on Barty’s skin from previous duels—when they were younger and foolish enough to pick fights with those outside of their capabilities. . 

After a hum of deliberation, “Yours?” was Barty’s reply as he smiled coyly. 

Proper mannerisms be damned, Regulus sighed, “Stop it, you always end up hurt and I’ll be the one having to heal you.”

“But that’s half the fun, no?”

Regulus’ hand drifted from Barty’s arms to his chest, feeling for the melody of his heartbeat. Something he did every time, the end of their fight-heal routine that reassured him Barty was fine. 

“Mindless brute.” he murmured.