Chapter Text
There is snow everywhere.
It follows, naturally, that Sue would dump a handful of snow down the back of his robes. Frankly, Hydrus is not sure how she reached down his collar without him noticing but he is willing to bet Barty has something to do with it somehow.
He had introduced Barty to his new ward/apprentice just a few days ago and felt a strange pang of regret that might be similar to how Voldemort felt on a regular basis since the kidnapping. Unlike Voldemort, there is no reason whatsoever that he should have any regrets – Hydrus Marvolo Black has never done anything wrong in his life.
A picture of innocence, an angel sent from above (apparently literally?) to pay for wizardkind’s sins, all things that describe him to a T.
A shame that no one else agreed.
(Sue had turned around during their group walk through the grounds and stated she had never noticed the resemblance between father and son more. Mind you, she had never met Voldemort.
Hermione, traitor that she was, had nodded severely and simply said ‘apple tree’. Honestly, he regrets nearly commissioning that life sized ice sculpture.)
Soaked through from the sneak attack, Hydrus shivers a bit more than is natural.
It then occurs to his dear, loving, friends that as a fire elemental he might not do too great with ice and snow. Theoretically he could just heat himself up…then came the chance he could just set his clothes on fire.
Voldemort had cautioned him not to try new experiments with his element at school, and usually he would ignore that piece of sage advice, but he doesn’t really want to risk ending up tits out near the quidditch pitch.
Draco would love that.
Hermione throws an arm around his shoulders, only achieved by dragging him down by the collar, and appoints herself in charge of taking him back inside. His mothers trust in her had only made the big sistering worse.
Childishly, but having won the sole attention of his best friend, he looks back at Sue and pulls a face to gloat.
She throws another snowball at his face.
It had been two days since hell had frozen over.
This event was otherwise known as Voldemort having a civil dinner with Hermione Granger.
No one got maimed, or cursed, or hexed.
Well, besides Snape. From what Hydrus had heard, the new headmaster very narrowly escaped injury at the end of Alya’s wand the next morning.
His mum had threatened Snape again. Even thinking it makes him smile, the thought of being able to call her his mum out loud and without guilt more so than Snape’s experience of mortality.
Not that the latter doesn’t have its place.
Hermione had been needling him about just what happened from the time he and Alya left the dining room to when she had seen him the next evening, but she tried not to push too hard.
Bless her heart, she thought three times a day wasn’t pushing.
From what Hydrus has pieced together of Sunday, both from memory and what he’s been told, they had never returned to the dining room. He and Alya had spoken in the sitting room, on one couch, as she coaxed him along and insisted that it was her job to look after him and not the other way around.
A novel concept that had exhausted him.
Voldemort’s idea of protection was twisted anyway, but how was he ever meant to relax knowing the order was out there thinking of them all as the enemy. Not that they were technically wrong. Alya swore again and again that Voldemort would not hurt him now, even if it was indirect and a hit to his feelings, but even that didn’t feel strictly right.
Hadn’t Voldemort hurt her all those years ago too?
Hydrus is well acquainted with the act of hurting those you love even when you didn’t mean to. The road to hell was cobbled with the sins of people like them – swearing one thing, doing another, never quite getting it right, and being left alone in the end. So, he doesn’t think that Voldemort wants to hurt him, but he knows the man will if he deems it necessary.
It had been a long conversation that she promised they would repeat another time with Voldemort there.
A family discussion.
Another novel concept.
Hydrus had fallen asleep there, head in her lap, with her hands running through his hair and her gentle promises weaving sweet dreams.
According to Hermione, a house elf had come on Alya’s behalf to inform them that dessert would be a two-person affair. It had nervously apologised to Hermione, at her direction, for the whole dinner being cut short and asked if they could do this another time.
The elf, who’s name she scolds herself for not knowing, had asked Voldemort to go see Alya as soon as Hermione had been safely returned to Hogwarts.
The next morning was the worst part.
He knows that Snape attempted to floo, reluctantly, in the early morning to find out why Hydrus hadn’t attended breakfast or his first class of the day. Voldemort had gotten Alya to handle the call and it had gone badly.
Snape would not be questioning Alya Black again.
Ever.
Of course, he did swear that last time they met too. Hydrus would bet it’ll happen again before the end of the year.
He had slept through this, as well as most of the morning, only to wake up in a room that was not his. After idly taking in the fact there was a body on either side of him, he had realised that this was someone else’s room.
Another moment, and he had realised that he had never been in this room before, which meant it wasn’t his mothers.
That left one terrible option.
Voldemort’s bedroom.
Hydrus had been out of that bed like a whippet, only absently confused on who had changed his clothes, and his absolute lack of grace had woken his dozing mother and the vaguely parental unit shaped dark lord.
“You sleep in a bed?!”
This is the first question that came to mind, at the time, and hindsight says there were more pressing options.
“How did you expect me to sleep?” It might have actually been worse that Voldemort wasn’t looking at him for this usual banter, instead remaining there with his eyes closed and arms folded, half sat up against the headboard.
“Upside down, hanging from the rafters, for two hours a night, in a suit - not your jim-jams.”
“Hydrus.”
The light scold from his mother had drawn his attention to many things. Like the way the nightstand on her side of the bed – she had a side of Voldemort’s bed – was populated with more than she would have needed for one night.
There was some make up and jewellery on a dresser.
“No!” Hydrus had yelled, mouth agape in slowly mounting horror. “This is sick – you can’t – sharing a room? I’m too young to see this.”
To prove his point, he had thrown up his hands, gagging exaggeratedly.
It wasn’t all fake.
Alya was watching him vaguely amused but not encouraging.
Voldemort had decided to properly sit up and look at him.
He had slept cradled between them.
He felt a bit violated, honestly, what happened to family values and good old decency? Back in his day of just five months ago, parents and parent shaped megalomaniacs didn’t share a bed, and they locked their teenage sons out of the room always.
Not that he had any parents at the time, but that’s irrelevant.
“You are much more peaceful when you sleep. Sweeter, too.” Voldemort had commented, clearly amused by it all.
Cradle snatcher.
Voldemort was just lucky no one had called in the magical equivalent to Chris Hansen.
“This just isn’t right.” Hydrus had declared, refusing to look in the direction of the bed.
There had been silence, as he attempted to accept that this was why the two had been holding hands and standing so close lately, but his brain kept shorting out somewhere along the way.
Okay, admittedly, he had also wondered how Alya convinced Voldemort to allow this sleep set up. Specifically, Hydrus being put in the middle of them.
At least he’d woken up closer to Alya’s side than Voldemort’s, but it’s still not much of a consolation.
From the corner of his eye, he had seen Voldemort smile and tilt his head as if a sinister light bulb just flashed above him.
“Now, Hydrus, most children would love their parents to get back together and repair a broken home. A stable home is good for your development, according to the parenting book’s I’ve read.”
Hydrus had turned on his heel, picked a door that was hopefully the exit, and threw up his hands again. “I’m not a child!”
This door was for the ensuite.
He had walked out again, head held high, and dignity only as bruised as the knowledge he might have tried to cuddle Voldemort in his sleep allowed. “And I need a lobotomy more than a stable home!”
Pettily, Voldemort had yelled after him. “Would you prefer to attend a spring wedding or one in the fall?”
There had been a quiet grunt behind him, distinctly from Voldemort, probably because his dearest elbowed him.
Apple fucking tree.
It was obvious why he hadn’t told Hermione any of these details.
If he doesn’t tell her, then it’s not real.
Voldemort and Alya were not dating/courting/sleeping in the same bed.
Hydrus, frankly, draws far too much of his humour from having a traumatic childhood and non-functioning parental figures.
Voldemort cannot fuck this up for him too.
So, rather like dangling a bone over a small yippy dog to distract them, he tells Hermione that Ron had sent him a letter asking to meet.
She yells at him for approximately ten minutes for waiting for so long to tell her and then drills him about the note’s contents and what he will do.
It’s better not to tell her that they were meant to be meeting that night.