Living with the Dark Lord under the same roof had turned out to be, for lack of a better word... surreal or strange. There were no other words to describe it.
They had been living together at Gaunt Manor for a week, and Aurelian still found himself blinking occasionally to make sure it wasn't a hallucination. The image of the most feared wizard of recent years being fed soup by a beautiful woman or floating through the hallways in his rudimentary body while criticizing the decoration of the curtains was something nothing in this world had prepared him for.
Most disconcerting were Voldemort's attempts at fatherhood.
It was surreal. He asked me about my Transfiguration grades with the same demanding tone a 'normal' father would ask his son about a soccer game. He criticized my nonverbal spells harshly but then nodded proudly when I explained how I had outwitted Dumbledore. He was a mixture of a war general and a father trying to make up for lost time, all packaged in the body of a creature straight out of a nightmare.
Aurelian found these clumsy attempts at connection strangely amusing. His father was trying to be a mentor and a father at the same time.
On the other hand, the mansion had become a silent battlefield.
Nagini, in her desire to be useful and show gratitude, had begun to perform household chores. She dusted, arranged cushions, and attempted to serve tea.
This had enraged Stinky to levels he had never seen before.
The house elf stalked Nagini around corners, muttering curses, grumbling in corners, and pulling his ears every time he saw her touch a rag. For Stinky, having a "guest" do his job was the greatest insult to his honor. Aurelian had had to intervene twice before Stinky tried to poison Nagini's tea with dragon laxative "by accident."
One of the most memorable moments of the week had occurred in Aurelian's room.
One afternoon, Nagini took Voldemort to her son's private quarters. The Dark Lord inspected the place with a critical eye, expecting to see shelves full of books on the dark arts or trophies he had obtained from his enemies.
Instead, he found a 24-inch television, a PlayStation 1 console (which Aurelian had managed to import from Japan months before its official release thanks to his contacts and money), and a small refrigerator that he had adapted to run on magic instead of electricity, humming in the corner.
"What... is this?" asked Voldemort, pointing his deformed hand toward the screen where a pixelated character was running.
"Entertainment, Father," replied Aurelian from the armchair, without letting go of the controller. "It's a video game console. Technology."
Voldemort snorted, a mixture of disdain and disappointment.
"You're becoming too Muggle, Aurelian," he hissed. "A wizard of your caliber shouldn't depend on these filthy toys. Magic gives you everything you need. A cold box for drinks? Really? A cooling spell is more elegant than using those contraptions."
Aurelian simply smiled as he opened the refrigerator, took out an ice-cold Coca-Cola, and took a long sip, ignoring the comment. He knew his father would never understand the pleasure of playing video games or drinking carbonated soda, and he couldn't tell him what to do anyway.
However, the highlight of the week, the moment that really broke the ice between them, happened that same night.
They were in the second-floor hallway. Peter Pettigrew, who was still acting like a scared rat looking for a hole to hide in, was wandering around in search of a more comfortable room than the one he had been assigned, or perhaps he was just snooping around.
Peter put his hand on the doorknob of the main guest room, the luxury suite that Hestia and Flora occupied whenever they stayed at the mansion (and which they had left impregnated with their scent and several of their belongings).
"STOP RIGHT THERE, YOU FILTHY CREATURE, DON'T GO IN THERE!"
Stinky appeared out of nowhere with a loud crack, wielding a feather duster like a sword.
"That room is off limits!" screamed the elf, his eyes bulging. "No one goes in there! Only the young ladies go in there!"
Peter jumped back, trembling at the elf's glare.
"I-I was just looking for... a soft bed," stammered Pettigrew.
"That bed is for Master Aurelian's young ladies!" bellowed Stinky, red with rage. "Only the future ladies of the house can sleep there! You go to the basement room, you animal! OUT! OUT!"
Stinky snapped his fingers and Peter was sent flying through the air, bouncing off the opposite wall, transforming into a rat out of sheer panic before running away on all four legs.
Aurelian, who had seen everything from the doorway of his room, burst out laughing.
"It seems Stinky has clear standards of quality," he said, watching Peter scurry away and shaking his head. "He's a fierce guardian, it seems."
Beside him, in Nagini's arms, Voldemort made a hoarse, broken sound. It took Aurelian a second to realize that his father was laughing.
"That elf has character," my father commented with a malicious smile. "I like him. He keeps the trash away from what's important."
Aurelian looked at his father, and they shared a genuine laugh, united by their contempt for Peter and the elf's absurd loyalty. The week had been strange, but it definitely hadn't been boring.
"Yes," said Aurelian, smiling broadly. "Stinky knows what the priorities are, always thinking of what's best for this house."
A few days later, Aurelian's laughter filled the walls of his private office, an elegant room with a modern touch, faithful to the Gothic design of the rest of the mansion.
"Merlin, Dad!" exclaimed Aurelian, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "You should have seen your face!"
From a nearby dark leather sofa, Lord Voldemort, propped up by several silk cushions to support his frail body, muttered curses in Parseltongue with his arms crossed over his scaly chest and an expression of utter indignation. Clearly offended.
"It's not funny, Aurelian," hissed Voldemort in a rough voice. "That portrait is defective. The paint must have degraded over the centuries."
"It's not defective!" Aurelian replied, letting out another laugh. "It's Salazar Slytherin! You went in there speaking Parseltongue, proclaiming yourself his heir and expecting him to bow down to you. And he..." Aurelian had to pause to catch his breath. "He looked at you with pure disgust, called you a 'talking fetus,' and turned away to sleep! He didn't even recognize you!"
Voldemort snorted, looking away toward the window.
"He's a senile old man painted in oil. When I have my body, I'll burn that canvas."
The Dark Lord waited for his son's laughter to die down. When silence returned to the room, his expression changed. Shame gave way to the cold ambition that always burned in his eyes, black as night.
"We've wasted a week playing house," said Voldemort, his tone turning serious. "You've had your fun, and we've caught up. When do we start with the important stuff?"
Aurelian leaned back in his desk chair, twirling a pen between his fingers.
"What do you mean by 'important things'?"
"My restoration," said Voldemort impatiently. "The Conquest. The Ministry is weak, Fudge eats out of your hand. It's time to call my loyal followers, break down the gates of Azkaban, and take Britain by force. We must return wizards to their rightful place."
Aurelian stopped twirling the pen. His face became expressionless, his eyes fixed on his father's.
"I'll help you regain your body, Father, don't worry... we just need to work out the details. But," Aurelian leaned forward, his gaze hardening, "trying to conquer Britain through open warfare is senseless stupidity. We would gain nothing."
Voldemort tensed, clenching his fists.
"Stupidity?" he hissed dangerously. "You dare call my vision stupidity?"
"It is," Aurelian replied unperturbed. "A magical civil war would only destroy our infrastructure and isolate us from the rest of the world. Spilling magical blood is a waste, and your ideology of terror is obsolete. I already have some influence in the Ministry without having cast a single Avada Kedavra."
"This is not about political control!" shouted Voldemort, his magic stirring the flames in the fireplace. "This is about purity! It is our sacred duty that the old families rule! We must cleanse our society and eliminate the...!"
Voldemort stopped short. Ready to spit out the word that had defined his crusade. The word was on the tip of his tongue; he had said it a thousand times in his speeches. Mudblood.
But Aurelian was looking at him, and in his son's gaze there was no fear, only defiance.
"Say it," Aurelian whispered. His voice was soft, but it cut like a knife. "Finish the sentence, Father. Eliminate the... who?"
Voldemort breathed heavily, fighting against a much deeper truth.
"Dare," Aurelian insisted, slowly standing up. "Dare to sully my mother's memory. Dare to call her that name. Because if your ideology demands her death, then your ideology is my enemy, and let's be honest, even you don't believe all that shit."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.
Voldemort looked at his son. He saw Elaine's eyes in him. He saw the blood of the woman he loved flowing through the veins of the young man standing before him. The woman who was born to Muggles. The woman who was "impure" according to the doctrine he himself had preached for so long.
The Dark Lord, the monster who knew no remorse, closed his eyes and collapsed onto the cushions. All the fury left him in a long, shuddering sigh.
"I can't," Voldemort murmured, his voice broken. "Not her. Never her."
Aurelian sat up again, relaxing his posture, though his eyes remained attentive to his father's words. A faint smile curved his lips.
"And that's why all that rhetoric about 'blood purity' is a lie, Dad."
Voldemort opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.
"It was... it was necessary," he admitted, his voice sounding tired and old, baring his soul for the first time. "I needed an army, son. The Purebloods have the gold, the influence, and their fanaticism is easy to exploit. I told them what they wanted to hear. I gave them a purpose to follow me. I used their prejudices as a weapon for my rise."
"I may have been wrong," confessed Voldemort. "I am a half-blood, Aurelian. You know that. Tom Riddle... they would never have followed a half-blood for simple charisma. They needed a cause. They needed someone to validate their hatred and arrogance."
"I gave them what they wanted. I gave them blood supremacy as a banner so they would die for me. So they would make me king." He paused, his ugly face showing a vulnerability that no one, except perhaps Elaine, had ever seen before.
"But the truth is, I don't care about blood. I care about power. And she mattered to me even more than all that." Voldemort looked down at his deformed hands. "It's true. I miss her. I miss her all the time. Every time I look at you, I remember her, and it hurts that she's not here."
Aurelian watched his father in silence. He saw the tyrant stripped of his lies, saw the broken man hiding behind the myth of the Dark Lord.
"There he is" Aurelian thought, feeling a spark of hope. "He's not just a monster. He's a man who made bad choices out of ambition and pain"
"Then stop pretending," Aurelian said softly. "We're going to get your body back. We're going to... 'take' the world, but we'll do it my way. No pointless massacres. No destroying what Mom loved."
Voldemort thought for a few seconds before slowly nodding.
"What do you have in mind, son?"
Aurelian smiled, this time with more warmth. Maybe, just maybe, his father had salvation after all.
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