Chapter Text
It almost felt like divine providence when Rodolphus’ betrothed ran off with her little mudblood.
The feeling didn’t last.
Rodolphus had really only chosen the second Black sister because she was the youngest of the options his father gave him. Apparently, it sounded creepy when he put it like that, but it had nothing to do with the girl at all. He only hoped to stall long enough for his father to finally die. Then neither he nor Rabastan would be forced to marry.
His ex-betrothed’s elopement seemed like the perfect sort of scandal for his purposes. He didn’t have to marry the girl within the year and it wasn’t even something anyone in their right mind would blame him for. But his association with the scandal would curtail his prospects for any new arrangements for at least a year or two. But no, his father was desperate enough to see him married off that he started looking at the real dregs of society. Thankfully, even he recognized the insult in Black’s attempt to save face by offering to swap the blood traitor out with her elder sister, considering the eldest castrated the last man she was meant to marry.
So far, Rodolphus had been able to put things off by finding fault in the options presented and pretending to worry over whether he could really trust their honor (after all, if even a daughter of House Black couldn't be trusted not to run off with a mudblood…). His father’s suggestions on how he should prevent such impropriety, were perhaps as distasteful as they were unhelpful. They did little but add unneeded context to the duel that killed his mother and was killing his father (even if the latter was taking upwards of a decade). As it was, Rodolphus found himself in dire straits.
“I don’t get it,” Travers said. “Why don’t you just–” he waved his arm“-potion yourself for however long it takes? That’s what Selwyn’s doing.”
“I’m not going to addle my wits drugging myself,” Rodolphus said. “Have you seen Sewlyn lately? He’s unbearable. Can’t even hold a proper conversation! Last time I visited, he made me look at the poetry he composed for wife. Travers, he described her hair as flaxen.”
“Isn't her hair is black?”
“Exactly.”
Selwyn called it a sonnet too. It was only 5 lines.
Travers silently mouthed words to himself, frowning. “...What even rhymes with flaxen?”
“It doesn’t matter! It wasn’t even part of the rhyme scheme!” Rodolphus said.
It had to be the love potion that addled Selwyn beyond hope. Rodolphus refused to believe he’d carried on a liaison with a complete imbecile. Imagine if Selwyn had admired Rodolphus’ own “flaxen” hair as he fucked him?
“Merlin,” Travers said. “But I’m really not sure you can really blame the potion for the quality of the poetry. You know how Selwyn’s always been a bit…”
“Shut up.”
Travers held his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying,” he said, mouth set in a mocking curl. He continued, “What if you come to some sort of understanding with one of the women? You can–I dunno–live in separate wings of the manor, only meet on holidays or whatever. I’m sure there are plenty of pureblood women who’d prefer that to suffering some oaf’s attentions.”
“Father is rather insistent the marriage be–” he made a face, “-consummated. Apparently he wants to meet the next generation before he croaks.” It baffled Rodolphus, who had it on good authority that the man despised children.
“Don’t and say you did? I mean he can’t actually force you. What’s he going to do, check?”
Rodolphus rather thought Travers underestimated his father. “I still wouldn’t want some woman in my house.”
Travers not so subtly rolled his eyes. Rodolphus realized he had reached the end of Travers’ patience on the topic.
“Maybe I’ll see if one would like to conspire to delay any arrangements,” Rodolphus said, with little intent to follow through. If push came to shove, he supposed he could always tell his father he was gay too. Maybe the shock would kill the man before he could work out how to disinherit both his sons (Bast had always been rather obvious about it, more so than even Selwyn). But disinheritance was probably even worse than marriage. He’d be poor and his French cousins would win.
Travers took the opportunity to start in on a new topic. “Have you heard much about that firebrand Gibbon has been hosting?”
“Not much.” Rodolphus said. He didn’t really care to hear more about the man, to be honest. It seemed like every few years someone would start trying to rile people up about the pureblood cause. It never amounted to anything.
“My father banned me from going to anything Gibbon hosts,” Travers sounded baffled. Unlike Rodolphus’ father, he didn’t impose petty, arbitrary rules on Travers for the sake of it.
“Why's that?”
“That’s the thing, he wouldn’t say.”
“How strange,” Rodolphus said, bored already.
That evening, his father burst into Rodolphus’ parlor and set to pacing the room, his face a deep, unhealthy red.
Rodolphus wanted him gone but didn’t want to encourage any conversation. He settled for idly tracking the man’s progress around the room, silently willing him to drop dead.
His father finally spoke, “The Gibbons are toting around some fool calling himself Lord Voldemort. Ha!”
“Oh?” Rodolphus said, hoping to speed the conversation along.
“Do you remember what I’ve told you about that mudblood Slytherin who was at Hogwarts with me?” Father asked.
It seemed like a rather abrupt, if interesting, swerve to the conversation. “Riddle, wasn't it?” Rodolphus asked, knowing very well it was.
The mystery of Tom Riddle was something Rodolphus had spent far too many hours of his life trying to puzzle out. The boy had apparently made his father’s years at Hogwarts a living nightmare but funnily enough, Father seemed incapable of providing any details. Not just that he was unwilling to admit what happened, but that he was literally incapable of it. All Rodolphus knew was that Tom Riddle was all the worst things mudbloods were rumored to be and then some. An ill-mannered brute, a manipulative thief, a vile seductress.
Really, the mythos his father inadvertently built up around the mudblood left Rodolphus disappointed with how unrelentingly dull the ones he met at Hogwarts were. Even the one his betrothed ran off with seemed painfully plain. Although in fairness, Rodolphus hadn’t seen him since the boy was a pudgy little fourth year Hufflepuff. (But come on, could a Hufflepuff ever be interesting?)
“Tom Riddle–look at me, boy! Tom Riddle,” Father said, pointing to an imaginary point in front of his right hand, “Lord Voldemort,” he said, doing the same with his left. Then brought his hands together.
Rodolphus stared at him for several seconds, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t.
“Sorry, what?”
“Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort.” Father said, gritting his teeth, repeating the entire gesture.
Was he–was he trying to act something out?
“I don’t get it,” Rodolphus said.
His father repeated the gestures. Just when it looked like his father was about to lose his temper Rodolphus said, “Ohh, like charades?”
His father sneered “Like charades?" he mocked. "No, I am showing you exactly what I mean, if you had any sense”
That sounded like charades to Rodolphus.
“Pay attention, you imbecile.” Father held up his index finger.
“Okay, first word,” Rodolphus said.
Father made a violent chopping motion.
“An axe? A muggle?”
His father must have forgotten he wasn’t bound by the rules of charades for a moment too, because only then did he say, “No! Not ‘first word.’ This isn’t charades!”
Father started over. “Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort,” he clasped his hands, entwining his fingers.
Holy shit. “Are they–” Rodolphus affected a dramatic face of disgust “involved ? You know, like…” he trailed off significantly. Phenomenal news, if true. Merlin and Morgana, the mudblood really must be some sort of succubus.
“NO! Don’t you dare say such vile things! He can’t–AHA!-he can’t! Tom Riddle can’t be in the same room as Lord Voldemort.”
“...Because he’d kill him?”
“Can’t, CANNOT be in the same room,” Father said, spittle flying. “BECAUSE! Tom Riddle,” he held his right hand out like he was trying to throttle someone. “And Lord. Voldemort,” with his left. “ARE–” he brought his hands together in a thunderous clap.
“Uh.” Rodolphus said.
Wait, Wait. Merlin were Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort the same person, one and the same? Rodolphus brought his glass up to hide his mouth. As hilarious as it was baffling. What business did a mudblood have playing a blood purist demagogue?
Rodolphus played dumb and let his father cycle through the gestures a few more times.
“You stupid boy!” Father said, clipping him with a stinging hex. “Your mother’s pebble of a brain, I swear. Now, listen to me, very carefully. Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort–” his father brought his hands together again.
“And they all clapped?”
His father realized he was being mocked. His face twisted in fury as he raised his wand.
Rodolphus hastily tried to set down his glass in time.
His vision whited out.
The glass shattered on the carpet.
Once his tongue started working again, Rodolphus said, “I'm sorry, Father. Is Tom Riddle going around calling himself Lord Voldemort?”
“Finally!” Father started off on a diatribe Rodolphus only half listened to, consumed as he was mourning the 1899’s Ogden’s Finest soaking into the rug. What an accursed waste. That was the last of the 1899 too.
When his father paused, Rodolphus called Dottie and ordered the elf to bring him a new glass. "The 1903,” he added, begrudgingly.
The elf’s name wasn’t actually Dottie, that one died when Rodolphus was 9 or so. His father continued to call for it and punished the elves when they didn’t answer. Then punished them when too many did. So one of them became Dottie. It used to be called… well, it was either Doily or Lacey... Blimey, maybe it was Nettie?
“I forbid you from consorting with anyone who so much as looks in that mudblood’s direction.”
Naturally, Rodolphus secured an invitation to the next meeting.
“Lord Vol-de-mort ,” Selwyn pronounced it like it was French, although his accent was bad enough that any tutor would rightly hex him. “Say Lestrange, is he one of yours?”
Rodolphus’ eye twitched. “No.”
He really shouldn’t have brought Selwyn, but Travers suffered from an unfortunate disposition where he actually listened to his father. Selwyn’s wife, on the other hand, practically shoved the poor fool out the door herself. It’s not that Rodolphus was nervous to go on his own. Just that it might be a wee bit awkward if he did.
The crowd was a bit unusual for this sort of thing. Purebloods, mostly. Although the ones that weren’t were the halfbloods that delusionally insisted otherwise. There weren’t really many from the old families. Rodulphus and Selwyn were probably some of the most prestigious guests.
Selwyn seemed a bit puzzled as he looked around the ballroom. Not with the people, the décor. “You know I used to find the Morganian style a bit tacky,” he told Rodolphus, sotto voce. “But my wife has redone the plum parlor in it and I…” he frowned. “I think it's... growing on me?” he sounded unsure.
It was the closest Rodolphus had seen the man come to disagreeing with his wife since he’d potioned up. “No, I think you were right. That Morgana-ian stuff can be a bit gauche.” Wand to his throat, Rodolphus couldn’t tell you what the style was, but he was interested in seeing if interior decorating could be the fracture point that broke Selwyn free from his potioned haze.
Selwyn blinked, then his face split in a grin, “Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
He sounded so trite Rodolphus physically recoiled.
“Luckily, I get to behold my wife every other day!”
“Merlin...” Would it be bad form to ditch him? ‘Why don’t you just potion yourself, Lestrange?’ Travers must hate him.
Rodolphus was planning to get lost on the way to the refreshment table when the guest of honor arrived.
They could feel Riddle’s presence before they could see him. The conversation in the ballroom petered out as the man’s magic unfurled throughout the room. Heavy, tantalizingly Dark. It was like a weight pressing down on his lungs, not letting him draw a full breath.
Rodulphus stood about a half a head taller than most in the room, so he saw Riddle first. He was the most beautiful man Rodolphus had ever seen. He was tall and slender, with dark eyes and hair that was such a deep brown it almost looked black. There was something foreign, almost otherworldly, about his features. He looked like a god amongst men, and with his magic pressing down upon them, he felt like one too.
Once the crowd parted around Riddle, Selwyn gave a choked gasp. “You know,” he whispered, not as quietly as he should, “He’s almost as pretty as my wife.”
Rodolphus snorted. Riddle’s eyes snapped to him for a moment. But even that brief flicker of attention left Rodolphus reeling.
It was only after Riddle passed them that Rodolphus noticed there was a giant snake following at the man’s hems. Once Riddle reached the front of the room he hissed at the snake, which seemed to echo him before climbing up to wrap around his shoulders.
Wait, so was the man a mudblood or not? If he was a parselmouth, he’d have to at least be a half blood. But was that actually parseltongue? He could have just Imperioused the snake. But it seemed rather audacious to lie about it so soon after the Gaunts died out. Actually no, it was probably the best time to lie about it. No one could contradict you and it wasn’t so long ago that you could just claim you were a bastard son and not have to account for any missing generations... But if the man actually was a halfblood, it wouldn’t be nearly as bad.
Rodolphus really only gave half an ear to most of Voldemort’s actual speech. The man wasn’t saying much that was truly novel. Mostly, it was the kind of things you heard at parties when people got a little too deep in their cups. But Voldemort’s presence, his sheer magnetism, transformed those sentiments from impotent grumbling discontent into actionable rallying calls. He made it seem like the solution to the mudblood question was entirely within their reach.
Once he finished, the crowd swelled in riotous cheers. Gibbon looked so chuffed with it one would almost think it was him they were applauding.
Voldemort spoke quietly to Gibbon for a minute before making his exit. Whatever he said left a rather pinched look on Gibbon’s face. Gibbon started through the crowd toward Rodolphus and Selwyn. “Heirs Selwyn and Lestrange, you honor us with your presence.”
“Oh, it’s our pleasure. We don’t usually run in the same circles, but we wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Rodolphus smiled.
“Yes, he's a gifted speaker. Also what you’ve done with the ballroom is very bold.” Selwyn looked around. “I think I might even like it.” Rodolphus knew he was entirely sincere, but it certainly didn’t sound like it.
Gibbon looked like he wanted to start slinging curses. “Lord Voldemort would be pleased to meet with such esteemed guests as yourselves,” The words seemed to pain him.
“We’d love to,” Rodolphus said, probably too quickly.
Their conversation hadn’t gone unnoticed. The looks those nearby sent them seemed more resentful than deferential. Rodolphus shot them a superior look, just to further ruffle their feathers. On one level, it seemed preposterous that the men from these lesser pureblood families were glaring at them because they were being called to meet a (maybe) mudblood. On another, Rodolphus felt almost dizzy with excitement at the chance to meet his father’s personal boogieman. It was a bit like how he felt when he got to meet Celestina Warbeck.