Actions

Work Header

Fiddler's Green

Summary:

In 1996, after the battle in the Ministry of Magic Sirius Black falls through the Veil, a barrier between the living and the dead hidden in the Department of Mysteries, in a room pertinently named the Death Chamber. He dies, but as it is later learned, not everything is ever so simple.

Two years later, Lord Voldemort is about to be defeated but doesn’t know it yet. Severus Snape is about to meet his maker as well, to fall into his own demise as the double agent no-one cares to suspect any longer, as he’s proven his loyalty to the Dark Lord by killing Albus Dumbledore. He’s fine with it, ready even, to perish for good. But when death arrives, Severus realises soon enough that for some reason he does not move onto the next life, but rather… onto the past.

Notes:

This is a certain kind of a sequel to my last work, Dead Reckoning. I suppose it is not absolutely necessary to have been read it to read this one, since this takes place in an entirely different era. It makes a few things clearer if you have read it, especially towards the end of this fic.

Beta from Chapter 3 onwards: brightened, can't ever thank enough! ❤ Rest of the remaining mistakes are all mine.

Chapter 1: Prologue: The River Styx

Chapter Text

 

 

 

An important guest, the most important of them all, actually, had summoned Orion and Walburga Black’s attendance that evening. Orion was nervous, but Walburga on the other hand… she was downright unstable. She had paced around the Manor for hours, made sure Kreacher had carefully dusted every corner, even the dreariest ones, and that the most luxurious pillows and silverware had been routed out in the open from the cabinets and cupboards. Everything should be spotless, immaculate.

Thankfully, both their sons Regulus and Sirius were back at school so they wouldn’t bother them while entertaining this very special visitor. If they had been at home… it was possible that at least some sort of turmoil would ensue. It wasn’t Regulus, but their oldest one, Sirius, who had gone off the rails in the last couple of years. He had been in the habit of causing more harm than good, that disastrous jester of a boy. It all had started about three years ago, after he’d been sorted into that Merlin-awful house at Hogwarts…

Better not focus on that right now, Walburga thought while examining her face in the mirror, brushing her gushing long black hair, plaiting it as she got through it one section at a time. Once finished, she placed a silvery snake barrette on top of her coiffure as a final touch. Droopily she kept staring at her reflection for a while, that awful churning blazing in the pits of her belly.

Doorbell rang.

Walburga stiffened, stood up quickly. Orion appeared in the doorway of their bedroom, eyebrows curved, shadows on his face. It was obvious that her husband was anxious too. Hopefully not too obvious—it wouldn’t impress their guest.

“It is time.”

“Is everything in order?” Walburga breathed once they had reached downstairs. They shared one last cautious, lingering glance before Orion nodded slowly, and with a shaky hand she swung the front door open.

 

 

“Oh, but I hope you do know that I am very much interested in these recent discoveries of yours,” Lord Voldemort stated. He was examining their paintings closely in the foyer, slid a slender, pale finger through the canvas of Walburga’s great grandmother, who was obnoxiously busy sleeping. Walburga could see the faint line his finger had left on the painting covered in dust and made a mental remark to reprimand Kreacher later. “I happen to be, shall we say, very much intrigued in these specific kinds of artefacts you claim to have located, Orion.”  

Orion cleared his throat, glanced at his wife. Walburga wasn’t sure if the Dark Lord was being facetious or not. Probably not. She didn’t think the Dark Lord would care for things such as banter. But then again, she also didn’t think anyone at all would be interested in Orion’s musty old collection of bizarre nonsense. She was so annoyed by the junk he collected on his trips that she had forced him to store them outside the house.

“Oh.” Orion said. “Ah, that’s… that’s—”

“If you could present these artefacts to me, I would be ever so… appreciative,” the Dark Lord requested. He was smiling coldly, looking at only Orion and not bothering to grant a glance at Walburga’s direction.

Walburga looked at her husband. Orion stood in place, clearly not knowing what to do or say next. Walburga nodded in an encouraging manner—hopefully. Why didn’t the poor man move? Why was he standing there looking like that?

After a while that felt like an eternity, Orion jerked a step forward. “Erm, yes,” he said, “yes, of course. We need to move outside for that, though, if I may ask.”

Poppycock. That’s what Walburga usually stated about her husband’s storeroom full of garbage, and for some odd reason she was sure that the Dark Lord knew exactly what she thought about her husband’s waste-of-a-time hobby of collecting dubious things all around the world as he travelled. She turned away even though he wasn’t looking at her, lowered her gaze to the ground as she followed the two men outside.

“I recently travelled to the rarely explored parts of Balkan,” Orion said as he opened the heavy iron door of their storage space, “Corinthia, to be more exact. I was lucky enough to acquire these artefacts on my trip there. Lately I’ve been fascinated by the folklore of Elysian Fields, Hades, and whatnot. You see, it is believed that there is a river, known as the River Styx, located somewhere in the inscrutable rural areas of the Balkan. This river once had a gatekeeper, a sort of a—a ferryman, if you will, that travelled between the land of the living and that of the dead. This river between, the Styx, divided those two worlds from each other. I’ve wanted to visit that river ever since I was a little boy… To prove that it existed.”

Walburga saw Orion’s eyes ignite once again talking about the dearest of subjects, felt a slight surge of affection, familiar from their youthful years after just getting together. Odd feeling, that was. She hadn’t touched that in years, not like this anyway. The feeling quickly faded once she noticed the look on the Dark Lord’s face. Amusement. Tangled up with condescension. He wasn’t delighted. He was… dissatisfied.

“Ah, yes,” the Dark Lord declared slowly. “The Infernal River and its astonishing capabilities. ‘Bathe in the river, become immortal.’ A Muggle lore, that one, is it not?”

Orion flinched. “N-no. I mean, well, yes.” He cleared his throat again, was blinking rapidly, feverishly pondering just what to say. “The Muggles have probably concocted a similar lore too, sure—but there is a Wizard lore of the River Styx, a more detailed and a genuine one, I might add.”

The smile on Lord Voldemort’s face deepened. It wasn’t polite, Walburga thought, it was just terrifying. Her heart started racing, rapidly and without a warning, on her chest. She was happy that her husband was the one the Dark Lord was looking like that, and not her.

“I’ve been to the River Styx,” Orion assured. His voice was a little shaky. “It is real. It exists. It is incredibly hard to find, but I… I discovered it. At last.”

“Ah. Surely you did, Orion, I am not questioning you. Did you bathe in the water?” Voldemort inquired almost conversationally. “Are you immortal now?” He let out a piercing, short laugh after that.

“No, I—”

Easy, Walburga thought and tried to communicate with her husband by only gaping at him, eyes wide. Orion was short-tempered, she could see the irritation in his eyes and was sure that the Lord would too. Not a time to throw a fit. Certainly not.

Orion didn’t throw a fit. Instead, he scuffled through the artefacts in the storage room for a while, turning his back on both of them.

“I do not believe it works that way,” Orion spoke once he appeared again, holding up something that looked like a small velvety purse of galleons. He held it up from the string, the pouch chinked swaying from side to side. “I don’t think it is safe for anyone to—to bathe in it or anything of the sort, not after the death of Charon. The ferryman of the River Styx, I mean. I was careful not to touch the water, since I do not have a clue what it would do to me. I—I bottled some of it instead,” he said eyes glistening in excitement, “if you, my Lord, are interested.” He carefully picked up a tiny potion bottle from the pouch, held it high up in the air so that the three of them could examine it. Well, one of them did, at least. Walburga was standing stiffly in place, watching the Dark Lord, worried, studying his ever-changing facial expression. Lord Voldemort himself wasn’t looking at the potion bottle, he was staring at Orion, still entertained.

“You travelled all the way to Corinthia only to bottle a splash of water, Orion?” Voldemort asked. “How… modest of you.”

Orion flushed, deeply. He lowered down the potion bottle in defeat. Walburga swallowed. She desperately wanted to get out of their musty storage room and into the shelter of their beloved Manor. The air seemed tense, volatile.

“How about the coins?” Voldemort queried only after the silence between them had gotten uncomfortable. “Do they contain a tale too?”

“Ah.” The pouch in Orion’s hand tinkled as he turned to look at it. “These I found by the River. Legend is, a coin to pay Charon the Ferryman for safe passage onto the other side was necessary, and if you couldn’t afford to pay the price, you would be burdened to wander around the shores until he let you pass through. Sometimes hundreds of years. Legend also says Merlin—or perhaps one of his companions—slayed Charon way back when. Which is why the coins were most likely left behind.”

Voldemort laughed, again that cold, high-pitched voice echoed in their storage room, Walburga’s insides turning a bit by the sound.

“Drops of water and Muggle coins from the South-East. How charming, indeed,” Voldemort stated. “Mrs Black.” Without a warning the Dark Lord turned to Walburga. She flinched, couldn’t stop herself soon enough. He took her hand and pressed a cold, dry kiss on the back of her palm. “It’s been a pleasure.”

“You—you’re not leaving, are you, my Lord?” Walburga inquired hastily, knowing her desperation was seething through her tone. They had not made an impression, that much was for sure. Damn that Orion and his worthless thingamajigs he always had to prance around and show everybody. “We haven’t even offered you tea yet, or maybe—maybe we could interest you in some wine? How about that, my Lord? Wine be good?”

“No. I do not think I have spare time for that anymore. Unfortunately, I do have more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.”

With that, Lord Voldemort was gone. And so was Orion Black’s fascination in ancient lore about all things death, the afterlife and archaic demons on Earth guarding its unfathomable secrets.