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“My grandson,” Abraxas announced, depositing the child in Voldemort’s arms.
Voldemort looked down at the creature, appalled. “What do you expect me to do with it?”
“Him, Tom, honestly.” He shook his head. “Merlin, you’ve slain giants and dragons, don’t tell me you’re intimidated by a baby.”
“I’m not intimidated,” Voldemort replied immediately, rearranging the child into a more suitable position, muscle memory kicking in. He’d handled more infants than he could count in his days at Wool’s.
The baby was tow-headed, as many children were, but if he was anything like the rest of his family, the white-blond would never darken to brown. There was a slight curl to his hair, presumably the Black influence. He blinked up at Voldemort with large grey eyes, rested a plump cheek on his shoulder and drooled on his robes.
“Bom,” he said.
“Well, that’s it from me,” Abraxas said, patting the baby on the head. He babbled and reached for his grandfather’s hand, but Abraxas stepped deftly out of reach. “I’m off to the crup races. Cheerio!”
Voldemort watched, incredulous, as he flounced away, leaving him alone with the baby in the Drawing Room of Malfoy Manor. It was a sign that his authority with the Malfoys wasn’t holding nearly strong enough if Abraxas would do such a thing. Still carrying the baby, he stepped out into the hallway, looking for some errant Black or Malfoy to hand it off to.
A sharp intake of breath had him turning around. There, just at the top of the stairs was Lucius, the colour rapidly draining from his young face at the sight of his son being carried by Voldemort. The baby gave a delighted laugh upon seeing his father. He was clutching at the collar of Voldemort’s robes now, but he ignored the irritant in favour of turning his attention to Lucius.
“My lord,” he stuttered, “Father—I assume he—here, let me take Draco off your hands. Terribly sorry for the inconvenience—“
Voldemort had rarely seen him so shaken. The sight amused him greatly. “It’s no trouble at all,” he said, bouncing the baby. Draco giggled, still yanking at his collar. “I’ve just been taking the opportunity to get to know your heir. Isn’t that right, Draco?”
“Bom,” Draco said, like the empty-headed child he was. Then, the little traitor twisted around and started reaching for Lucius. “Papa.”
Lucius stood frozen, evidently unsure of what action would risk the least retribution toward his son.
“Well, ah, do let me know when you would like me to take him back. Draco can be—he can be a little temperamental especially around nap time.” Lucius was wringing his hands.
Parenting turned the minds of his best generals into mush. At least Bellatrix had no intention of becoming a mother. Nevertheless, it was a powerful tool for him. It wouldn’t do for the Malfoys to become too cocky. A reminder of the vulnerability of his son would do Lucius some good.
“If you’ll excuse us,” Voldemort said pleasantly and carried the child away while his father looked on helplessly.
*
“Bom,” Draco said, lying on the carpet of the study and tugging on Voldemort’s shoelaces. “Bom.”
Voldemort ignored him in favour of reading. Abduction had seemed like an entertaining idea before he’d remembered what small children were like. He couldn’t simply put him in a cupboard and forget about him; no, even Voldemort had standards.
“Bom.”
“What are you trying to say?” Voldemort snapped, losing his patience.
“Bom,” he repeated stubbornly, pulling at the lace again but making no progress as he had his hand wrapped in the loop of the bow.
He obviously wasn’t trying to say ‘bomb’, no pureblood would be familiar with the word. But then—oh, for Christ’s sake. He was going to kill Abraxas. “No,” Voldemort said, scooping Draco up and holding him in the air like a disobedient cat. “Not Tom. Lord Voldemort.”
He repeated the name to no avail a number of times till Draco, a little furrow forming between his brows, said, “Bowl.”
It would have to do. He’d much rather Draco refer to him formally, but holding a baby and repeating ‘my Lord’ to it for half an hour was more humiliation than he was willing to take.
He set Draco back down on the floor, but when he immediately came crawling after his shoelaces again, Voldemort decided he’d had enough.
“Children should be seen and not heard.” He held the boy in one arm and transfigured a grandfather clock into a cot with the other. It was fashioned off distant memories of cots at Wool’s: tall with narrow slats and a thin mattress.
Draco had gone for his collar again. Voldemort didn’t notice the shifting weight on his chest till he looked down and saw that he’d had somehow tugged Slytherin’s locket out from where it was under his shirt.
“Wait—“ he started.
Draco did not wait. He put the locket in his mouth.
Voldemort watched for a moment, but nothing happened but for his Horcrux being thoroughly coated in baby saliva.
“You ought to be bawling your eyes out at the very least,” he said, a little put out.
Draco blinked large grey eyes up at him and babbled something muffled by the Horcrux he was teething on.
He supposed it was the Black blood in him. He seemed to recall Bellatrix gleefully lining up cursed dolls by her bedhead each night to watch her sleep when she’d been younger. He separated the boy from the Horcrux and placed him in the cot, ignoring his complaints.
*
“That is the most miserable cot I’ve ever seen,” Abraxas announced upon returning from the races. “Even puffskeins have nicer cages.”
Draco, seeming thoroughly unbothered, offered a gummy smile and reached up for a hug. Voldemort went back to his reading, pleased that he wouldn’t have to admit defeat and pass off the child to Lucius.
A moment later: “Have you cast a silencing spell on my grandson?”
*
Despite minor disagreements on the appropriate handling of noisy babies, Abraxas seemed pleased with Voldemort’s oversight of Draco and continued to foist the boy on him, much to Lucius and Narcissa’s horror.
Voldemort made no changes to the cot, leaving it pushed up against the back wall in the study. Mostly he let the child out to crawl around the room because he was prone to magical tantrums when cooped up in the cot under a Silencio.
He cast a repelling charm on his shoes and ignored him, Draco’s babbling ambient noise as he planned out his strategies for the upcoming months.
“Longbottom or Potter?” he asked one afternoon, sitting down on the floor in front of the baby.
“Mama,” Draco said, gazing longingly at the door.
“Pay attention. Longbottom or Potter?”
Draco’s brow wrinkled as he tried to parse his words. “Bowl?”
“No—“
“Pot,” he concluded and giggled, rolling onto his back, arms flopping out at his sides. There was a smudge of strawberry jam on his cheek.
“Yes, I was thinking much the same,” Voldemort said and stood.
*
“May I eat it?” Nagini asked.
“No,” Voldemort said. He had charmed photographs of suspected Order of the Phoenix members to the wall and was searching for missing links. Nagini had been put in charge of minding Draco.
“Just a little nibble?”
“No,” he repeated, more firmly. “That child is worth a million galleons in goodwill. You’re welcome to eat him if you have enough money to replace the Malfoys as allies.”
“But,” Nagini said, expressing as much distress as a snake was capable of, “it is eating me.”
Voldemort turned and frowned at the sight of Draco gumming on Nagini’s scales. “Stop complaining. He barely has teeth.” Draco had done his best to chew through Voldemort’s hand on a number of occasions—to no success—so he knew Nagini was simply making excuses. She did so enjoy the taste of human flesh.
*
Sometimes Abraxas would bring the boy but stay, hanging over Voldemort’s shoulder and peppering him with questions as if they were still at Hogwarts.
He ate and drank to excess, starting on the wine and cheese at midday. The only reason it wasn’t earlier was that he rarely woke before then. The whites of his watery blue eyes were constantly bloodshot and the sharp edge of his jaw had blurred into his neck some decades prior. It wasn’t yet clear if Lucius was going to follow in his father’s footsteps, but Voldemort doubted it—at least, in this particular regard. He was far more image-conscious than Abraxas.
“You need to loosen up, old boy,” Abraxas said, sipping elven wine while Draco sat in a floating baby chair, drinking pumpkin juice from an unspillable-mug. “All this planning and worrying will send you to an early grave. As a wise wizard once said, Que sera, sera.”
Voldemort was almost certain that had been a Muggle, but he stayed silent on the matter. “You’re half lard. I won’t listen to health advice from you, Abraxas.”
Abraxas spluttered indignantly and Draco giggled, mouth orange with juice.
“Oh—and you’re one to talk! You’ve gorged yourself on dark magic to such excess that it’s taking your hair out and you haven’t even tried to do anything to prevent it.”
Voldemort felt his scalp and had to admit to himself that his hair was considerably sparser than it had been some years prior. But he didn’t see why that mattered and expressed this sentiment to Abraxas.
“Merlin, of course you wouldn’t,” he said, shaking his head and muttering something along the lines of ‘waste of good breeding’.
Voldemort found that rather amusing considering the terms Abraxas had used to refer to him and his blood during their Hogwarts days.
*
“Your incompetence has greatly displeased me,” Voldemort hissed, circling Yaxley at a leisurely pace as he cowered on the floor.
“My lord, please. I swear it will never happen again—“
“Quiet,” he snapped. “Can’t you see the boy is sleeping?”
Yaxley ceased snivelling for long enough to look up and see Draco curled up asleep on a pillow in the corner, hugging a stuffed unicorn to his chest.
“I’m hallucinating,” he said, voice cracking upward with hysteria.
Voldemort silenced and petrified him before he used the Cruciatus.
*
Finally, it was time. Voldemort had finalised his preparations at the Crystal Cave. He’d had to move the locket from its previous hiding place when it had become associated with him months earlier, but the new protections were more flawless than his previous ones. There was only one problem. He looked down at the baby on his lap chewing on his Horcrux.
Well, if Abraxas wished for him to watch his grandson then he’d do just that. He tugged the Horcrux from Draco’s chubby little hands and cast an industrial strength cleaning charm on it.
“Come,” he said, rising to his feet, baby held to his chest, locket tucked back under his shirt. “We’re going on a little trip.”
*
They apparated directly into the Grimmauld Place kitchen, landing in front of a startled Regulus Black. Draco made an ominous gurgling noise but settled down after Voldemort patted his back.
“Er,” Regulus said, gawking at him with far less deference than he usually exhibited. “Is that my cousin?”
Draco took one look at Regulus, frowned, and tucked his head under Voldemort’s chin. Voldemort smiled smugly at Regulus whose expression only became more perturbed.
“Draco is irrelevant to the matter at hand. I am in need of a house elf. Discretion is critical.”
“Right, um, of course, my lord.” He snapped his fingers and called, “Kreacher!”
A wrinkly, grimy thing popped into appearance in the doorway, uglier even than the Malfoy elves. It, at least, didn’t cower pathetically at the sight of wizards, but the look of pure adoration it sent at Regulus was almost worse.
“Yes, Master Regulus.”
“The Dark Lord has need of your services,” Regulus said, gesturing at Voldemort. “Serve him as you would serve a Black.”
“Of course,” it said, bowing deeply. “Kreacher would be delighted to serve the Dark Lord.”
*
Voldemort apparated the three of them to the mouth of the cave. On the way out, he intended to place anti-apparation wards which would require any visitors to take a nice swim in the frigid ocean to reach the place where he stood. The elf bowed its head against the wind, clutching at its filthy pillowcase.
Draco whimpered and buried his face against Voldemort’s chest. Belatedly, he realised that the child was not remotely dressed for the weather. He took off his cloak and swaddled him in it, leaving only his face and a few tufts of his white-blond hair visible. Draco’s eyes glinted a silver-grey under the white light of the lumos. The tip of his tiny nose had gone pink.
The entrance required a blood sacrifice which the elf provided without complaint.
Draco enjoyed the boat ride, cooing and reaching out to the water as they travelled toward the island.
“Best not to,” Voldemort said and pulled him away from the edge.
On the island, he ordered the elf to drink the poison from the stone basin. It was small and scrawny, thus the effects were rapid and brutal. Voldemort was amused by its pained cries for Regulus and Walburga, but Draco was not.
Frightened, he began to cry, clutching at Voldemort’s chest. He ignored him and ordered the elf to continue drinking.
“Shut up,” he snapped, the elf writhing on the ground before him. “I haven’t got all day.”
Its jaw snapped shut, pained groans escaping from its throat. It crawled to the basin and poured another mouthful of the poison down its throat.
*
Draco was inconsolable on the trip back away from the island. The elf’s screams had greatly disturbed him and no amount of back patting or shushing could get him to quiet down. He wasn’t even properly crying anymore, though his cheeks were red and wet. His breath came in quick congested gasps and he made quiet distressed noises, like an injured animal.
“Mama. Mama,” he hiccuped, shuddering in a way that Voldemort had never seen from an infant. If he couldn’t get him to settle before he was due to be collected by Abraxas, he’d need to go sourcing an infant-safe calming draught. He had Draco’s head over his shoulder so that he wouldn’t see the inferi seething up the island and dragging the elf beneath the surface.
*
Voldemort went to the Malfoy Manor kitchens to terrorise the elves into providing him with some mashed pumpkin for Draco. In hindsight, it hadn’t been the wisest decision. Draco burst into tears again at the sight of the elves, sending them into a frantic scramble as they tried to soothe him.
“Mr Dark Lord is being a very bad nanny,” one elf admonished, crossing its arms and tapping its foot.
At any other time he would have cursed it dead on the spot, but in that moment instead he simply bounced the baby on his lap and said, “Make him stop.”
The disgruntled elf led him up to the nursery where it lit a fire and had him sit in the armchair holding the baby.
“Here,” it said, opening a music box. “This is making Master Draco sleepy. But Mr Dark Lord is being made sleepy too if he sits too long, so Mr Dark Lord is needing to put Master Draco in the cot before then.”
“This is dark magic,” Voldemort said, feeling the tendrils of the music box’s magic searching his occlumency shields for a flaw. Already, Draco was nodding off in his lap, rubbing his little fists over his eyes.
“And?” the elf said, popping out of existence before he could respond.
*
Peter Pettigrew folded with little more than a look from Voldemort. To think the Potters had trusted him as Secret Keeper. It was laughable. He’d been loyal to the death eaters for months and not a single member of the Order had noticed.
Malfoy Manor was still and quiet, Voldemort passing through the hallways like a shadow. He’d intended to go immediately to the Potter house, but lost in his thoughts, his feet took him to the nursery in the East Wing.
Draco wasn’t asleep, though it was hours past his bedtime. He’d rolled onto his stomach and was gazing up at him with curious eyes. Voldemort lit the fire with a flick of his wand and went to stand over the cot. He’d been quiet and clingier since he’d taken him to the Crystal Cave, and he’d overheard Narcissa saying that he’d been having nightmares, waking screaming for her.
Not for the first time, it occurred to him that Harry Potter differed in age from Draco by less than two months. He put the thought out of his mind.
“I’m going out,” he said and then felt rather foolish. He expected to be back soon, the Potters posing little challenge. And he’d never been inspired to inform the child of his comings and goings before.
Draco sat up and silently reached for a hug. Voldemort indulged him, just for a moment. There was no one around to bear witness. He didn’t babble and coo as he usually did, instead burying his head against his shoulder, the tips of his silky hair tickling Voldemort’s chin.
“Bom?” he said and this time Voldemort didn’t correct him.
He said, “I’ll be back before morning."