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Returning to his musings he briefly wondered if the Lords Black were a manipulation of his unknown nemesis. Most often the Dark Lord referred to him as ‘that fucker’ considering how little was known of him. Numerous plans over the years had been foiled by that fucker, many of them in the early stages. He had first suspected there was a spy amongst his inner circle, but Voldemort had re-established each of their loyalties personally.

All Voldemort knew was that fucker seemed to be a complete enigma. He was operating from the shadows exclusively for almost two decades, as no one seemed to know anything about that fucker. The rumor that it was Neville Longbottom the Dark Lord found laughable. The mere idea that a child could match up to the Heir of Slytherin was so unfathomable that it didn’t even anger the Dark Lord. It amused him.

He knew that fucker wasn’t a kid. He’d dueled with him on dozens of occasions. Never for more than a minute or two before one or the other fled the scene. And that fucker wasn’t shy about blowing shit up. The Dark Lord knew that fucker had an elegance and style similar to his own. And a ruthlessness that scared every one of his Death Eaters.

The two Lord Blacks possessed little style and more blunt force trauma in their execution. That was one part of Harry that not even that fucker could have faked. A tired clumsiness to his actions, that neither the Dark Lord nor that fucker would ever willingly show.

Voldemort sighed thinking about the myriad of fronts he was forced to constantly fend off, whether it was that fucker, Dumbledore and his flaming little Order, the increasingly competent Aurors, or now the Lords Black.

A Black Comedy, Chapter 15