GOOD DOG || Sirius Black

(Fifty Two: Magic is Might)

The cultist guards of Sirius Black were having a rough day.

First of all, John's owl was yet to make an appearance declaring the fact that his wife had gone into labour. Then there was the teenager in the cell to their left who had not stopped yelling all night. 

To be perfectly honest, Guard No. 2 couldn't exactly blame Sirius- if Guard No. 2's brother had kidnapped him, lead to the ultimate destruction of his girlfriend, organised the murder of a bunch of people and sided against him with his parents (who had the level of sadism required to name their second child 'Guard No. 2'), he wouldn't have been all too happy either. Of course, Guard No 2's older brother and only other sibling, Decimus III, would never have done that to his unfortunately named younger version, but some families were just dysfunctional like that.

The lad himself seemed quite nice, agreeing not to mention Guard No 2's interest in the world of muggle superheroes and engaging in polite conversation. In payment for this, Guard No. 2 had convinced the other two henchmen on duty to back up the corridor while Sirius' brother went in to talk to him. It only seemed right; there was only one other prisoner on this floor regardless, and the four year old could hardly be called threatening.

"You know, Guard No. 2," Tim pondered from where he was standing uniform against the opposite wall in a way that perfectly mirrored Guard No. 2, "Sometimes I wonder about the whole 'slaughter everyone, control the world' thing."

Guard No. 2 glanced down the hallway at John, who was frantically checking the ceiling as if he expected an owl to dive-bomb through it, "I could get that. It's normal to have doubts."

"I know." Tim sighed, "It's just... Sometimes I wonder if I could be doing more with my life."

Guard No 2 tipped his head to one side curiously, "Like what?"

"Well, ever since I can remember, I've wanted to be the person who wrote Fortune Cookies." Tim admitted.

His colleague frowned, "Can't you be one of those in your spare time?"

"No, you don't understand." Tim shook his head, "I don't want to be one of those people, I want to be the only one. I want to build a dynasty with me at the head so that I can extract and dispose of rival Fortune Cookie writers. I want Chinese restaurants globally to accept my monopoly. I want to find the person who wrote the original 'help I'm trapped in a Fortune Cookie factory' joke and trap them in a Fortune Cookie factory as the world's leaders watch, helpless against my empire of... Of..."

"What are Fortune Cookies made out of?" Guard No. 2 inquired.

Tim shook his head again, this time in awe, "I have no idea." 

"I'll tell you what," Guard No. 2 wandered over to clap his friend on the shoulder, "I don't think the kid's going anywhere, so let's head upstairs and see if that pizza I ordered is here. We can talk about setting up a Kickstarter for you over food."

Tim dropped John some quick sign language, You okay down here?

There were three other guards down there on that particular day, but John was in charge. Also, the other three were kind of dicks.

Sure, Tim. John, the deaf Death Eater husband of an extremely pregnant woman signed back absently, Just don't go off on one about Fortune Cookies again. I still can't take my wife back to that Chinese restaurant.

Guard No. 2, whose only dalliance in sign language was learning his name and the word 'turtle' on a YouTube video once, had no idea what was going on. He mainly relied on lip reading and progressively more violent and vague gestures to aid his communication with John.