"Harry? Harry! For the love of- wake up!"

"Mmmdemort," Harry blurted out through crusted lips, swatting at those annoying hands shaking him, "Who's'ere?"

"Well, I'm not Voldemort!" the voice snapped, totally affronted, in that matter-of-fact voice that Harry knew belonged to one certain bushy-haired witch, and one only.

"What do expect to be on his mind when who knows what's happened to him? Roses?" Ron snorted from behind the muggy dream clouds Harry had yet to rise from.

"No- of course that wasn't- I didn't mean-"

Harry peeled his crusty eyelids open a tiny bit to test the lighting, thought ohmigod, best sleep ever, and blinked a few times when he deemed the environment to be comfortably dim. He knew by the smell where he was, so used to waking up in the place with the course of life he tended to take- or rather, the course life took for him. The hospital wing at Hogwarts. Aah, the feel of those mattress springs in his back, the scent of an air freshening spell to cover the stench of sickness. It was like home.

"Oooh, look," he heard Luna say, "He's awake,"

Someone gently placed his glasses on, and he could make out the varying- some-what predictable- expressions of his friends and Head of House.

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said sternly, "I understand that you may be in a state of recovery, but would you care to explain why you were found in the Forbidden Forest, unconscious, face down in the mud an hour ago?"

"What time is it now?" he asked first.

"Three in the morning, Mr. Potter," was the terse reply.

"Didn't work then," he mumbled, thinking about the portkey Hermione had made, that was supposed to activate at eight o'clock that night, and to the secret passage under Honeydukes.

"Didn't work, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall pressed, looking down her narrow nose at him, and Harry felt his friends tense around him.

"Oh. I was dared, you see," Harry said, thinking up some sort of excuse, any excuse, and at the woman's insistence, he didn't have long, "By a smitten fan. A secret admirer. Said that I was great and all, but hadn't proved I was man until I slept in the dirt of the Forbidden Forest for a whole night and come out not torn to pieces by wild thestrals-" Here, at McGonagall's rising incredulity and wrath, Harry employed his best doe-eyed look- "Dumbledore always taught me that sometimes, you should just do things for fun. And well, with the way things are... I don't get a lot of chances, you know? Taking up the challenge seemed like the youthful thing to do."

He gave her a sheepish smile, while his friends looked at him with eyes bulging. Well, for Luna, that was her usual expression, but the others appeared very unimpressed with him improvisation and very worried.

"Mr. Potter! You are telling me that you worried your friends, as well as the entire staff-" well, Harry couldn't imagine the Carrows were too worried- "for a childish dare!"

He shrugged his shoulders, tried to look the part of the chastised child, though clearly he was out of practice; "I'm sorry, Professor."

"Well," she said with a sharp once over of his bed-ridden self, "at least you're safe. Twenty points from Gryffindor ought to do it,"

Only twenty? Harry was getting away practically untouched! Not that Gryffindor was doing very well on the points front, with the Carrows running about. They probably had somewhere around thirty in total.

She turned on her heel, her boots clacking on the tile floors on her way out. There was a moment of tense silence as they waited to make sure she was gone before Neville spouted off in a jitter.

"Oh my god, Harry! You have no idea how worried we were when you didn't return! And it only happened that a late-night rendezvousing couple stumbled over you and screamed- woke the whole place up except us. We couldn't sleep. Then, one of the first seventh years to get down there levitated you to the infirmary- some guy in Ravenclaw. Had him in Herbology in third year, and used to get mad when I knew something before he did, but I can't seem to remember his name. He's a tall-"

"Enough about the Ravenclaw bloke!" Ron jumped in, "We can send him thank you flowers bloody later. So you were in the infirmary already when McGonagall came to get us, but Madame Pomfrey wouldn't let anyone in as usual. And then," he said in a low voice, "We snuck in while she wasn't looking and Snape burst in. He was furious- ranting about how he was going to have you expelled, and if he couldn't do that, a whole year's worth of detention. And how you were going to be handed over to Filch in the dungeons-"

"But then," Hermione cut in, and Harry knew something she found interesting was going to happen, "this inconspicuous little brown owl pecked at the window until Madame Pomfrey let it in, and it swooped over and dropped two letters in Snape's hand. And he opened it, right in the middle of this room, so it must have been urgent. And then his face got all red and angry when he read it! Before it turned to ash. Then he took the second letter..."

Harry didn't sit up in anticipation (he felt too relaxed, too sleepy, too sore), because she'd get to the point eventually.

"And set it right here,"

Harry followed her gaze down his nose, to where a plain envelope rested on his chest. He glanced back up at them quickly before rising to a sitting position and carelessly ripping it open, foregoing any training that told him to check for enchantments or curses. His eyes read the extremely neat cursive.

Bring your witness to the House of Gaunt next Sunday morning at three. Surely the Boy Who Lived will have no troubles in getting away.

"It worked," he said, "It worked!"

He threw the letter at his friends

"We're saving the whole bloody world!" he crowed, "We're going to end this war! We're actually doing something- something smart that won't end with a whole ton of people dead! Well, theoretically."

They stared at him in awe, before joining in his festive cheers until Pomfrey kicked them out for being too loud. And who bloody cared that Harry had had to kiss the man, practically molested him more like, to get him to go along with it, when in the end, it worked? The end justifies the means, he read once, and hadn't agreed with it then. But now... Now Harry knew what it was like to get a feel of those scales. And he had never known temptation, never known desire in such a concentrated state (What would the Mirror of Erised show now? He shivered at the idea). And it didn't matter that Harry should feel disgusted with himself, because he had been successful, whether it was the sexual harassment or the threat of committing suicide that did it.

Success.

He knew they wanted to ask him how it had all gone down, how he had convinced the most feared Dark Lord of all time to listen to a teenage boy. They did remarkably well, Harry thought- only twitching slightly in anxiety and curiosity, but when Harry had cast his eyes downward in a subdued manner that first time they had asked, in what had actually been slight embarrassment and excitement, they had assumed the opposite side of the emotional spectrum and dubbed it as one of his worst, most terrifying experiences (I mean, how could it not have been? Face to face with Voldemort? They're lucky he could still talk right).

"How many times did he use the Crusiatus?" Ron had asked in undertones in History of Magic, and that earned him a whack to the ear by Hermione's Hogwarts: A History volume (and that was nearly five inches thick, and it wasn't even the biggest out of the series).

When her back turned Harry held up his fingers with a cheeky grin and mouthed 'four', and it was such utter bullocks, but it was funny to watch his baby blue eyes go as wide as saucers with an out of breath 'blimey'.

But they couldn't focus on what had already happened that first meeting, because they only had seven days to bring together everything they needed to officially make the laws that would go into action when the time was right. Heavy stuff, to say the least. And Harry didn't even know the first thing about politics except that it was a total bore and that it caused more problems than it solved. Their late night (every night, and for the first time ever, all four of them- even Hermione- used a stash of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to skive off class almost every day for sleep and more planning) schemes were all jotted down on enchanted parchment that would only appear to the writer and those keyed in by blood (they couldn't have a stray second year accidentally pick it up, were one of them to fall asleep and leave it open on one of the Common Room tables). Mostly, it was just listening to Hermione spout out technical sounding decrees, a terrible ghost of Umbridge, of what she thought would make a good Wizarding world.

"It's important to stay on the polar opposite of Voldemort's ideals-"

"I thought that we wanted compromise," Neville said, confused, and he looked to the other two males and saw they were in the same state of incomprehension. Hermione's shoulders did that little straightening thing when she was getting ready to explain something, as that was definitely what she was aiming to do.

"Exactly. Compromise. Not surrender. We have to remember who we're dealing with. Voldemort isn't the type to just take the terms given to him at the beginning of a barter. He'll push us as far as he can and father. So we have to start from somewhere where we'll have a lot of breathing room. It'll make him feel like he's making progress. We also have to think that he'll probably do the same thing. He's a master at getting what he wants- you've told us that much Harry- so who knows what he'll start with. He could spend hours trying to get us to give until we ease a little, when in reality, it was just that little bit he wanted."

Oh.

After that, she had desperately tried to teach the sorely under-educated boys some Wizarding diplomacy (and that mission was doomed to fail) because they could only write half of their chief complaints (or rather, points, because Neville thought complaints was a little negative, even though that's what they technically were or so Harry thought) because the outcome depended on Voldemort's half. The rest of the week flew by (and Harry didn't feel like giving the details of what was honestly the most dreadful, painful week of his entire life, because this story was about him and Voldemort and why they weren't shagging yet- which Harry found to be a major setback and hoped an opportunity would arise in which he could amend this issue. Soon).

And yes, soon, it was go time. Again.

At two thirty in the morning, they woke up and gathered their things that they had readied for the coming morning (Hermione reading through a checklist fourteen times) and began the painstakingly slow process of sneaking to the Whomping Willow. Too tall and too many to fit under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry and Neville were placed under glamours, their robes transfigured into Ravenclaw colors. The plan, if they were run into, was for Hermione and Ron to flash their Prefect badges and claim to have caught two overly adventurous boys on an adventure, detention slips in hand, and escort them in the direction of Ravenclaw dorms. They only ran into Miss Norris once.

Once outside, in the freezing, below zero temperatures, Hermione insisted on covering their tracks in the snow ("If you're so cold, for Heaven's sake, use a Heating Charm! Honestly, boys, are you wizards or not?" she had hissed at their whinging). From the Shrieking Shack, they apparated to the forest where they had attended the Quidditch World Cup in total privacy to have one last moment to gather their bearings and plot.

Harry and Neville clasped shoulders in that masculine comforting way, because that was how men did it (or so Sirius had told him all those years ago, and Harry really needed to stop reflecting on dead people, because they were dead and were no help to him now, but upon this thought he became rather disturbed with himself and decided it was probably best to stop thinking now, period), as Hermione fussed over her stack of papers and wads of curling scroll parchment, her mouth a stream of mostly nonsense (though for Hermione, most of what she said was nonsense to them half the time anyway)-

"Now remember, as long as you keep your cool-" and this appeared to greatly offend Ron because he had learned to act maturely within the last year- not even hardly reacting to Draco Malfoy's rather playful taunts (the feud between them had long dried out with age, and well, when you've got better things to do than toss petty insults at a guy you realize you know next to nothing about, one did tend to outgrow these things.

Though, if Harry were entirely honest (which he must be because according to the WW's monthly segment The Truth About Harry, he could tell no lies) he was still a bit sore at the pointy faced git because it was still his fault that Dumbledore was drying up like a prune in a marble box. Between the four of them, it was Harry who still had the worst temper.

"As long as we all stay calm," Hermione repeated in a slow voice, "nothing drastic will happen. We're going to be face to face with Voldemo-" she swallowed, and fixed herself, "with the Dark Lord. Face to face with the Dark Lord. And while we may not respect him much-"

"If by respect you mean downright despise-" Ron butted in with a grimace.

"... or even hold an iota of feeling servility for him, he will demand both."

They had already talked about this numerous times and had had this same conversation for many hours actually, had already drawn up all the papers of conditions and complaints and points and "We won't tolerate"s and on and onandonandon for what will most likely be a very heated debate that Harry was awfully worried would end with one of his friends dead (especially Hermione what with her blood status and all. Excepting the turn of events that lead to Harry being his Horcrux, Muggleborns were what Voldemort hated above all else after all. Truthfully, Harry was still unsure about how the Dark Lord felt about the whole Horcrux situation. Harry was still unsure how he felt about it. Except that he was dying to know what had made his skin tingle-hurt like that, and was possibly only slightly who-was-he-kidding-definitely tempted to feel it again. If anyone asked. Which they wouldn't, because even suspect this sort of development? So yeah, the debate).

"All right, Hermione," Ron gently prodded, trying to get her to hurry things up. "It's almost time and Harry needs to concentrate to do long-distance apparition."

Harry somehow recalled that the house Merope had so long suffered in, the House of Gaunt, resided on the outside of Little Hangleton (and qualified as a house about as much as Harry's cupboard qualified as a bedroom) and with Dumbledore's detailed memories (for once those late night excursions had come to use) it was easy enough to picture. He had not shared with his friends the significance of the house since he had been trying so hard to pretend such places related to Horcruxes did not exist, and screw Dumbledore for leaving him such a ridiculous quest in the first place. Harry had already earned the title of Tragic Hero. Why did everyone want him to keep proving it?

Hermione fell silent finally, and Harry looked his wary but strong friends over. He allowed himself a second to admire them before holding his hands out for them. He had only done side-apparition once, but it was basically the same thing as normal apparition. Neville and Ron's hands were warm, and for a moment, he just stared at the circle they made, the muddy tracks in the icy snow, met Hermione's eyes who stood across from him.

"Right," he said, and turned on the spot.

One second he felt the mild wind of temperate middle east England, and in the next second snow crunch under his shoes, the cold night air biting into his reddened, wind-irritated cheeks.

So here they stood, in the bitter cold, listening to a stream rush underneath a layer of ice, the thin, towering trees rustling and bowing in the knife-like wind. A quick Tempus told Harry it was a quarter to four. Better be punctual.

The Gaunt house was even more decrepit that the last time Harry had seen it (well, not actually seen it, but that was a mere technicality), weighed down and sagging with snow, and he feared the frame of the roof might snap in half were the wind to shake it too much. The house was an honest eyesore to the shimmering pre-dawn winterland it resided in; a black grave to too many in such a seemingly sacred place. He might have wondered why Voldemort would choose such a place- an embarrassment of a past he tried to erase- if he hadn't already known it was some sort of test to see if Dumbledore really had told him all the things he claimed to know. He did not stare long, dropped his hands from his best mates and absently fingered the handle of his wand ("No aggression. No wands unless it's to defend" and Harry wanted to see how long that would last when a Death Eater started throwing Unforgivables). Time was ticking.

He did not feel the need to knock when he reached the door, relaxed, and let himself get a feel before entering. Voldemort was definitely inside (could feel the painful needles in his scar, could feel it almost worsen as he leaned in closer to the chipped, rotted off-one-hinge door, but knew it wouldn't just be pain, could remember- and this was so not the time for that- he was definitely not going to repeat that with his friends in the room, not at all disconcerted anymore that he was willing to repeat a situation like writhing against Voldemort).

"There is someone in the trees behind us," Neville delivered in a near inaudible voice.

"It's to be expected," Harry murmured, "I'm glad we took the direct route," (We don't split up, we don't leave without all of us, we are to be completely straightforward).

Ron gently pushed Hermione in front of himself and Neville in a protective manner, and Harry could feel her standing close behind him, and just knew Ron was fighting the urge to draw his wand. He heard the crinkle of parchment as Hermione's fists clenched, and Harry pushed the door open.

It was very warm and smelled of fresh earth, and all of the rotted furniture and over grown flora had been ripped from the floor and crushed against the walls, the ground a mossy carpet of clay and topsoil mushrooms. Wind whistled through the many holes in the roof.

The Slytherin throne was apparently travel-friendly because Voldemort lounged on it at the center of the room, barefoot as usual, and were it not for the warmth of the room, Harry would have thought it silly in the middle of winter. The burning fireplace was behind him, almost giving him a sinister orange halo, a goblet of wine or something tilted in his white, spidery hand (a white spider that spun dizziness and heavy gauze over Harry's skin). Lucius Malfoy and Snape stood to his right, silent and serious, though Snape looked like he might smell something bad and would rather be anywhere but here, even babysitting Wormtail. He looked very confounded to see Harry. Surprise. We're here for tea with the Dark Lord.

"Ah," that silky voice said, with a slow sweep of his empty hand, "Welcome,"

Harry, always stuck as the leader for some reason (which, in his opinion was rather strange because he neither had the disposition nor the desire to be a leader in the first place; curious, very curious...) stepped forward, an easy smile coming to his face, or at least an attempt at one. The men before him may only believe in stoicism from their Pureblood upbringing (a rather untrue and presumptuous statement, as only Lucius was Pureblood here and Harry did not know the first thing about Pureblood upbringing), but Harry found a pleasant attitude and a cleverly-not-overly-friendly smile could do wonders for these tension situations.

"Did you think I wouldn't come, your Lordship?"

He approached the throne and gave a small, mocking bow, which made both Snape and Voldemort hiss angrily (and for some reason, getting to push both of their buttons at the same time was positive bliss).

"No; the great Hero would never miss an opportunity to grace his shining presence when he is invited. And I see you've brought your extremities with you..."

Voldemort gestured to Harry's friends, saying extremities as though they were removable and useless. Harry gritted his teeth.

"I don't think it's heroism that brought me here," he said, with just enough bite to sound poisonous, and glanced back at his tense companions. "You said bring a witness did you not? The rest are... insurance. Besides, you've got your own extremities sticking their ears against the walls outside, and you don't hear me complaining."

Voldemort gave a pleased sneer (because smile just didn't sound right); "Insurance."

They stared at each other, and Harry felt his skin give a delicious tingle (and hoped Voldemort had felt it as well, but it was impossible to discern anything from that smooth face); "Well, to be perfectly blunt, let's get started."

Harry rotated on his heel and took three slow strides to get back to his friends before turning again to face the three grim adults, felt the entire room's occupant's eyes on him (and terrified at his own boldness, but he could deal with that when he was under another Cruciatus). With a casual wave in the air of a wrist, he wandlessly conjured a table with chairs for each of them that looked suspiciously like chairs from the towering pile residing in the Room of Requirement, along with a tall stack of parchment with an enchanted quill made of a white peacock feather (much like Rita Skeeter's, only it wouldn't make garbage up as it went along). Lucius' lips only twitched upward slightly at the subtle teasing.

Harry took the seat opposite of Voldemort's throne.

"I believe we all know each other-" had shot curses at each other or family members in the heat of a battle at some point- "but for the sake of formalities, I am Harrison James Potter."

The quill went to work immediately, Snape glaring at it from where he had taken a seat, and Harry motioned to his friends to take their own. They did so stiffly, and Harry dared to put Hermione at the head of the table, as she would be the one to write the official agreements (presumably with Lucius).

"My witness, Hermione Jean Granger. And our assistants Ronald Billius Weasley and Neville Frank Longbottom,"

"Pleasure," Lucius sneered politely, his fine shaped lips pulled up in a near-snarl, showing off his pearly whites. He extended a gloved hand, and Harry took it without hesitation, giving it a brief, delicate shake (My, what good manners you have! All the better to eat you with).

Hermione withdrew the large roll of parchment and a small black pen of never-ending ink from her robes, a resounding thud as it hit the rickety wooden table, and Harry felt the impact vibrate into his fingertips.

"Lord Voldemort," the Dark Lord said, and Harry was deeply tempted to whisper 'Tom Marvolo Riddle', but didn't feel like dying tonight, so he kept his smart comments to himself for now. "And witnessing is Lucius Malfoy and Severus Tobias Snape,"

Harry smiled. Ron was stiff as a board, hand clutching his wand in his pocket beneath the table.

"Shall we?"

"I grant you the floor," Voldemort said (as if Harry was asking permission).

"Then we'll start with what we require of you," Hermione jumped in quickly, words even, confident, and Harry loved her for it, though Voldemort and Lucius looked like they were having troubles swallowing a Mudblood require them do anything (it was a big pill, Harry figured).

"We made a list of blanket categories to thoroughly discuss," and Hermione actually physically seemed to phase out of the room, going into her 'time to talk quantum physics and other such intelligent nonsense' mode. "These agreements we come to tonight will be enacted upon Pius Thicknesse and Harry Potter's inauguration in office this coming summer, and only enacted for Britain and its Island Territories. Any boundaries further will require future discussion."

She paused to look each person in the eye for approval, and when Voldemort motioned for her to continue she gave him a short nod.

"The categories are, but not limited to, education, civil rights, finance, and government."

"Government first please," Harry muttered, but Hermione's sharp eyes cut to him, annoyed (she had probably decided the order and outcome of the whole process, and she never did like obstructions when she was trying to accomplish something).

"It's the most boring," Harry explained.

"Education," she said tightly, "Our terms are that Witches and Wizards of all Creature Blood status be allowed to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry if they so wish it: Vampires, Werewolves, Veelas, etc, and that the necessary and proper measures be taken to ensure their safety," (she meant that there be blood supplements and Wolfsbane and whatever else Creature Bloods might need), "That Dark Arts be introduced as a study only class, exclusive to Seventh Years, that sorting be postponed until Third Year, and Minerva McGonagall be promoted to Headmistress."

It was very quiet when she finished, and she did not speak when Lucius cut her down, called her a gullible Mudblood, a good-for-nothing child. Harry nodded calmly to himself as this went on for a while. Time to barter.

"And your terms?" he asked, then added, "My Lord?"

And Snape actually gasped. Sucked in a breath in complete shock, just like that, drawing back in his wooden chair so hard it creaked. Voldemort waved a hand in Lucius' direction, apparently too above discussing such plebeian things with such plebeian people. Lucius cleared his throat.

"To disallow the access of Hogwarts to Mudbloods-"

"My quill doesn't pick up slurs," Harry interrupted with an obviously sweet smile.

"To disallow access of Muggleborns," Lucius spat, "To dissolve the Muggle Studies class, to replace Defense Against the Dark Arts with Dark Arts Study and Practical Use beginning at year one, to place Hogwarts underneath the Dark Lord's direct jurisdiction-" (which basically meant the Dark Lord would be able to do whatever he wanted no matter what they may say, and that was just ridiculous), "And to change the title of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to Slytherin's Institute of the Highly Gifted,"

Ron covered a snort behind his hand.

And on and on it went, until finally, they came to an agreement (sort of): To rename DADA to Magical Defense, add a course dedicated to the Dark Arts required for Fourth Years and up, introduce darker spells into Charms, Transfiguration, and Ancient Runes, an accurate Muggle Studies class taught by someone who actually knew something about Muggle weaponry and science, and so on. It was all very dull after a while.

And by the time they got to torture, they no longer bothered going for the extreme anymore, and just went for efficiency. Only legal torture and interrogation tactics, and no more violent, killing Muggle or Muggleborn raids (which meant that by the time these laws went into action, Voldemort would have the power to change torture laws anyway, and they realized this, but there wasn't much to do about it. And as long as there was no more mass Muggle and Muggleborn Hunting, they could live with that. For now). Civil Rights was a nightmare. It was only through Hermione finally snapping the hell out of Lucius that progress was made:

"Listen, I'm not exactly a fan of ignorant Mudbloods flooding the school either- it's a bother to have to constantly explain things to them because they just can't grasp that pictures are alive! or that brooms fly! Honestly. But they're magical, and are usually quite potent, and even you can't deny that. So we must do something about them! Snatch them from their homes the moment their magic shows, give their families an extra-strength Obliviate, and hand them over to a nice Pureblood family to be raised. It's the only choice we have until we can figure out what causes Muggleborns."

And thank god for that, because Lucius finally stopped making a pinched face every time he had to say Muggleborns and came up with building a Muggleborn settlement where they'd live until they were assimilated into Wizarding society. It was all very Concentration Camp-y.

Harry kind of zoned out after that, because Neville and Ron had joined the discussion, actively arguing with Lucius, and he met Voldemort's thoughtful gaze across the table. The man seemed to be speculating the goings-on, looking some-what pleased, like he himself felt this was a good decision- and that was extremely good as far as Harry could tell.

Harry looked away out at one of the drooping windows of the shack, absently drawing circles in the table, his finger singing the wood, and smiled. He could handle this type of war too. Though, considering he had been mentally shaped for physical warfare since he was fourteen, Harry had trouble imagining how he'd handle this new turn of things. No more killing Death Eaters with a nasty hex he wasn't supposed to know (unless he had a good excuse handy).

Harry caught Voldemort's eye again and winked. The man pretended not to see, but Harry considered it a victory on his part. He slouched in his seat, toed off his trainers and stretched his foot out until it found Voldemort's. The man's eyes snapped to him, and Harry gave him his best poker face. He looked out the window, the picture of bored innocence, and hooked his feet around Voldemort's ankle, socked toes stroking up his calf. The prickle of contact seared him to his marrow, and Harry tried not to drool as he couldn't help staring into Voldemort's intense glare.

"If Mr. Potter is going to be running for office, he will need lessons in proper etiquette," Lucius drawled around eight o'clock in the morning.

Harry startled upon the sound of his name, dropping his feet dejectedly.

Ron jumped forward in his chair, a scowl on his face.

"Yeah? From who? You? You're probably the biggest arse-"

"No, no, Ron. He's right," Harry actually cut him off (and Hermione looked surprised, because she thought it was her that would have to explain why). "I can't just rely on the Dark Lord's word for Pureblood and Dark support. I'll need to learn the customs, the traditions, the dances, the vernacular, hell, which fork to use. I'll need to become one of them to earn their support, and I can't think of anyone better that Mr. Marlfoy. He's practically the center of Pureblood society."

And the rest was easy going after that.

Each party signed in blood and magic, and Harry wrapped his hand in Voldemort's for the Unbreakable Vow, Snape and Ron's wands hovering over them (and the feel of those cool fingers, and that all-powerful stinging, oh).

They set up an easy routine via owl:

On the weekends, Harry would go to Malfoy Manor (and it wasn't like Snape could very well stop him, seeing as his Lord had practically ordered Harry have free reign which felt so good when he could actually talk back to the greasy bat) and get a lesson on politics and etiquette, which, when told in the smooth tones of Lucius Malfoy, was actually fairly interesting. Narcissa made excellent crème pastries by the way.

"That was quite a donation you made to the reservation of the Forbidden Forest. The Prophet called it nothing short of angelic," Lucius commented.

Harry flicked his eyes away from the man's feet to his face as they carefully stepped around each other, the ballroom music playing magically from a golden record player that Harry had found at a garage sale in Muggle Surrey (and Lucius had loathed to let it in his house, but Harry had insisted and he was rather difficult to say no to). If someone had told him he'd be receiving dance lessons from a Malfoy a few weeks back…

"The Centaurs have been complaining of humans breaching on the east side because Hogsmeade is speculating the land there. I thought I'd help keep the peace by making the Forbidden Forest forbidden," he replied easily, gracefully avoiding the other man's polished black loafers in a once-complicated twist in a Fallaway Whisk.

This was their fourteenth lesson, a mixture of Waltzing, and sometimes the Tango if Lucius wanted to humiliate him. They switched who lead, in the event Harry found himself dancing with a man of higher stature (which, to his mild surprise, could actually happen were an ambassador or representative want to dance with the great Boy-Who-Lived, and Pureblood society had no objection to same gendered dancing).

"It's against propriety to speculate at social functions, Potter," Lucius repeated for perhaps the millionth time. Currently, Lucius had a hand on his mid-back, leading him across the bright marble floor of his ballroom (thank Merlin's balls Draco was still at school, because it was embarrassing enough for Narcissa to walk in on these lessons; he never let Hermione, Ron, or Neville join him when he knew they'd be dancing).

"Are you still embarrassed?" Lucius teased with a smile, pulling away and flicking his wand at the record player to end the song, "Your face is getting red. I assure you, you've improved."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to resist lashing out in defense (that wasn't the Pureblood Way).

"No," he denied rather fruitlessly as Lucius still looked amused.

They made their way back to the foyer to reach the front tea room where the House Elves had left a platter of Black Darjeeling and scones.

"Oh, how your wife spoils me," Harry sighed, snatching a scone and cup.

"The Dark Lord has given his orders to Thicknesse. He will plant the idea of his running within the following week. You will need to move in on publicly supporting him soon, whatever it may entail."

Harry frowned. He still wasn't exactly sure he wanted all this or even had what it would take to get it all done. But he wasn't about to give up (Hermione wouldn't let him); "As long as what I'm supporting publicly can be called honorable and worthy. I won't call an obvious criminal a saint."

"The Dark Lord has ensured that Thicknesse will behave."

Harry let out a condescending 'Hmm' and glanced at the Grandfather clock engraved with "Noble and Most Ancient House of Black", probably a loom from Narcissa.

They would sometimes get off track, talk about life at home (how Lucius sometimes regretted being so cold to Draco, and how Harry didn't really have a home to begin with- not in the emotional sense), or work because Harry had to start a public campaign long before the election, and Lucius was never getting a break at the Ministry. He found himself liking the man and his extravagant home.

But once it rolled around eight o'clock in the evening, Harry would abandon everything and anything because that was when Voldemort got back from doing whatever it was that Lords did throughout the day, and Harry didn't really feel bothered to ask, even though Hermione would probably scold him if she knew.

"Tomorrow, then?" he said as he rose to the gongs of the hour. Lucius gave a single, polite nod, and Harry dipped in a proper bow. That training couldn't go to waste now, could it? He grinned to himself as he wound through the stairs and halls and portraits of scowling Malfoys.

Harry threw himself through the door of Lucius' private study, where the Dark Lord currently did his paperwork in the evenings, shot a big grin towards the man and flopped carelessly down in the comfy chair next to the desk. They were quiet, like usual when he first started pestering him (because Harry had gotten to the point where he was brave enough, stupid enough to taunt the Dark Lord, tease him, flirt with him).

He studied the serpentine face, marble smooth, slits for eyes and nostrils. He didn't know what made him think Voldemort was beautiful, and gorgeous- and totally shaggable. Most of the time, he was an overbearing psycho (to put it lightly), but he was his overbearing psycho. And most of the psycho had shifted from torturing Muggles to destroying the playing field at politics (Harry called it constructive venting). And he was just so good at everything he did (except for being genuinely remorseful or generally nice, but he was working on that, or so Harry told himself).

Like snogging. Especially snogging. Because Harry couldn't possibly wish to snog someone so terribly much and that someone end up bad at it. It just didn't work that way.

"Child, if you do not stop twitching, I will body-bind you." (and Harry was a healthy teenage boy, so he couldn't help that his mind went to the gutter).

"If you'd stop doing that boring paperwork and pay attention to me, I might stop twitching," he retaliated, though the chances of him sitting still with Voldemort paying attention to him was highly unlikely, if not downright impossible.

"This boring paperwork, as you deem to call it, is what will give me the entire-"

"Wizarding Britain; yeah, yeah, so I've heard,"

Those scarlet eyes snapped up to his, and Harry felt an obligatory reflex gulp hit his throat (a good gulp though, because Voldemort acknowledging him meant he could climb up onto the desk and distract him until two in the morning with witty commentary and hopefully something physical). Harry slithered off of the loveseat and over to Lucius' desk, and those embers followed him, calculative, fixated. Slowly, he slid along the edge in front of him like he had done the first time all those weeks ago in Lucius' dining room/Death Eater meeting room (but only on the weekends was it the latter, because he'd come to learn that Narcissa kept the entire house on a strict schedule). He, quite literally, set himself in the middle of Voldemort's work (and never mind the ink stains on his robes when this would all be over).

"Potter," he hissed, and Harry shivered, gave him a charming half-smile he'd seen himself do on the front of Witch's Weekly.

"Harry," he corrected the Dark Lord, drumming his fingers on the man's forearm.

Voldemort did not looked pleased, but whatever opposition he was going to bring up next was cut off as Harry had pushed the black sleeve up and pressed his naked palm against the sinfully smooth wrist. It was his turn to hiss, though for completely different reasons, his body tensing so that he bent over precariously far, but just when he thought he might tip over, his forehead found the crook of Voldemort's neck, and purred as his lips came in contact with the spiky, tingly pleasure-pain. It wasn't the first time Harry had practically assaulted the man during these weird times mono a mono (and as long as Harry held the reigns, wouldn't be the last).

"Why," Harry whispered, breath hot against those wonderful scales, wanting more, wondering where else those scales might appear, "does this happen?"

There was a moment of stillness, before the being, the creature before him moved, became movement itself, and Harry found himself sprawled on his back on the desk (and thank god Lucius was organized, the desk mostly bare, and thank god Lucius loved expensive over-kill, because his desk was huge), that ivory face twisted in something dark and sinister and delicious.

"It could be a number of things," Voldemort said in a low voice, his hands gliding experimentally up Harry's bare, quivering sides (and where had his robes gone?), and he tried for once to not just crumble, to try at control, and some of the black dots swimming in his vision disappeared, and he moaned pitifully at the effort it took. "Our incompatible magical cores-" but that couldn't possibly be it, because there's no way his body would want to melt into one with the man above him if his magic didn't, Harry was sure as Voldemort's teeth joined the mix, nipping his earlobe and Harry had no idea he was so sensitive there, but let's find more places- "The remaining protective blood magic on you that has dulled over the years; perhaps even my soul trying to rip it's way from your body from feeling me near,"

But 'near' wasn't enough; 'near' wasn't nearly near nearness enough in Harry's opinion, yanked at the man's robes as if to communicate this thought. Through his wanton gasping, he earned a growl that reverberated through his very bones, around the frighteningly quiet office, vibrated him to the core, and sent him arching for more contact, more kisses (always more), and, aah, his vision blacked out for a second because Voldemort's hands had somehow found their way to the back of his upper thighs and were, ohdearlordyes, pressing their groins together in glorious heat and weight. Harry sobbed with the feeling of his bare flesh against those fine robes, just knowing he was staining them with fluids he should be too embarrassed to think of, but too drunk on that thrumming power to care for anything else. Though it could be better, so much better, if only more of their skin were touching, bare skin of stomach on stomach, thighs on thighs, and down there all naked and flushed with blood and- Voldemort could definitely understand what he was thinking (probably had a clear image in high-def broadcasting through their strange link) because his scarlet eyes raged in irrepressible lust that made Harry feel totally ravished (or totally hoping he would be within the next few gasps for breath). And he didn't think his body could handle any more, Voldemort's teeth biting down on his collar bone, but he needed it.

"Get naked," he growled viciously, digging his nails into the black cloth and ripping at it with a surge of wandless magic until the top half evaporated into ash and steam. "Now."

Voldemort's torso was exposed to him, and Harry devoured the new skin with his eyes until his fingertips couldn't wait any longer, and he dragged them down that surprisingly hard chest, and yes, there were more white, glimmering scales, and he loved it, loved everything about the man before him- at least in that one moment when there was no war or worries.

The Dark Lord had stilled to watch Harry watch him (touch him), almost thoughtful in the way that Harry couldn't seem to calm down, groaning low in the back of his throat every time they touched, and Voldemort himself could obviously feel the magic rushing through them (and through the mist, Harry thought that might be it: that their magic was just the opposite of incompatible, was actually so compatible that the magic was literally flowing from one vessel to the other and back again, not Harry and Voldemort, not his magic and his magic, but an endless cycle of no ends, no points of separation). And then Voldemort's hands traveled to his own waist where his torn, disintegrated robes rested, and tore them off as if they were made of paper, and Harry's breath caught.

He took in the whole visage, knees to forehead, was too chicken to say beautiful out loud, but knew Voldemort knew he was thinking it because he sneered at him, probably mocking him for the sentimentality or whatever.

"You are my Horcrux."

The words surprised him, because they seemed so random, but Harry didn't care because Voldemort was kissing him now, kissing the noise out of him. He felt too numbed by all the powerful things rushing through him, he couldn't moan for a second (although when he could, he did. Loudly. He'd always been a very vocal person whilst masturbating).

"Yes," Harry replied against the stone, almost cold lipless mouth, his eyes wide with excitement, staring into Voldemort's, and he couldn't understand the darkening of those scarlet stingers. "I am."

And the Dark Lord smirked, pressed the length of his scales against Harry, and dipped his hand low to Harry's throbbing groin, and his vision really did go black for longer than a second as that skeletal, wonderfully cruel hand squeezed and stroked with a slowness that told of all the time in the world, because he was Lord-bloody-Voldemort, and he could control time if he ever needed to probably.

"Oh- fuck," Harry whined, then in Parseltongue, "Fuckfuckfuck,"

And Voldemort, for once with a sense of humor (and out of nowhere, too), chuckled; "I thought you would be interested in foreplay,"

Harry's emerald eyes rolled back to disappear in his heavily lidded skull as, fuck the foreplay, the Dark Lord's hand glided tightly back to the base of Harry's straining erection.

"No," he said, and thank Merlin for Parseltongue because it was so much easier to hiss when one was on the verge of passing out in blinding explosions of the colorful dots in front of his corneas. "No, save it for later."

And they would (or at least Harry hoped because the idea of foreplay with Lord Voldemort was making him salivate), but that wasn't important right now, because Voldemort was hissing out a chuckle, his snake-like, god-like body caging Harry's against the cold surface of the desk. His long fingers trailed down Harry's stomach and trembling pelvis quickly, the time for teasing past.

He'd only had sex once (with Ron and Hermione- and hey, being stuck in the middle of a war for a few years was stressful. If they hadn't done that that one summer night in No. Twelve Grimmauld Place- and only once, they didn't like each other that much; at least Harry didn't- he was pretty sure they would have snapped and killed each other).

But this was different, because Voldemort wasn't a fumbling teenager, or his almost family. So yes, his experience was lacking, but Harry wasn't bashful, so he spread 'em, hooked his ankles at the Dark Lord's spine, and moaned when their bare erections rubbed.

Had Harry ever said that Voldemort's fingers were long? Slim, slender- and three of them pushing inside him with some sort of lubricating charm, and Merlin, that hurt, that stinging fire of their skin on skin was inside him, and it was glorious and he pushed his hips up, demanding more, because, hello, they didn't have all night, and he wasn't about to wait much longer.

Voldemort's eyes weren't on Harry anymore, and the boy could see through his tightly closed, watering eyes through their connection a murky video playing and cutting out from a bad connection and playing again- of those white digits sinking in and out, and-

"Gods, if you don't hurry it the hell up, I will call Lucius in here to fuck me for you!"

In retrospect, it was probably a bad thing to say.

Voldemort's free hand snapped from the desk to Harry's throat so fast, he didn't even have time to inhale before he was being suffocated, all of the man's weight going into that one hand, but the pace of his other sped up, and Harry let out a choked gurgle of appreciation and ecstasy, the blood rushing in his ears and the pressure in his temples with the searing burn of his scar only amplifying the sharp knives going into his prostate.

"I am not above killing my own Death Eaters, Harry," the Dark Lord purred right in his ear, the force of his hand around Harry's neck lessening.

Harry took a deep breath only to release it a second later in a deep, long-drawn moan at the twisting and bending and probing of those fingers inside him. The sound broke something in the both of them, and Voldemort's fingers vanished, leaving his inner walls exposed and cold. Harry mewled impatiently, but became deathly quiet, holding his breath as cold, large hands clawed into his hips, the blunt head of Voldemort's length hot and burning to his minimally stretched entrance.

And then, the man practically lunged his hips forward, and Harry only had a millisecond to relax and braced himself because Voldemort definitely wasn't giving him a grace period to adjust as he withdrew and thrust, and it was all so brutal.

Harry let out a loud keening noise, was too lost in all the lava tearing through his veins to try to thrust his hips up in sync to the Dark Lord's. His shouts and sobs buzzed through his clenched teeth around the circular office (and if everyone and their mum didn't hear them), Voldemort being sure to rip a path through him (He has to be trying to kill me- all this time and all it took to knock me off was to get me off). Harry dug his nails into the paradoxically soft-hard scales on his shoulder blades, listened to the sound of their coupling bang against and shake the desk, watched those white shoulder, stomach, neck muscles roll under paper skin, and where before, Harry thought he had known beauty- in the arm's length with the clouds on his Firebolt, looking into the eyes of his friends, Thestrals- he was proven wrong and wrong and wrong again, because none of it could amount to this.

He couldn't relax his hands enough to let go of the skin he had under his nails, feeling his inner walls clench around the pulsing cock (Voldemort's cock; Voldemort's cock) and himself draw close to almost there, so he raked one hand down Voldemort's coiling, undulating spine, heard an almost inaudible groan in the crook of his neck. He squeezed his anal walls experimentally, felt an intense burn that had his eyes rolling and his back arching, and this time, the Dark Lord really did groan, and the sound coaxed Harry to sink his teeth into Voldemort's shoulder.

"There!" he gasped, voice hoarse in time with the snap of Voldemort's hips, and he hit that spot again and again.

Harry dropped one of his hands to find his throbbing, needy erection and gripped it hard, and at the same time, Voldemort jerked him up to a sitting position by the waist, until he was falling up and down on a rigid shaft. It was all Harry could do to keep from crying, boneless to his maneuvering, head hanging uselessly against a jutting collarbone, one hand jerking himself off, and another trembling at the base of Voldemort's neck.

His body strung tight, like a bow, and it obviously had an effect on Voldemort because his breathing hitched, practically gasping, his usually white face a little pink in the mouth and high cheekbones. Only one, two more thrusts and Harry's vision cut out, only the loud beat of Voldemort's body ramming against and in his own left as he came, spine bending in a rather impressive arch. He threw his head back like in all the cliches, eyelids fluttering, mouth pulled into a tense line. He refused to call Voldemort's name out loud.

The man he heaved against pushed up into him a few more times before his sharp, clean nails pierced Harry's hip and ribs, sharp canines digging into a flushed chest, and ohCirce, Harry could feel the boiling, thick cum filling him up in the most satisfyingly dirty way.

They stilled, panting for the same air, and of course there just didn't seem to be enough. Harry's sweaty forehead rested against Voldemort's, and he felt the pain of the scratch marks and bites and bruises and smiled because he was covered in his own semen and blood, sitting in Lord Voldemort's lap like he wasn't the most deadly man on the face of the planet.

He wanted to say something witty, but no words came. So they sat, leaned against one another until their skin had long dried, and Lucius had gone to bed, given up trying to get into his office.

When Harry floo'd back to Snape's office- at nearly one in the morning-, he was met with a very black, very angry stare.

"I don't know what you're up to, boy," and the title made him think of a purple-faced Vernon he hadn't seen in a blessedly long time (since Dumbledore died, because he had made it quite clear that he would not live with the Dursleys after that, and had mowed down any Order member who tried to force him), and Harry took a much needed step backwards from that hook-nosed, looming face of Snape's. "Or what games you're playing- but when I find out, you will be in a world of trouble."

He seriously doubted it. For one, Snape already knew about what he and his friends have been up to, it wasn't like he could do much, and two, Harry had reason to believe Voldemort himself had told Snape not to punish Harry, going by how he had reacted after reading the letter when Harry had been knocked out in a thin mattressed hospital bed.

"Games, sir?" he replied with an easy smile, almost enjoying fighting the urge to be provoked (though he still very much would like to kick Snape right in his Slytherin balls). "I have no idea what you mean."

He made a run for it- or a brisk walk, because Gryffindors never run from battle- out of the man's office (and it still just didn't look right with all of Dumbledore's things gone- most of all, the man himself).

"Detention!" Snape howled after him.

Harry sighed. He had made such a frequent appearance in the Carrows' detention hall that he had become somewhat of a favorite of theirs- to torment and humiliate, soil his parents' names, the standard stuff. So Harry made a defense mechanism, or rather a habit of going off in Lala-Land to avoid blowing up in accidental magic that would send the two Professors up into the sky in the shape of balloons, like Aunt Marge.

He often thought of well- and Harry couldn't help but blush- you-know-who (no really, You Know Who) during those nights in detentions, with the badly bloodied Seamus Finnigan and Collin Creevey sitting across from him (they were pegged as Carrow Favorites as well, and many midnights were spent doctoring wounds with salves filched from Slughorn's personal stock, telling Collin and his little brother Dennis to keep looking up- that better things were just on the horizon).

After sending the little tykes to bed (Harry said little, but Collin had shot up taller than him within the last two years), they huddled by the fire to bask in their accomplishments.

Ron and Hermione blushed and flirted and all that gross stuff while Neville prodded at some sort of wriggling vine in a vase, taking notes on it, and Harry. Well, Harry did what he usually did when he was left with his own thoughts. He fantasized about Voldemort. He couldn't help it. The man was just so brilliant, so talented, so amazing in bed.

"I think I'm in love," Harry sighed out breathlessly, unable to contain it, a dopey smile on his face.

Ron choked on nothing- the reaction he has to anything shocking- on his place from the Common Room couch next to Neville. Hermione looked up from her SPEW knitting, eyebrows raised.

"It isn't Luna, is it?" Neville asked, a little panicked, "I've been crazy about her all year- just been too scared to-"

"No, no," Harry said quickly, "Luna... she er. Isn't my type,"

It was a touchy subject because of the whole Looney Lovegood thing, and Harry could see on their faces what they thought he meant by it- she was too weird or crazy or something, and he could hear Luna say if she were here 'Oh no, I'm too female for Harry'. He smiled.

"He's nothing like her," he dropped, hoping someone would get it, and of course it was Hermione.

"He?" she asked while blinking, then hmm'd and went back to knitting, "Well, that's not surprising, I think."

"You're... you're gay?" Ron asked, the tip of his ears bright red, "It... It isn't me, right? I mean, I love you and all- you're my best mate, and I know there was that one summer where we, uh. Oh. But it wasn't-"

"No Ron, it isn't you," Harry said with a snort. "Just know that if I tell you your arse looks fantastic in that Quiddich uniform that I'm telling you from an objective standpoint,"

His friend spluttered before joining the loud laughter of the other three.

He deeply regretted letting it slip that he was after someone, because now Hermione refused to let it drop ("Oh, who is it? Is it Malfoy? Neville? Is it that Zabini boy? Someone older? Younger? Is he in Gryffindor?"), shadowing his every move, excepting his time at Malfoy Manor ("Oh, my- Is it Mr. Malfoy?") so he just began giving her half truths:

"He's a Slytherin," he dropped, "I saw him- well, all of him- for the first time in Second year,"

In the Chamber of Secrets as a murderous piece of soul (the present Tom Riddle hadn't changed much, obviously), of course.

"Yes, he's extremely smart; can you let this go now?"

"Not until I know he's good enough for you!"

"Just leave her be," Ron said sympathetically, patting him on the shoulder, as they sat down for dinner in the Drat Hall. "You know how she gets about mysteries… But now that she's brought it up, it isn't Draco Malfoy, right? I don't think I could take seeing his face at every family gathering if you got married."

Harry rolled his eyes with a half irritated smile. He was about to make a grab for some nice pumpkin juice when Hedwig swooped in low, dropping a small folded note onto Harry's bare plate, not stopping for food or an affectionate nip to Harry's ear (she was in a right mood because Voldemort was pretty mean to her, not giving her treats or allowing her inside the window).

Malfoy Manor 8pm

"Someone's bossy," he muttered, taking the note and wandlessly setting it aflame, "Do you guys have any homework? Want to take a trip to Lucius'? If I bring you all, Narcissa will want to fix dinner,"

And Narcissa's dinner was just as fabulous as her pastries.

"Sure," Neville replied easily, and Ron nodded his assent. Hermione didn't look up from her Ancient Runes text, but Harry figured it was as good an affirmative as any other.

They left for the Malfoy's early because they didn't see a point in waiting around, as the house elves began hovering Christmas decorations up in Snape's office.

"Make sure you put up enchanted mistletoe," Ron told them, "Maybe Snape will end up having to kiss Professor Carrow or something. Can you imagine how disgusting that would be?"

They stepped into the fireplace, Hermione's exasperated "Oh, Ron," lost in the burst of flames.

Harry left his friends with Narcissa to go search out the Dark Lord, and found him, surprisingly, not behind Lucius' desk, but in a cozy little tea room of dimly lit burners and sleepy looking Malfoy ancestor portraits. He was sitting with his back against a cushioned window seat, the window cracked to let in the December air and ventilate the stuffy warmth. His eyes were closed, though Harry was positive the man would never sleep so openly, so vulnerable.

"Is this where you use candle light and throw pillows to seduce me into being your consort?" he teased, leaned against the door frame, watching a red eye crack open to survey him.

Harry slid off the frame, slunk his way over to the curled form of Voldemort.

"My consort..." he hissed, before shooting the thought down. "You have no chance of being my equal, child."

Harry rolled his eyes, only a bit insulted on principle, before crawling over the Dark wizard to straddle him, his hands rubbing up and down the clothed chest in a massaging way, reaching around to knead the back of his scaly neck.

"You're too into the whole dominant-submissive thing, I know," Harry said, leaning forward, so that the side of his face rested on Voldemort's breast, and he fingered the folds of his black robes. "My Lord."

Bone white fingers stroked Harry's jaw before pulling at his chin so that they were looking at each other eye-to-eye. Harry felt an uncomfortable pressing sensation on his thoughts, but allowed the small intrusion without fighting, curious as to what Voldemort was looking for in there.

"Sometimes I wonder why it is that I allow this," the Dark Lord admitted, and Harry grinned haughtily, kissing him soundly on his nonexistent lips.

"Because I'm freaking Harry Potter, and everybody wants Harry Potter."

He did not look amused.

"Harry?" he heard from somewhere in the house. "Dinner's almost ready! Narcissa would like to know..."

The rest of the sentence was lost in the largeness of the mansion, and Harry chose not to acknowledge the call, instead cupping both of Voldemort's fine boned cheekbones; "Your eyes are like the Killing Curse; like mine."

Voldemort did not question this and instead pulled Harry into another lip-lock. The echo of hurried footsteps came from down the hall, but Harry again ignored the outside world in favor of stroking those smooth as glass scales with the sensitive pads of his fingers, mostly used to the sparking, burning of skin contact between them; "And your scales."

Harry nuzzled his cheek, rubbed it against Voldemort's nose and lips (not at all afraid to express his feelings, because they did nothing for Voldemort, and Voldemort cared nothing for what did nothing). "I love them. You don't know how many hours I spend fantasizing about them instead of doing my lessons."

"Don't blame your substandard intelligence on me."

"Arse," he muttered under his breath, fully lying his weight against the man beneath him and closing his eyes contentedly.

The door blasted open.

"Harry! You didn't answer! You haven't gotten yourself killed, have- Oh,"

Harry glanced over at the doorway, where his friends stood (because they're so good, getting all worried about him being alone with the big bad Dark Lord, and not answering their cries, and coming to check in on them, but bloody hell, was it inconvenient. Maybe he shouldn't have invited them). Ron and Neville were white as Nearly Headless Nick, mouths and wands limp. Hermione stood at the front of them, not looking frightened or confused or worried, but intrigued.

"Of course," she muttered. "I should have known."

Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose (because no matter how he looked at this, it was just embarrassing).

"Harry!" Ron shouted, a shaking finger pointed at the couple entwined at the window, "Tha-that's the Dark Lord you're- you're..."

Harry raised his eyebrows, looked from Voldemort to Ron.

"You're misunderstanding, Ron," he said. "The Dark Lord and I are not in any kind of intimate relationship."

"I-i-i-nti-mate," Ron stuttered, mouth floundering about.

Harry nodded.

"Yeah. You see, it's all for show," and now, Harry felt like laughing. "To make it look like we're really close-" (really close), "for our debut this summer. Why don't you go back down stairs and Hermione can give you a nice, warm Obliviate?"

Ron nodded dumbly, totally out of it, like that time the brains in the Department of Mysteries had wrapped around him; "Yeah, I'll do that."

Hermione (and bless her, really) rolled her eyes and herded the two boys out of the room and shut the door (and not before shooting Harry a look that plainly said they'd talk about this later 'whether-you-like-it-or-not-Harry-Potter'), and the deafening silence that followed almost made it hard to look back at Voldemort. The Dark Lord was smirking, which was surprising because Harry figured it would anger or annoy him for other people to get a hint of what went on behind closed doors (that should probably be locked from now on).

"All for show, hmm?"

Harry laughed and kissed him.