Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter and I have way too many credit cards.
I never invented the next great RAM chip, and I have no intention of robbing any banks.
No multi-millionaires have decided to adopt or marry me.
Therefore, hoping to sue me for more than the crust off this morning's toast is ridiculous.
Chapter Four
Rufus Scrimgeour stalked up the stairs and into the front entry of Hogwarts. His robes swirled behind him as he strode purposefully down the corridors and up to the gargoyle that guarded the Headmistress' office. He snagged a passing student. "What is the password, child?"
The second year Ravenclaw looked up at the Minister of Magic and fought the urge to ask if he was an Animagus. He looked so much like the image of the King of Lions in one of her old books that she nearly wanted to curtsy. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't have the password."
Scrimgeour frowned, but let her go. She stumbled back a few paces and then ran off to tell her friends about the strange man. He, meanwhile, stared angrily at the gargoyle. He crossed his arms over his chest and glanced up and down the hallway.
His eyes landed on an approaching professor. What is her name? Spratt? Spruitt? Sprout?Better turn on the charm. "Ah, Professor, would you be so kind as to let me in? I need to speak with the Headmistress about a rather important matter."
Professor Sprout, warmed by his smile, drew herself up to her full diminutive height and smoothed her stained robes. She walked over with what he assumed was supposed to be feminine grace, but somehow missed graceful by a mile. "Certainly, Minister." She turned to the gargoyle. "Chocolate Frogs."
She smiled at him and fluttered her eyelashes. Scrimgeour gave a mental sigh but returned the smile, allowing charm to ooze out of every pore. He bowed. "Thank you for your help, Professor."
As he headed up the curved stairway, he had to suppress a shudder at the tittering noises he left behind him. When he made it to McGonagall's door, he paused. How could they not report this? Are they so irresponsible? He shook his head and knocked.
Harry sat at a large wooden table and stared at the feast laid out in front of him. Everything he could imagine was within arms reach. The last time he'd seen a meal of this proportion, he'd been at Hogwarts. He'd never had anyone else want to feed him like he'd eaten there.
He let his gaze wander around the strangely homey room, taking in the curtains which were drawn across a non-existent window. He wasn't certain if they were a sign that someone missed living above ground, or if they meant that the female Death Eaters wanted to leave their mark. Either way, they made the place somehow warmer and more inviting. This was, of course, in spite of the curtains being black with little silver serpents on them and the walls the same uniform grey.
He looked at Lucius, who had taken a seat opposite him. The light from the huge wood burning oven danced across him, making him look demonic in an oddly beautiful way. With a slight smirk, Lucius met his gaze. "Well, Potter? The food isn't going to eat itself."
Voldemort chose that moment to wander into the kitchen, and stared at the feast. His red eyes widened and he looked between the two. "Is this a celebration? And I wasn't invited?"
Lucius stood and bowed. "Of course you are invited, My Lord. Young Potter, here, simply hasn't had a meal in the last six weeks. So, if we are celebrating anything, it is a festival to commemorate his remembering how to eat."
Voldemort blinked, then looked at Harry like he'd grown a second – and possibly third – head. "Six weeks, you say? Why would anyone not eat for six weeks? I know that those muggles were well enough off to feed you."
Lucius answered for him. "It would appear, My Lord, they were in the habit of starving him in the summers. This summer they apparently tried to get him to eat, but their training seems to have worked too well. He couldn't stomach a bit of food while in their house."
Voldemort nodded, looking triumphant. "See, boy, this is the reason I hate muggles. They represent the worst that humanity has to offer. Can you name a single muggle who has ever been kind to you?"
Harry started to answer him, until he realized that the first person on the tip of his tongue – Mrs. Figg – was a squib, not a muggle. He wracked his brain, trying to think of anyone. Finally, he looked at Voldemort. "There were a few when I was in the muggle schools, but I can't remember their names now. Dudley drove them off soon enough, anyway."
Voldemort shook his head and settled at the head of the table. "If they are easily frightened, then they aren't important enough to matter." He glanced at Harry and sighed. "If this is to commemorate your remembering how to nourish yourself, then one would expect you to do so. Food. Now."
Harry couldn't help the slight smile that graced his face as he started loading his plate. As he did, he wondered why he was allowing them to treat him like this and, more importantly, why did they want to behave as if he were a guest instead of a prisoner. Does it have something to do with the spell they had cast? Does it somehow make the three of us more inclined to... like each other?
He shook his head and started eating. Whatever the reason was, the food was still good.
McGonagall looked up from her desk and smiled. The wards had – of course – alerted her the moment the Minister set foot on the property. Frankly, the only thing that worried her was why he'd taken so long. "Come in."
Scrimgeour entered the room and frowned. McGonagall had already redecorated, making the room appear more spartan than it had when Dumbledore was in office. The only extraneous thing in the office was a piece of her family tartan hanging up behind her desk. "Headmistress, I want to know why the Ministry wasn't informed of the disappearance of Harry Potter and the murder of his family."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "Minister Scrimgeour, I assure you that we would have informed you ourselves. However, we thought that you paid more attention to the muggle authorities than you apparently do. The death of the Dursleys was headline news, after all."
He glared at her. "I am well aware that it is headline news in the muggle papers. After all, it's not every day that an entire family dies of "heart failure" within minutes of each other. What bothers me is that there was a threat to our nation's most valuable asset and no one thought to advise the Ministry of it. He has been missing for thirty hours. We might have been better able to track him, had we been informed."
Dumbledore's portrait chose that moment to stop snoring. "Ah, Minister Scrimgeour, would you care for a lemon drop?" The painted Dumbledore gestured down at a bowl on Minerva's desk. "They are quite tasty."
Minerva fought her laughter down as the Minister apparently debated between turpentine and a cleansing charm. His sense seemed to win out. "No, thank you." He turned back to McGonagall. "As for you, I knew I should have ignored all the protestations from you and from the boy. He should have been in the Ministry under twenty-four hour surveillance."
McGonagall stood up, magic swirling around her. If she were a child, someone's aunt might have inflated or a room full or dishes might have smashed. She was, scarily enough, an adult. This made it far more likely that all that added magic would come out of her wand. "Minister, I can't believe what I'm hearing from you. Have you forgotten that Harry Potter is not just some national landmark? He is a person, and a very powerful wizard. You can't just lock a person up and expect them to like it. Especially, since that person has done nothing wrong."
The Minister looked at her. "I swear to you, Minerva. If anything happens to Potter, I will hold you personally responsible."
He stalked from her office, the door slamming behind him. McGonagall sat down at her desk and tried to will her hands to stop shaking.
Yes, Voldemort knows more about the bond than the two of them and there is a reason he's trying to convert Harry beyond the "He'd make a powerful ally," argument. Just wait and see.
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