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Chapter 31

Sirius Black woke up slowly. He was deeply groggy, as though he'd been drinking heavily the night before and hadn't quite sobered up. Blearily, he registered that this was unlikely. He hadn't touched a drink in… some weeks, now. No, not when they were preparing for…

His eyes shot open.

He was in an unfamiliar room. Richly decorated from the look of the opulent four-poster that he found himself in. He tried to sit up, but with a jolt had to settle for a half-raised position as a spike of pain lanced through his body, emanating from his shoulder. At the foot of his bed, perched on the edge of an extravagantly carved wooden chair, was a familiar face.

"Blaise?" he asked, his voice coming out like a croak.

Blaise, who'd been sitting with his head in his hands sat up with a jerk.

"Father," he said, rushing to stand at his bedside. "How do you feel?"

Sirius looked down at his body in confusion, and then around the room as if trying to solve a complex riddle, but it was like thinking through mud. "I was… I was in Thailand," he said with doubt in his tone. The last thing he'd remembered, he'd been dying, unable to see anything but his blood in the long grass as a battle raged around him.

His son's expression darkened, turning sour. "I know," Blaise bit out. "You were very nearly dead when you were brought here. You've been out for almost a day."

"Brought here?" Sirius asked in a throaty whisper, unable to surmise how he could have possibly escaped the situation he'd been in. Very few knew of the existence of his son, let alone would have brought him here if they had. He wondered if this was some kind of fantastical hallucination.

As Blaise opened his mouth to answer, the door opened and an unfamiliar man bustled in. He paused at the door upon seeing Sirius, before offering him a tight, uncomfortable smile.

"Hello," said the man in heavily accented English. "I see you're awake, how are you feeling?"

The man walked over to him and began to run familiar diagnostic charms before Sirius even opened his mouth.

"Erm… I'm- alright, considering," Sirius said awkwardly.

"This is Illya, Father. He's your Healer. You owe him your life," Blaise continued darkly, clearly angry. His son had always hated his position in the resistance, though whether that was for political reasons or simply because his life was in danger was a sore topic they rarely touched on.

Illya shook his head and smiled good naturedly, seeming to relax a little. "Honestly, Lord Zabini, I have done no more than what any healer would; your father owes his thanks to Harry more than I."

"Harry?" Sirius demanded, sitting straighter and immediately regretting it as another bolt of pain ran through him. "What do you mean Harry?" Illya gently pushed him back onto the bed, and neither said anything whilst the healer finished his spellwork.

"He'll need to rest and avoid using magic for a few days, but other than that we can expect a full recovery. It's an outstanding outcome, all things considered," Illya said, speaking directly to Blaise. Blaise nodded and thanked the man, who quickly left, clearly wanting to be away from the conversation. Sirius waited for the door to close behind him before asking again.

"Harry?" he pushed.

Blaise sighed, rubbing his face in what appeared to be a mixture of exhaustion and worry. "Yes. Harry. He found you on the battlefield and brought you here; then he put you under a powerful stasis charm and fetched a healer that won't betray us. He's put the neck on the line for you in a way I don't think I'll ever be able to repay him for."

Suddenly, Sirius understood. In the heat of battle he hadn't realised that the powerful commander only half seen from the other side of the battlefield was none other than Harry Potter; now better known as The Serpent. He had known his friend's son was now a commander, and had dreaded the day he might run into him in combat, however unlikely that had been.

It still didn't make sense, however.

"How?" Sirius asked, eyes wide. "How did he get me here?"

Blaise considered his father for a moment, before finally saying. "He apparrated."

Sirius shook his head. "From Thailand? That's near impossible, and he'd just cast the biggest fiendfyre animation I've ever seen. How is that possible?" And more importantly, why? He had followed Harry's climb through the Death Eater ranks as closely as possible in the last years, although information was of course limited. He knew the man was as vicious as he was talented; not one for mercy where it wasn't required. He hadn't heard that he was a sadist, as many of the commanders were, but nor had he ever expected this sort of kindness. For Harry, this was tantamount to treason.

Blaise's eyes never left his. "He apparrated directly from Thailand, then to Russia and back again. Harry is… special."

Special was an understatement, if that was true. That, paired with what he had seen on the battlefield… Harry outclassed even Bellatrix it seemed, by a country mile. The only person more impressive than that on the field was Voldemort himself. It sent a shiver through Sirius.

"But.. But why? Has he had second thoughts?" He asked in disbelief. He had tried to, upon meeting Harry a couple of years prior, persuade him to join their side. The conversation, brief as it was, had gone poorly indeed.

Blaise snorted. "No," he said bitterly. "He has no interest in your resistance. He did it for me, because he knows, fool that I am, that I care for my father."

Sirius finally nodded, though it was as though the world had tilted on it's axis. "Has he… Has he gone back to the front?"

Blaise shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "He's passed out in one of the other rooms. Illya says he's fine but he's exhausted, he's been out for twelve hours." An anxious expression crossed Blaise's face. "I'm worried how he'll explain his absence. I cannot stress enough the risk he's taken to save you, Father."

Sirius held his gaze, and a desperation rose in him. "Can I… Can I talk to him? Thank him personally?"

Blaise shook his head at once. "No. No, you've caused him enough trouble." Blaise rose and sighed, "go back to sleep, Sirius. We'll speak more on this later."


Remus Lupin drew in a shuddering breath as the door to his cell opened once more. He took the stale air deep into his lungs, as though the oxygen he took could grant him courage. The last several weeks had been brutal; he was hungry and hurt everywhere. The last full moon had been particularly terrible, as the beast in him – unable to attack it's prey – laid waste to his own flesh. He was getting desperate. Although none of the more gruesome tortures he'd heard word of had been used on him, he knew it was only a matter of time. He was ashamed to say he had already given away several names, though only when they'd broken through his occlumency shields briefly, or drugged him with veritaserum.

The witch entering was not one he had grown familiar with over the last weeks. It wasn't Westhead or Meaks, two thugs that seemed to delight in brutality. Nor was it the quiet man who'd never named himself, who came to dose him with potions. No, the witch before him hadn't visited his cell before. Noticing the gold insignia of her Death Eater robes, he realised this was someone of the highest ranks. He thought there had been something familiar in her face.

The woman came to stand before him. He could not physically draw back, his arms had been chained to the ceiling. She didn't appear as though she were about to strike him however, and was merely regarding him with a bored expression.

"Hello Lupin," she said after a long moment. "My name is Verona Selwyn," recognition dawned for Remus. This was indeed a witch of considerable power, magically and politically. He had heard tale of her talents for many years, as well as seeing them for himself those years ago in the IDC. "It has come to our attention that you play a more senior role in the resistance than we'd anticipated. Thus, I have been dispatched to gather information."

Dread sat in his stomach heavily, churning. Selwyn was no thug; she wasn't here to hit him or curse him with crucios. No, she was one of the most brilliant witches ever inducted into the Death Eaters, and it wasn't her style. He had always found those without sadism or wroth ruling their actions to be the most intimidating enemies.

"I've already told you everything I know," Lupin croaked out, the line he had stuck to these last weeks even as they continued to pull more and more for him.

Verona nodded, her expression still apathetic. "Well, you would say that, wouldn't you? Don't worry, Lupin – this needn't be messy. I am simply going to pull the words from you and this will all be over."

Lupin snarled, the werewolf in him always so close to the edge now he was so hungry and tired.

Selwyn ignored him, drawing a crystal from her pocket. With a muttered spell, she attached it to his chest. He recognised it as a sort of magical amplifier and dread crawled up his skin leaving goosebumps in it's wake.

"Open up," she said, as she drew a vial he recognised from her pocket. More veritaserum. He bucked and protested but there was nothing he could do as she magically held his mouth open and poured the contents down his throat. He began to pull wildly at the chains but they had been reinforced the last time he'd broken free of them.

"Salazar, but you're stronger than you look," Selwyn commented, setting the empty vial aside. Without further ado, she pointed her wand at him and cast compulso. Now the amplifier made sense. Compulso was a new and brilliant spell - allegedly developed by Molly's twin boys - which pushed you to act on your compulsions, and the potion was already forcing truth to his lips. Combined together, not even his fierce will could withstand the onslaught.

"Give us the names of the senior members of the resistance," she began.

"Andromeda Black, Sirius Black, John Cho..."

She interrupted him impatiently. "We're already familiar with these and we'd be here all day. Let's try a different tact, shall we? How did you get the location of our central base on the Eastern Front?"

"Informant on the inside, Gregory Mason," he cursed himself as he saw a quill minuting everything he said, but he could no more control it than he could stop the motion of a waterfall without a wand.

"Thank you," said Verona absently. "And the attack on East Bridge last month?"

"Pure luck, we had some people disillusioned spying on a nearby camp."

"How did you get past the wards?"

"Talented ward-smith in our ranks, Emma Kent."

Again the quill continued; he'd have bit down on his own tongue, but the compulsion spell seemed to be preventing him, combined as it was with the potion and thus pushing him relentlessly to tell not just the truth, but in detail.

"How did you get access to the Rosetta potion?"

"We stole it from one of the factories in China, the security detail was shoddy."

For the first time a flash of irritation passed over the woman's face, and she said aloud. "Make a note to have a word with Chong," as the quill scurried across the page.

"After we destroyed your healing unit, we expected you to begin to take heavier losses. How did you avoid this?" Clearly Selwyn had come with a thorough list of questions.

"We recruited more healers from South America, and our lead healers were occupied elsewhere. Our head healer managed to use her contacts to keep things quiet."

Selwyn nodded. "And who is your head healer?"

"Valeria Nott," he said.

Immediately, something shifted in the woman's expression. She stilled and then stopped entirely, looking up at him fully. "Ex-Excuse me?"

She seemed off balance, though Lupin couldn't recall any reason why their healing unit would be such a surprise to… Oh. He had forgotten the significance of Valeria to this woman. This was bad.

"Valeria Nott has been our head healer for the past five years."

Verona's face was a strange contortion of anger and bitterest concern. "Fuck. Fuck!" she said, and with her wand arm lashed out. The parchment burst into flames, the quill dropping in the air.

"Where is she?"

Lupin really struggled to hold this one in, but the potion remained potent. "Last I knew she's currently in our base in Argentina, training healers in Mendoza."

Verona cursed again, and began pacing the cell like she was the animal trapped within. "Of all the stupid things that witch has ever done..." her voice had risen hysterically, a complete break in character for the woman.

"You won't be able to reach her, the place is under fidellius charm," he said tightly, victoriously even. Fortunately, fidellius charm locations could not be drawn out with even the most potent of spells and potions.

Verona rounded on him, eyes wild. "Oh yes I will," she said, her expression twisting into a vicious smile. "You're going to take me to her."


Harry Potter leaned back in his chair, his feet crossed at the ankle on top of his expansive desk. It was a balmy night outside the tent, and so he wore only thin, dark trousers and an equally thin white cotton shirt without bothering to fasten the buttons. Before him, a middle aged woman perched on the edge of her seat looking equal parts irritated and uncomfortable.

"Now, Commander Potter, if you would just be a little more forthright with your answers then I could be on my way..." the witch trailed off as he reached into a drawer of the desk, taking a packet of cigarettes and wandlessly lighting one. He leaned his head back and exhaled smoke towards the roof of the tent carelessly.

"I am answering your questions, Verity. I'm just not giving you the answers you expect to hear," Harry said, outwardly calm at least.

"Now really, Potter-" Verity blustered. "That-that sort of thing is forbidden! It isn't the first contraband items we've found in this camp either-"

"I thought you were here about my absence?" Harry questioned lazily, finally levelling the small woman with a look. "Or is your unit really just school prefects, looking for dirty magazines and stashed whiskey?" Harry snorted, his derision for compliance unit obvious on his face.

"We are here about several matters, Mr Potter, up to and including the sheer number of irregularities and causes for concern in this camp. Your… disappearance being just the greatest of them."

It had been very bad luck, Harry mused, that compliance had decided to make their appearance the day after the battle before Harry had recovered enough to return. He had no doubt that his men would have kept the matter to themselves, despite their own obvious curiosity. Harry had been fuming about their appearance; questioning his unit just the day after the battle when many were still healing, or grieving their dead. Their losses had not been heavy all considered, but many had still lost friends. Harry was in no room to play ball with bureaucrats.

"I've told you twice now, Verity. I was injured, hit with a particularly nasty curse and so I sought a specialist healer. I returned after he'd concluded his treatment."

Verity seemed to be gritting her teeth now. "And why would you not use your own healers? Or visit the Healing Base in Shanghai?"

Harry shrugged carelessly. "I prefer my own healer. My men are only trained for standard battlefield healing, and the Shanghai unit isn't worth half a damn anymore."

"And who is this friend who healed you? He can surely corroborate your story?" she asked, bristling.

"For the last time, I'm not embroiling him in this. He's not a Death Eater, and frankly it's none of your business who my friends are."

Verity looked visibly shaken as she said, "Then you leave me no choice but to report you, Mr Potter."

Harry chuckled. "Report me then. Run off to Lucius perhaps, or better yet to the big man himself. Tell them we're out here sewing sedition by-" Harry grabbed one of the pile of contraband items in front of him at random, and couldn't resist a smile as he picked up the new Game Boy and flipped it open. "-playing Mariokart."

Verity rose to her feet, her words weighty with anger and she was obviously scandalised by Harry's behaviour, far more used to commanders bowing and scraping to pass their inspections. "I will do just that, Potter. I will speak to the Dark Lord about all the many indiscretions in this camp and I am sure you will find yourself very quickly relieved of your position!" Her voice had grown increasingly shrill as she continued, but Harry had already began to play the game.

"Fine," he said distractedly. "Then kindly take your people and get the fuck out of my camp."


Later he recounted the interaction to Stefan, one of the men under his command and a friend from before he was promoted. In public, he showed Harry the proper deference – well, what deference his men did show in the rather informal hierarchy of the unit – but in private he was still just Harry's friend.

When Harry told him what he'd said as they sat overlooking a lake some way from the camp, he blew out a low whistle.

"Salazar, Harry, are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Harry shrugged carelessly. "Command don't care what we do so long as we get results, and we fucking well got results."

Stefan looked uncomfortable for a moment. "Are you sure about that? Compliance have been around more and more. I think they've got a bee in their bonnet about something and you're just feeding their fears."

Harry nodded, conceding the point. "Well it's about time I had a conversation with one of the higher ups about all this anyway."

"You might get more than a conversation at this rate," Stefan warned, taking a swig from the hip flask the man always had on hand when they weren't in combat.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Verity is all bark and no bite. I doubt that witch has ever even seen a battlefield, and the generals hardly respect her or her unit. It'll be fine."

Stefan eyed him for a moment, before sighing noisily. "I don't know Harry, I never underestimate the power of a busybody."

Stefan, as it turned out, was right. Just three days later he received an imperial summons; he was to appear before the Dark Lord. Harry tried very hard to tell himself that wasn't what he had wanted all along.


Harry stood before the great oak doors, impatient. He thought he'd be more nervous; it was the first time he had visited the new 'Imperial Operations Base' where Voldemort held court and the first time he'd have laid eyes on the Dark Lord in many years. He wasn't nervous. He'd certainly felt anticipation at first, excitement even. Now he was just bored and agitated. He'd been waiting outside the doors for a summons - left here by a harried looking servant – for over an hour. Long enough for the anticipation to dull; long enough to take in every knot in the wood of the doors.

If he was honest, he found it all a bit… ostentatious. True enough, Voldemort was the most powerful man in the world. Through his power he was likely also the wealthiest. Still, were doors that were over twenty feet high and at least ten feet wide really necessary? Did he really need ceilings so tall that it rivalled some cathedrals and to have everything be marble, gold and glass like some sort of ancient emperor? It didn't even particularly suit him, and Harry found himself wondering who had actually designed the imposing structure.

His one entertainment as he waited impatiently to be called were the people passing through the exterior doors, coming and going through the hallways at his back and into the labyrinth within. He caught snatches of conversations from servants and fellow Death Eaters; diplomats and researchers.
'So after they excavated the tomb, you'll never believe what they found. A Mummy – I shit you not, a Mummy-' 'And so I told her no, absolutely not could we have the purple robes for the wedding, can you imagine?' 'They say it's just a matter of time before they can make the inferi sentient, and that's all well and good, but what about jobs?' Even this lost it's amusement after a while however, as most of it turned out to be inane gossip. The only exception was when two serving girls walked through having a rather interesting conversation about his most recent battle.

"They say he took out the entire opposing army single-handedly, no-ones seen anything like it since- well, you know..." said one of the girls conspiratorially, casting dusting charms at the ceiling whilst her friend levitated several vases out of harms way.

"I mean you have to admit that's a little scary though, Anna," said the other, mousier girl.

The girl shrugged as Harry turned to regard them with amusement. "Maybe, but it's also kind of hot. I mean you know why they call him The Serpent..."

The girls hurried away giggling, not noticing Harry's regard or quiet laughter. It wasn't long after that the doors before him finally swung open, revealing a plump man in servants robes.

"The Dark Lord will see you now, Commander Potter," said the man deferentially. Harry nodded, taking a deep breath, and found his nerves were in fact in working order.

He was lead through a series of doors, through opulent ante-chamber after opulent ante-chamber. It seemed an age when he was finally told to wait as the man opened a new door and announced him.

"Commander Potter, my Lord," said the man and then gestured for Harry to enter. The man backed out even as Harry entered the room.

Harry wasn't sure what he was expecting from the room. A throne, perhaps. A series of high steps from which Voldemort could preside from. Instead, he was greeted by an office of sorts. A grandiose desk dominated by books and papers took centre stage of the small room, and behind said desk was the Dark Lord. He hadn't looked up right away, and still Harry felt a hot knot form in his stomach. It had really been a very long time.

When Voldemort glanced up, Harry felt like his heart might have stopped. Lord, but had the man always been so beautiful? If he had expected a different wardrobe to match the new palace, he was pleasantly surprised to find him in a black cotton shirt and trousers topped with dark robes. He had the same neat dark hair and piercing red eyes, the same perfect jaw, and the same cold regard.

"Commander Potter," Voldemort began. Harry remembered himself at the last moment and swept into a formal bow.

"My Lord," he said, keeping his head bowed for a moment longer than was strictly necessary. "You requested me?" he straightened up and found Voldemort regarding him with a searching expression. If anything else had flickered in that expression, it was gone too quickly for Harry to catch it.

Voldemort remained seated, but pushed his book aside and leaned back in his chair, giving Harry his full attention.

"Indeed," Voldemort said, his tone betraying nothing of his mood. "It has been brought to my attention, rather insistently, that there are irregularities with your regiment in the recent inspection."

Harry had been prepared for this. "Yes, my Lord. The witch, Verity I believe her name was, seemed rather keen to catch us in something and rather pleased to come up with trivialities. Is there something I should be aware of?"

Voldemort raised an eyebrow at this. "Trivialities?" he repeated, seeming more curious than irritated.

Harry nodded. "Yes, my Lord. She found some muggle alcohol, cards, cigarettes, various other odds and ends. Nothing, I assure you, you wouldn't find in every other regiment based in the East."

Voldemort considered this, his eyes never leaving Harry's. "That may be true, Potter, but it doesn't change it's illegality."

Harry nodded, affecting a disposition of calm acceptance. "True, my Lord, but if this were really about a few muggle tidbits picked up from the towns around camps then every commander would be before you. I want to know why the gravers are being singled out."

For the first time, Voldemort's expression shifted to something a little darker. Not quite with anger, but warning.

"I am not here to answer your questions, Potter. Rather the reverse, in fact," the Dark Lord said cooly.

Harry nodded, raising his hands and smiling as though he were conceding a light-hearted argument with a friend instead of standing before Lord Voldemort. "Of course, my Lord. What was your question?"

Voldemort's eyes narrowed perceptibly and when he spoke next, his tone held noticeably more menace. If Harry weren't so busy admiring how enthralling those eyes were when angry, he might have cared.

"Let's start with your most recent deployment. I've heard many reports of this battle, up to and including that you single-handedly brought home the victory using a powerful display of dark magic," Voldemort said matter-of-factly and without praise or surprise.

Harry smirked. "That's a bit of an exaggeration, I doubt I was responsible for any more than two thirds of the victory. Three quarters at most," he added playfully. Voldemort did not look amused, but his expression had returned to impassivity.

"I have also had it reported to me that you disappeared for two days following the battle without a trace," Voldemort continued flatly.

"Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort paused as if waiting for him to continue, before his expression settled into a glare. "And where did you go, Potter?"

"To be healed, my Lord."

"And you couldn't go to your own healers?"

"I've already answered these questions, my Lord, and to be honest I believe my answers were to Verity's satisfaction," Harry said, dismissively.

Lord Voldemort fixed him with a look of irritated confusion. "Satisfaction? That witch couldn't have been more incensed when she arrived here, Potter, seeming utterly sure of your deception. She demanded I question you personally. I wouldn't have accepted such a request if not for the fact I have never seen that woman so angry."

Harry once again smirked, taking a few steps closer to the desk. "Well that's because I provoked her."

"Provoked her?" Voldemort asked, his tone betraying his interest despite himself. "And how and why would you do that?"

Upon hearing the question, Harry pulled out a familiar packet from his inner pocket and lit up. "She's very easily riled," he said, inhaling deeply.

"Potter," Voldemort began, voice low and dangerous. Before he could finish his sentence however, Harry offered him the packet with a daring expression. Voldemort stared at him as though he couldn't decide whether to curse him or strike him, before finally he rolled his eyes and rose, taking the proffered cigarette. Harry's eyes didn't leave him as he took a drag of the cigarette and relaxed back into his chair. Harry took a seat before the desk without being asked, but Voldemort didn't react, not even looking at him as he looked thoughtfully into the middle distance.

"What do you want then, Potter?" the Dark Lord finally asked, levelling him with a look of such naked curiosity that Harry nearly forgot what he was going to say next.

"Simply put, my Lord, I want a promotion."

"Excuse me?" Voldemort asked, his lips quirking into what could very well be amusement.

Harry took a deep breath, his carefully planned arguments falling away under Voldemort's regard. Still, he gathered himself, pushing those emotions away.

"I have proven myself time and time again on the front. I have given you victory after victory, and quite frankly I am the most powerful commander in your army," Harry said without either pride or humility. It was simply a fact.

Voldemort looked thoroughly unimpressed by his statement. "And you expect a prize for doing your job?"

"No, my Lord," Harry said quickly, but he did not bow his head or look away. He looked directly into Voldemort's eyes as he continued. "I am saying I can do far more than lead a single regiment. I once asked you to use me, and now I am asking you to use me in a capacity befitting my skill."

Voldemort's eyes didn't leave his and it seemed to Harry that a hundred emotions crossed the man's face as they stared at one another. He wondered how so many thought that the Dark Lord was without emotion, when to Harry they were quite plain. Of course, even he could not interpret them.

"You ask a lot of me, boy," Voldemort finally said, scrutinizing him.

"Am I?" Harry said, tilting his head to the side with that same playful expression that he knew to be so very dangerous in present company.

"You want to become a general, don't pretend you come here to beseech me for anything but the highest rank," Voldemort said with a flash of annoyance.

"No, I meant 'boy' - am I merely a boy still?" Harry asked, his own voice low and soft. "I rather thought I had grown up quite a bit under the tender mercies of your army."

Voldemort's eyes flickered over him, and again so many things flashed through those eyes that Harry couldn't read. When Voldemort met his eyes once more however, they were full of cold fury.

"You are impertinent and flirt dangerously with my ire, Potter," Voldemort warned.

"And I would be the best general to ever sit on your council," Harry responded without blinking, without breathing.

Voldemort stood then, walking around the desk to Harry who quickly rose. It seemed Voldemort would always be the taller of the pair, but not by a great deal now.

They held each others gazes, now only a foot apart. Harry had never wished so much to know what the man was thinking.

"You'd have to leave the front and move into the Imperial Base, you realise," Voldemort said, and for the first time Harry realised with a jolt of surprise that the man was actually considering it.

"I know. I've trained several of my subordinates to the highest standard, they'd be able to step into my shoes quickly," Harry said immediately.

An age seemed to pass as Voldemort consideredthe matter. To Harry it appeared that the man was fighting some internal battle, and Harry could guess the content of the argument.

"Do you know how many times in the last few years I've considered simply having you killed, Potter? How many times I've almost concluded you were too dangerous to simply leave laying around?" Voldemort said quietly, as though speaking to himself.

Harry was not surprised by this, but the way the man whispered it - as though he couldn't quite decide why he had not - made the hair on Harry's neck stand on end.

"Then keep me close, my Lord," Harry whispered back, flicking his eyes up to meet his Lord's. Whatever he saw in Harry's eyes seemed to decide something for the man.

"Give me one reason that you would be more useful to me on my council than on the front, where I know you can get results," Voldemort finally said in a weighty tone.

Harry did not need to consider this, he simply offered the man a smile. "Because you were wrong about me, my Lord."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I did, in fact, become a 'great political mind'."