A/N: It's alive. It's aliiive!
Please, allow me to apologise to everyone to whom I haven't replied individually. I offer my unending appreciation for the seconds/minutes of your life you have spent on composing and sending the response to the last chapter and the interlude.
This was supposed to be a Halloween gift :-((. One of the reasons why it took me so long to finish this chapter is that, originally, there was supposed to be one, about fifteen pages long chapter. Then it became two chapters. Then it became damn-near three chapters, but I decided that, since Tom's just lying there and not doing anything (except worrying Harry), it would be unfair of me. So, this is done, and the next part is coming up. Soon. Pinky promise.
x
Chapter Thirteen: Promisesx
"I can't believe it," Harry said, staring at the report in his hands. It contained information that would probably turn up in tomorrow's issue of Daily Prophet, but he was glad to for once have a head start on the rest of the wizarding world.
"Is something wrong, my Lord?" Tybalt Lestrange asked from Harry's desk. He didn't even bother to conceal his concern.
Harry shook his head. "Scrimgeour packed up his whole family and skipped country."
"Will this cause problems?" the man inquired, anxious but at the same time preoccupied with finishing the letter he was writing. There were dark bruises under his eyes, and deep frown-lines crossed his forehead as he tried to decipher the miniscule text in the law-book he had on hand.
Merlin only knew when he had last had a full night's sleep.
"On the contrary," Harry assured him, trying to sound optimistic, "this will throw the Ministry into a few days of chaos and distract them from this paperwork war they've been waging on us." Would that he were right, and that the New Order were granted a much-needed break. Harry shook his head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs. "That is what amazes me so much. I can't believe Scrimgeour's done something helpful."
"Wherefore would he do something like that, though?" Rabastan Lestrange inquired, glancing up from the stack of out-going messages he was sorting through.
Harry for a moment wondered if he should comment on the man's apparent comfort with being seated in Tom's chair, but in the end decided that there was enough upset and tensions running high already, and he would achieve nothing but further contention.
"Let the Ministry deal with it," Tybalt advised his son. "That's why we pay taxes."
"Who's the Senior Undersecretary?" Harry inquired. He hadn't been very conscientious about keeping abreast of all the personnel changes happening in that pit of money and politics. He had had his projects, and Tom had in not so many words asked him to butt out of diplomacy unless goblins were involved.
"Pius Thicknesse, I'm afraid," Tybalt informed him, spelling the ink on his missive dry with an offhanded motion of his wand. "There had been some small effort to recruit him prior to your return, my Lord, but he had dithered until it was too late and his Lordship ceased being interested. However…"
"However?" Harry prodded, and mentally thanked Tom for having taken the chance to kill Umbridge in the mayhem after Harry's semi-botched attack on Azkaban. If Harry came upon the pink toad in his current state, she would still end up dead, but Harry would have to field an endless barrage of consequences.
Tybalt laced his fingers together and, with pursed lips to indicate his distaste, replied: "Now he would like to be taken into his Lordship's confidence."
"An opportunist of the worst, most obvious and arrogant kind," Harry guessed, accepting the lack of objection as an implied confirmation. "I hate people like that." He suspected that one of the reasons for his dislike was that he felt like they were making a mockery of Tom. They tried to act like they were on a higher level than most wizards, tried to demand deference, often from people much more skilled or smarter than themselves. That kind of behaviour was only excusable if they had the power and shrewdness to back it up. Thicknesse didn't.
Tom usually did, and in him Harry found it to be very attractive.
And once again he was thinking about Tom and working himself up into a state, hyperaware of the unnatural tranquility on Tom's side of their bond.
"Alright," Harry mused, rubbing his eyes to get rid of the burning. "Have Lucius tenderise him a bit for the moment. He'll be good and ready by the time I'll be able to deal with him. I've seen Thicknesse before; he's not smart enough to be a real concern. Carrot and stick should work on him, and Lucius does his bad-guy good-guy schizophrenia act very well." Lucius was like a rose – pretty, perfumed-up, and under those soft petals of his thorny enough to bloody whoever tried to touch him. Harry didn't like him, but the man was capable and fairly controllable through his ambitions. Plus there was his wife, who, as far as Harry could tell, was one of the true believers of the Vision.
"I'll inform him, my Lord," Rabastan assured him, deducing rightly that Harry wouldn't have the time and patience required for hands-on handling. He gathered the day's worth of mail, not showing the slightest hint of protest or dissatisfaction at basically doing a house elf's job.
"Thanks," Harry told him sincerely. It was perhaps below his station as the Dark Lord, but he did have too many things to deal with anyway, without applying needless censure in everyday talks with his Inner Circle. "I'll have Miss Avery do the secretarial work for today. Tybalt, can you get me Lady Greengrass before quarter past?"
"If she's available, she'll be here. I can't promise I will-"
"Reach her, I get it," Harry assured him. Tom wasn't in a critical condition, so there was no point in creating too much drama around it – yet. "Do we have other healers?"
The remorseful head shakes did not surprise him.
Harry knew for a fact that they did have supporters of the Light affiliation who did have medical training, but he wouldn't have trusted either of them to do their best to help the former Dark Lord Voldemort get healthy. Tom's identity, and the mystery they had (intentionally) created around the truth of the psychopathic mass-murdering Dark Lord of years past presented a rather huge chink in the political armour of the New Order – but it couldn't exactly be helped.
Harry would wager that the majority of the public didn't yet entirely believe that Voldemort was truly gone. It had been easier for them to believe in the tale of a miracle baby bouncing off a Killing Curse than into a much less fantastical story of a hostile takeover of the Dark Order by Harry Potter and his fishy alleged husband, especially when Albus Dumbledore, the shining beacon of the Light had been incarcerated for a slew of crimes committed on children at roughly the same time. People were confused, and rightly so. And, while there were very few who could reliably connect Tom Riddle to Voldemort, there was practically no one who didn't wonder about from under which rock the New Order leadership had sprung.
Harry folded the Prophet and let it fall straight into the rubbish bin.
"I'm for Owlery, my Lord," Rabastan announced, as if Harry hadn't noticed that by himself.
"Go on," Harry excused him. "And, from now on, I'm issuing mandatory breaks. If you work for sixteen hours, you have to take off at least eight hours to rest. And by rest I don't mean reading through reports or catching up on the news!"
Father and son shared a look that Harry couldn't quite interpret, before they both nodded.
Rabastan took Tybalt's recently finished letter and left.
Tybalt rested his chin on his palm and narrowed his eyes at Harry. "I will officially announce your new policy to all inhabitants of the Manor, my Lord. However, may I inquire if it applies to yourself as well?"
Harry sighed. The man did have a good point, and Harry wasn't so full of himself that he would ignore the advice of someone who had half a century of experience with management. "In my case it will be put into effect within two weeks."
He was sure he would survive two weeks of constant pressures only a little worse for wear, and right now he didn't want to make promises he couldn't keep. Hopefully, in a fortnight the worst would be behind them, and the New Order wouldn't require such an insane schedule from its presently only leader.
"As you say, my Lord," Tybalt allowed, and returned to the stack of diplomatic correspondence cluttering what once used to be Harry's desk.
Harry left for the Open Study. It was only nine forty, but Rodolphus was waiting for him, using the time to go through a thick, unmarked folder.
"Don't!" Harry admonished when the man was about to stand in respect.
"My Lord," Rodolphus spoke quietly.
Harry sat down into an upholstered armchair, leant back, closed his eyes for a moment and then rubbed at them again. "How long has this project been active, again?"
"Nineteen days. Today is the nineteenth."
"It took me almost three weeks to catch on," Harry grumbled. "Fine. Now that I know, summarise for me what you need and what are the main problems."
Rodolphus grimaced. He handed over the folder. "Nott has been making sounds about the project turning his home into a military base."
Harry sighed. The Nott Manor had been a military Headquarters on and off since nineteen forty-five. Theodore the Second would have grown up in the atmosphere. He should have expected it. At the same time, however, it was understandable that he would be unhappy and yet not willing to raise the issue with a Dark Lord – or even the Light Dark Lord. Light Lord. Whatever Harry was called right now.
"You are seeking alternative accommodations, then?" Harry inquired.
Lestrange gestured toward the folder. "There are various options. I wanted to consult the location with you, my Lord, because you and my Lord are the only ones with an idea of the future strategic positioning of the cornerstones of the New Order – which, I dare assume, includes the Taboo-response teams."
Harry bit his tongue to silence a curse. Tom hadn't been discussing strategy with him for some time. The decision would be solely up to him then – if Tom would later realise that he had a problem with it, it would be his problem.
He leafed through the folder, examining the locations and pictures of various potential bases. They were obviously extracted from a database of some kind, and since Harry knew that Gringotts doubled as the only realtor of the wizarding Britain, and that these were not goblin files, he had to ask: "Where did you get these?"
"Alastor gave them to me," Rodolphus admitted. "He wrangled them from a former protégé of his – Shacklebolt."
"Kingsley Shacklebolt?" Harry asked, trying to recall the man. He used to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix. An Auror.
"Yes, my Lord," Rodolphus confirmed. "Shacklebolt is also our primary contact within the Auror corps. It is he who has, by proxy, granted us the authority to take criminals into custody. He has personally promised his support for this project, and is trying to push it through his boss."
"I don't like this," Harry admitted. Rodolphus appeared stricken, so he quickly clarified: "It stinks of future integration attempts from the Ministry side. This is our project, in our purview, and it will remain under our control. Shacklebolt personally has a subversive side, but the Head of the DMLE is much less likely to approve of an independent law enforcement force."
"You expect accusations of vigilantism?" Rodolphus inquired acutely.
Harry nodded. He needed Tom for this – he wasn't savvy enough to navigate the political circles with such a skill as would be needed to pull this off.
"Of course," the Lestrange answered his own question after a moment of contemplation. "Blast it! For decades the Ministry refused to even review this idea, and now that it's been proven viable they will attempt to steal it and label us criminals for implementing it first!"
Harry shrugged. He turned his head so that he was looking out of the window rather than at Rodolphus. By coincidence, the narrow view of the Nott grounds available to him included the fountain Theo had had cleaned for Harry.
His lips twitched in a semblance of a smile. "Scrimgeour has done us a greater service than anyone expected in vanishing."
"The Minister…? I apologise, my Lord, I haven't had a chance to read the news yet today."
Harry stood and returned the folder to Rodolphus. "Scrimgeour and his family left the country." No comment on whether Harry's threat to Scrimgeour's sister and her children played a role in their decision. "The Ministry will, no doubt, recuperate quickly, but this incident still does offer us a window of opportunity. Have Moody stall the official negotiations with DMLE if at all possible. As for the Headquarters, select a site that will be within sight of wizarding public – some place the people will see our teams going about their business and doing their jobs well. We want the people to be aware of our work. They must see us protecting them." Trying to think like Tom was hard. Harry wasn't even sure if what he was aiming for with his idea made sense.
Rodolphus thoughtfully nodded and didn't protest, so Harry figured he was probably onto something.
He sighed. "You know what this will do?"
"Help us create a safer country, my Lord?" Rodolphus guessed, standing and gathering his things.
"For a while, maybe," Harry allowed. "It will force wizards and witches to become more creative. They will fashion new spells, and our people will have to find out about them and put new Taboos on new incantations. It will lead to novel and likely more gruesome kinds of crime."
Rodolphus paused for a while. Then he inclined his head. "…we will not be bored any time soon, no."
Harry muffled his chuckle. "It's good that your sense of humour has not suffered any damage."
"We would go mad without some levity, my Lord," Rodolphus replied unapologetically.
"I know." With as much pessimism, depression and anxiety as was going around the Order now, they needed every bit of humour, affection and encouragement they could salvage. It was, Harry was aware, a very unusual approach to keeping up morale within a Dark-inclined political movement, and he wouldn't have thought of it if not for the way Theodore's thoughtfulness and dedication had managed to lift his spirit yesterday. That was why, before he departed, Harry told Rodolphus: "You do a good job. Continue doing a good job."
"As you command, sir," the wizard responded, standing rigidly, almost at attention, and then offering a bow.
As soon as Harry stepped into the corridor, Chatter appeared, jogging to keep pace with him. "Master Lord Harry, there is being message for you from Master Lestrange, sir. Mistress Greengrass is being here now."
Harry rapidly halted. A quick Tempus showed him that it was ten. He would have thought Apollonia would be at St Mungo's at this time – he had stated clearly that he expected her at her convenience, hadn't he?
Never mind, he decided. "Have her meet me at the Green Suite. Lead her there if she doesn't know the way," he ordered, and Apparated.
"Dock!" he barked as soon as he appeared. "Refreshments for two!"
A tray appeared on the coffee table, and Harry leaned against the sofa. Speed-eating a sandwich for brunch, he reminded himself that if he continued in this vein, he would end up in Tom's state soon enough. He was running out of time and had to prioritise like mad. Either way, he gave himself the deadline of three days. He had three days to stabilise the current status quo, and from then on he would start working human hours, and be very diligent about getting enough food and sleep. Still, he didn't trust himself enough to make it a promise – hence the two weeks deadline he had mentioned to Tybalt Lestrange.
And he would solve Tom's situation. Somehow. Usually, this was the point when he pulled a miraculous solution out of his arse, but so far nothing was occurring to him.
There was a knock on the door.
Harry opened it with a wave of his hand. "Lady Greengrass," he greeted the witch that was waiting on the other side.
She looked about as harried as he felt. "My Lord," she replied.
Harry gestured her to come in. Obediently, the witch walked inside, and from the living area went directly into the bedroom without waiting to be bidden. Harry didn't have the energy to spare on observing some stupid fucking protocol, so he just let her do her thing.
She almost managed to conceal her look of horror and fear when she saw Tom's gaunt, grey face up close, and quickly started casting spells to determine all that was wrong with him. Harry, in the meantime, sat down into the nearest armchair and pulled his right knee to his chest, resting his heel on the edge of the seat.
He might have momentarily drowsed, but he was fairly sure it couldn't have been more than ten minutes before Apollonia addressed him again.
"I know he's on the verge of collapse from exhaustion, he's dehydrated and severely malnourished, and I suspect that he's been abusing some addictive substances…?" Harry summed up, making it a question.
The Healer nodded. "Correct on all accounts, my Lord. Admittedly, the malnourishment is not as bad as it could have been, since the Lord had regularly consumed Nutrient Potions, but in combination with the exhaustion he is on the verge of danger. And while I cannot officially endorse your decision to sedate the Lord…" She let the statement hang, implying that for once Harry had done the right thing in her professional opinion.
"Any other problems?" he asked.
Greengrass frowned and rubbed her forehead. Harry belatedly noticed that she was looking very pale, but he was overwrought as it was, so he forgave himself for the momentary lapse in observation.
"The Lord's immune system has been compromised by his physical condition, but he is accustomed to compensating for it with magic, and I am not truly worried about him contracting any diseases, although common sense dictates that you avoid needlessly exposing him to risks," the woman offered, carelessly throwing her thick braid over her shoulder to get it out of the way.
Harry directed a weak glare at Tom's recumbent form. The man wasn't going anywhere for the time being, so he was, hopefully, not getting himself exposed to anything that might just kill him for real.
"Alright," Harry said, even though he felt anything but. "What do I do to help him?"
Greengrass shook her head and sighed. "You are in the very precarious position of attempting to help a patient that does not wish to be helped-"
Out of sheer fucking stubbornness, Harry mentally added, furious with his husband.
"-and while this is technically not the most ethical procedure, I emphatically recommend intensive detoxification and physical therapy. A sufficiently skilled Healer can be relied upon to manage most of the process with the help of spells and potions even while the patient is unconscious."
Tom would kill Harry if that was done to him – but not any more than he would already kill Harry for drugging him in the first place. Needs must, and all that.
"And this is not something a house elf can manage?" Harry double-checked. If he could rely upon Chatter in this, that would make his life so much easier.
"In theory, but I do not recommend it, my Lord," Greengrass replied, edging toward the door, which gave Harry the hint that he was emoting with such force that she could physically feel the temperature of the room rising.
It was a funny thing – a powerful wizard's anger. Tom's froze the atmosphere, Harry's heated it. When the two got angry at one another, when they really pissed each other off and started fighting, they inevitably created an interior tornado. And Harry cursed himself for once again letting his thoughts wander to his and Tom's better times rather than keeping his attention on the Healer.
"A house elf that is not specifically trained as a nurse simply cannot deal with most of the complications that might arise, and as far as I know there is no such house elf in Britain," Apollonia added when she noticed that he was back in the present.
Good Death Eater, Harry mused unkindly, and cursed himself for it. "I can't do it," he said. "I would, but I am normally too busy with just my duties, and now I have to lead the whole Order for a while." Three days, he reminded himself.
"I'm sorry, my Lord," the woman said contritely. "I have an estate to manage, and a husband who is unwell. I have had to take a leave of absence from the hospital-"
"Give me a name, then," Harry cut her off. She was excused already, and he didn't have the time to listen to lengthy, pointless explanations.
"Cerys Dewhurst…" Apollonia hesitated and then added: "…or Derwick Porterfield. Healer Porterfield has a private practice, and for a hefty enough compensation may be willing to give all his attention to a single patient."
Harry understood her uncertainty. If this Porterfield was willing to take on Tom, there was still no guarantee that he wouldn't harm him – no Hippocratic Oath and no amount of direct supervision would prevent him from doing something underhanded if he was determined.
With great effort, Harry tore his eyes away from Tom's pale, motionless, emaciated face. If he concentrated, he could feel the slightest drain on his magic – Tom sucking through the bond what he needed to sustain himself. Harry would have resolved to cut down on his magical output, except that he basically had none today, anyway. The New Order seemed to consist of management, administration and politics.
"…alright," Harry said eventually. With a wave of his wand he produced parchment and quill, and passed them to the witch. "Write down the names and addresses for me, please. I will contact you if I need you, but I understand you simply do not have the time."
"Thank you, my Lord. You are very kind," Greengrass replied, leaning down to Tom's bedside to use its flat surface. She jotted down two addresses and presented the parchment to Harry.
Harry didn't think he was being especially kind. The stupidest thing one could do was alienate those on whom he depended – the cooks, the servants, the doctors. He had no intention whatsoever to risk being given the wrong potion one day. Apollonia was a good, diligent supporter, skilled and undemanding, and Harry had every intention of rewarding her work one of these days.
"Do you need help with the management of your estate?" he inquired.
The witch stared at him in surprise for a moment, and then shook her head. "No, I do not. I have more than enough experience, and there is not that much to manage – a few investments and a position in the municipal corporation of the London magical district. It is my husband's health which demands most of my time."
Harry nodded and glanced at the bed and the chalk-white figure swathed in pale green covers. "I sympathise."
Apollonia's lips quirked in an understanding smile. "I wish you good luck, my Lord. I you'll excuse me…"
"Of course." She knew the way to the Apparition room, and Harry didn't especially feel like playing the diligent host.
He picked up Tom's limp hand, pressed a kiss to its back, and arranged it on the bed again.
"Dock," he spoke once Greengrass was gone, "let me know immediately if he needs anything or if his state changes."
"Dock will, Master Lord Harry!" the house elf replied promptly.
Harry strode out of the Green Suite as fast as he could. Once in the corridor, he could breathe more easily. The very air around his unconscious husband seemed to stick in his throat and choke him. It made him want to vomit.
"My Lord!" Manon Avery caught up to him, and Harry was once again swept into the carousel of things happening.
He read through several proposals of new laws that were about to go through the Wizengamot, and pointed out which they – as a political party – wanted to pass, and which they wanted thrown out. The lists were sent out to allied holders of Wizengamot seats.
The logistics of hosting a goblin ambassador needed to be considered, but Harry decided that could wait a week. Still, he asked Manon to find a person that could organise it and introduce them to Harry as soon as possible.
Augustus Rookwood came in with the information that the Daily Prophet had discontinued any anti-Ministry propaganda and had replaced it with pro-Ministry campaign, although no obvious smears about the New Order had been published as of yet.
Harry sent Theodore Nott the Second to find out if pressure was being put on the Quibbler to make the same happen.
By lunch-time, Harry was tired, stressed, frustrated, and the mere thought of food turned his stomach. He almost asked Chatter for a Nutrient Potion, but the memory of Tom's face, corpse-like and rigid in forced sleep, made him request another sandwich. Chatter brought him a bowl of chicken soup and gave him a defiant, if somewhat scared, stare.
Harry dismissed her and ate the soup. It lay warm and heavy in his stomach, and sloshed around with his every move.
"My Lord!" the elder Nott barged into the dining room. "Bad news!" He halted, pressing his palm to a stitch in his side and trying to catch his breath.
Harry closed his eyes. It took all his dignity to not groan or bash his head against the table. What now?
"The Lovegoods are being threatened," Nott pressed out. "Nothing overt, especially nothing admissible in court, but the message is clear enough." He pulled a folded parchment out of some mysterious inner fold of his robe and presented it to Harry, who took it and skimmed the lines of neat script.
It was a letter addressed to Xenophilius Lovegood. It vaguely alluded to his daughter and wished him many successes in wisely-chosen future endeavours.
Harry's head hurt, and he strongly suspected that he was close to tearing up. Not in front of his followers, though.
"Have Xenophilius and the Quibbler relocated to a safe place – if you have none available, use a Black property. Whichever Black property. Alert…" Harry stopped himself. No, this wouldn't work. "Find out if any of our people have children in Ravenclaw in the sixth or seventh year. If they do, I want them to keep an eye on Luna Lovegood. I will alert McGonagall myself."
Nott muttered something that could be interpreted as acknowledgement of his orders, and left at a much more sedate pace than he had come in – although the only reason why he would have run through his own Manor instead of Apparating to Harry would be that he feared Harry's potential retribution if he were startled.
On the way to the Private Study, Harry encountered Lucius Malfoy with his partially familiar entourage consisting of four men, of whom one was undoubtedly a Yaxley, and one probably a Rosier. None of them had been a Death Eater. They were all decked out in formal and fashionable robes – and they chattered like Hufflepuff first years after a Herbology lesson.
Lucius raised his hand the moment he noticed Harry, and the four fell into an uneasy silence, followed by belated attempts to bow without breaking ranks of their little group.
Harry could tell by Lucius' expression that he, too, had news.
"The Wizengamot is taking an hour-long recess for refreshment, my Lord," Malfoy explained. And he had brought the following, Harry mentally filled in, to show off and cement a position of power among them when they saw how close to the leadership of the New Order he was, while at the same time he was recruiting. "I have seen to it that your instructions were passed onto their recipients."
Harry nodded. That was a good job, but it was a usual, everyday job for Malfoy, and he couldn't honestly be expecting praise for this, right? Most certainly not in the middle of a crisis – office politics at the Ministry be damned.
Lucius nodded back and seemed to brace himself. "There is an initiative left behind by our former Minister that has been working towards pushing all political parties that do not have Ministry approval into illegality."
"Sounds like Umbridge," Harry agreed, except that Umbridge was dead. And Fudge, whose instrument she had claimed to be, was also dead. And the power behind Fudge had been Lucius Malfoy himself, hadn't he? "Someone is using your own methods against us?"
Lucius sneered. "It was a good plan, and its failure was caused by incompetents!" the man complained.
Harry's hand twitched toward his wand. If Malfoy wouldn't tone down the haughtiness, he might be seen cursed by his Lord rather than praised – and what would his peers think then?
"Nevertheless, my Lord," Lucius quickly continued, emphasising the address, which from him was practically begging for lenience, since he was well-acquainted with all the signs of danger and unwilling to risk Harry's open displeasure. "The legislation has been introduced mere two hours ago. Ordinarily it would take at least a month to gain approval from a committee. In these, if I may quote, 'troubled political times,' Mr McLaggen demanded that his proposal be reviewed in a special evening meeting tomorrow."
Harry wasn't that familiar with the inner workings of the wizarding world's so-called legistative body, but this smelled fishy even to him.
"In one day?" he asked incredulously.
Malfoy solemnly nodded. "The violation of procedure has been pointed out-" he smirked under the glances of his fellows, who practically confirmed Lucius to be the protester, "-but Midgen put it to a vote, and the combined force of Dumbledore's, Fudge's and Scrimgeour's camps overruled us." Then, reluctantly, but with admirable self-preservation, he said: "I apologise, my Lord."
Harry nodded. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention." He wanted to kill something – preferably McLaggen. Or Midgen. Or even Scrimgeour would do. Had Harry honestly thought this morning that Scrimgeour could be helpful? "I assume that today's failure to stall the bill means tomorrow the vote will end the same way."
"Unless there is a significant shift of power in the meantime…" Lucius admitted, leaving the statement open-ended. Apparently, he had faith in his leaders.
Which was, in theory, great, but in practice it meant that Harry had to solve this.
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. He was ready to start screaming or crying or just attack the Ministry head on. Tom would never forgive him. But, damn it! He needed Tom for this! This was Tom's job – strategising at the drop of a hat, navigating the politics safely, being creative enough to come out on top…
Harry's only idea was to resort to a repeat of the attack on Azkaban.
"When will today's session end?" he asked.
"Officially at five o'clock, my Lord," Malfoy informed him. "Should there be an unforeseen emergency-" which there would not be, they communicated through simple eye-contact, "-it may drag on until half past six."
"Chatter!" Harry called out. Thank Merlin for this elf. "I'm calling a meeting of the Inner Circle, tonight, seven o'clock, the Victorian Salon. Inform everyone."
"At once, Master Lord Harry," Chatter's voice replied. There was a slight waft of air, and she was on her way.
"Anything else to report?" Harry asked the men, trying to mask his wariness.
The ones in the back shrank under his stare and hastily shook their heads. The wizard at Lucius' left shoulder, a tall, dark-eyed but otherwise unremarkable noble, stepped forwards instead. "My name is Folant Dewhurst, sir."
Harry blinked. That was… very fast. Somewhat improbably fast.
"Apollonia sent me an urgent owl," he continued. "She and my daughter in law are extended family, friends and colleagues."
"Cerys Dewhurst?" Harry guessed. His eyes momentarily strayed to Malfoy, who affected a slight bow. It paid to have a follower that knew everyone who was anyone. Good damn job, Malfoy, Harry mused, marginally inclining his head, before he turned back to his newest acquaintance, who was speaking again.
"Please, excuse my audacity, but I wished to see the wizard she would be working for before I appraised her of the… offer." Not 'order,' not 'request' – 'offer.' It bordered on sarcasm.
Harry's fingers flexed, yearning for his wand, but he understood very well what this wizard was telling him. It was brave of him – to the point of folly – but Harry was familiar with the Gryffindor way of thinking, and he also wanted the Healer. Both he and Folant Dewhurst were aware of the fact that it was Harry who needed something, and while he probably could have achieved it through violence and extortion, it wouldn't have helped anything.
"Have you assuaged your doubts?" Harry inquired, sliding back into the position of power with ease. This was nothing on Slug Club meetings or Tom's private get-togethers in their seventh year at Hogwarts.
"I shall entrust my daughter in law into your hospitality," the wizard replied. It could have been a threat, except that everyone present knew too damn well that it wasn't. Dewhurst was brave, but not a moron.
"Now if you will excuse me," Harry said in a clear dismissal, "I am beginning to understand why a single Dark Lord never could have taken over the government. Lucius, I will see you at seven."
"My Lord," Malfoy intoned, echoed by his entourage's mumbling.
Harry watched them go, striving to remember where he had been headed before they had intercepted him. Ah, yes. The Private Study. To talk to McGonagall. About Luna Lovegood.
He turned, stepped forward and stumbled. He caught himself, of course – with the minor help of the wall – but the mere fact that he couldn't even walk straight heightened his frustration to the point that he was ready to try the Transmogrifian Torture on the next person to address him.
The trek to the Private Study was short, and Harry found the room blissfully empty. He pilfered a Pepper-Up from Tom's locked drawer, and with a fistful of Floo powder sank to his knees in front of the fireplace. For a while he simply sat of his haunches, head thrown back and eyes closed, trying to regain some sort of internal equilibrium. The Pepper-Up kicked in, and he felt a little like he might survive at least until the Inner Circle meeting.
He threw the Floo powder into the fire. "Hogwarts, Head's Office!"
Sticking his head into the green flames, Harry stifled a chuckle. He was a Dark Lord, on his knees, neck-deep in a fire-place. There was something to be said for an utter lack of dignity. Sometimes it brought things into perspective.
"Headmistress!" he called out.
McGonagall practically shot out from behind her sprawling desk, and hurriedly crouched in front of her hearth so that she could talk to him on level. Her palms were pressed to the carpet, but even so Harry could see that her hands were trembling.
Guilty conscience, perhaps? Had Harry almost-caught her doing something nefarious? Any other day he would try and find out what was going on, but right now he had other business to discuss.
"Mr Po- Mr Riddle," McGonagall corrected herself. Apparently, in her head she still equated him with Harry Potter the Gryffindor student. Which was good for him. "Is there a problem?"
Harry followed her example and cut through the pleasantries and the small talk to the matter at hand: "It has been brought to my attention that persons with close ties in the Ministry have been threatening the Lovegood family."
"I see." The witch nodded. She raised one of her hands from the floor and fisted it in the folds of her green robe. There was a scowl on her face, one that Harry recalled from his childhood – she wore this expression when her students were threatened. "I will make sure that Miss Lovegood remains safe," she assured Harry.
He believed her. Whoever was mad enough to try and challenge her would be glad to be left to slink back to the Ministry with their tail between their legs.
"Thank you," he said.
McGonagall shook her head, refusing the gratitude for something she felt was her duty. Her eyes returned to Harry's face. "If you forgive me, Mr Riddle, you do not look well."
You don't say? Harry mused. Outwardly, he gave the witch a brittle smile. "It has been an extremely long week."
"And it is far from over," she added.
"Yes," Harry agreed.
They sighed in unison.
Ironically, this was the most pleasant meeting today for Harry. He wished he could prolong it, but nevertheless he forced himself to say: "I won't keep you."
"I will see you soon," McGonagall replied, and then smirked. "I can't describe how glad I am to see you have not changed fundamentally."
Harry shrugged, although she couldn't see it through the fire. "I am who I am, Headmistress. Who I was made into by those who sought to shape me."
The name 'Dumbledore' hung in the air between them.
"Look after yourself, Mr Riddle," the witch implored as Harry pulled his head back into the Nott Manor. He honestly hated Floo-calling.
"Tergeo," he muttered, getting rid of the soot on his doublet. "Tempus."
It was past two. Harry's common sense didn't let him believe that he would manage to stay awake until seven and then actively participate in the planning of their sabotage of Wizengamot. There was self-confidence, and then there was wishful thinking.
He would get a few hours of sleep. If any major catastrophe would happen in the meantime, Chatter would come and get him.
There was a serviceable sofa in the living room of the Green Suite.
Just as Harry climbed to his feet, someone perfunctorily knocked on the door and let themselves in without waiting to be admitted. A young man stepped in, carrying an armful of scrolls, which he deposited onto Tom's table, without even noticing Harry's presence.
"Pucey," Harry stated, surprised by how low his voice sank.
The wizard spun on his heel and, finally having noticed that he wasn't alone in the office, scrambled to bow. "I was… delivering some documents, my Lord. Lord Mulciber sent me-"
"Where is Theodore?" Harry inquired, unhappy to see this young man, who had never been a Death Eater, and definitely was not someone Harry trusted, traipse through the office unsupervised. These deliveries were usually made by the youngest Nott.
"He's moving the printing office…?" Pucey guessed.
Harry was briefly surprised, before he came to the conclusion that the young man was talking about Theodore the Second. "I meant his son."
"The brat?" Pucey sneered. "Runcorn sent him outside to play."
A second later he was convulsing on the floor and screaming, bathed in a green and gold stream of light from Harry's wand. Tendiripi, Harry realised in hindsight. The Ligament-rending Curse. Somehow he had cast it without even being aware of it.
Slowly, he let the stream of magic fade. Pucey remained curled up at Harry's feet, twitching and spitting out bits of vomit.
Harry Levitated him into the corridor, Locked the door behind him with several intimidating spells and hexed it for a good measure. He went away feeling a little lighter.
x
Proximity wards woke Harry after dark. He sat up on the sofa, found his glasses, lit up the candles with a lazy wave of his hand and opened the door with nary a gesture.
"My Lord?" a soft voice asked; the shadowed figure of Theodore the younger paused at the threshold, wary of entering the lair of the beast without express permission.
"Come in, Theo," Harry told him. "Tempus."
He still had half an hour before his alarm would have roused him, which meant that the meeting he had called would start in three quarters of an hour.
"Have you had a chance to rest?" the boy inquired, apprehensively looking at the heap of parchments on the desk under the window. To Harry's shock, he was followed into the room by an owl, which came to rest on Harry's shoulder and bit his ear.
"Hedwig?" Harry said quietly, and was awarded another nip. He had to smile.
"Rabastan told me to bring her when he found out I was coming here," the youngest Nott explained, glancing at Hedwig. "She is a majestic bird."
"Sit," Harry ordered the boy, who looked like he might object, but eventually sank into the armchair opposite Harry. A house elf, unbidden, provided them with tea and sandwiches, and Harry had to smile again. Mother hens. But he was lucky to have them.
"I apologise for disturbing you, my Lord," Theo spoke. "I should have waited until it was closer to seven." He poured tea for both of them and handed Harry his cup, so that Hedwig's perch wouldn't have to be disturbed.
"I have had good four hours of sleep," Harry assured him. "I am well." He was also glad that, despite the disrespect toward Theodore Nott the Third (probably based on his age) suggested by Pucey's and Runcorn's conduct, the boy was aware of the meeting.
Harry, then and there, resolved to Mark the boy to prevent any such occurrences in the future.
"Healer Dewhurst will be available after half past eight," Theodore said. "The Quibbler has been successfully relocated. Mr Lovegood…" The boy rubbed his temples and tried again: "According to those present at the site, Mr Lovegood activated an obscure enchantment on his domicile and flew it to its present location, which is within sight of the new printing office."
Having once been acquainted with Luna, Harry decided that this amounted to normal Lovegood behaviour, and resolved to not think on it further.
In the undemanding, comfortable company, food didn't appear unpalatable anymore. Theodore continued his highly abridged report while Harry ate a sandwich and tried his best to follow the news and nod at the correct times. Aside from the Ministry being underhanded and belligerent, things were going smoothly.
Hedwig clacked her beak and Harry absently scratched her head, ruffling and then smoothing her feathers. She took flight, and Harry opened the window for her; it had been nice to have her with him for a while, but he had promised himself he would never again see her caged. They had been imprisoned at the Dursleys together, and they would enjoy their hard-won freedom together.
"Go ahead, Theodore. I'll follow in a little while," Harry said, standing in front of the window and gazing at the star-speckled sky. It was to be a clear, cold night. He needed to be like that tonight: clear-minded and cold.
"Yes, my Lord," the boy obediently replied, and let himself out of the Green Suite.
Harry went to the bedroom and in the light of a Lumos surveyed Tom. There was no apparent change, and the house elf standing in the deepest shadows in the corner was doing its duty diligently. Reminded of his exasperation with his husband, Harry went straight to the Victorian Salon.
It wasn't quite seven yet, but when Harry entered the chamber, everyone was already gathered there, waiting for him. Both Notts, all three Lestranges, Manon and Aurelius Avery, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Augustus Rookwood, Vulcan Mulciber, Alastor Moody, Nomiki Meadows and Apollonia Greengrass were seated in a semi-circle; there was an armchair at its center waiting for Harry.
Usually there would have been a settee, for himself and Tom.
Usually, Antonin would be there, a stalwart, reliable sentinel.
Usually, Harry wouldn't be practically vibrating with bloodlust.
"Lucius, a brief and concise report," Harry ordered, swallowing the 'please' he was about to tack on. He sat down, crossed his legs in a gesture horribly reminiscent of Tom, laced his fingers, rested them on his knee, and inclined his head to the side.
There were some muffled gasps and a cut-off curse – obviously he had startled those followers who thought they had him figured out and had mostly slid into the complacency of regarding him as Tom's shadow. Tybalt, Aurelius, Vulcan and Augustus straightened in their seats. Narcissa's eyes widened.
Theodore the Third lowered his head and hid a smile behind his hand.
While Lucius presented the situation to the gathered group, Harry brainstormed. He scrapped any assassination plans. He decided not to create a minor catastrophe that would tie up the Ministry elsewhere. Propaganda would not be fast enough. He didn't have the basis for a coup d'état in this instance.
The Wizengamot did have a quorum, but less than half of it was filled with wizards and witches loyal to Tom and Harry. The rest would suffice to pass laws. Those were mostly conservatives, idealists, sycophants, noveau riche, and the kind of opportunists that thought to take advantage of the recent upheavals and cheat their way to the top.
"…to implement this measure before six o'clock tomorrow, when the meeting in question will begin," Lucius finished.
"How are they even doing this without a Minister?" Harry asked. He had expected that Scrimgeour's absence would halt the legislative process, if not freeze it completely until there was a new Minister.
"On the authority of the Chief Walrock, of course," Rookwood informed him.
"McKinnon is an idiot!" Moody opined, almost like he was reading Harry's mind.
"An idiot owned by our enemies," Aurelius pointed out.
"Has my Lord husband mentioned any reason for this idiot to stay in the office?" Harry asked, invigorated now that they have identified an obvious chink in their opposition's armour. Get rid of their puppet Chief Warlock and there would be no one to back their demands to be exempt from procedure.
There was silence. Harry could assume Tom had no plans for McKinnon. Thank Merlin for small mercies.
"Then we'll get rid of him," Harry stated. "Anything we have on him – from child abuse to illegal potions trafficking, anything. We're not pulling our punches right now. I want him sunk on his own merit. No assassination, no unfortunate accident – I want him exposed. Anyone?"
His sudden intensity didn't startle his followers as badly as it had before, but there was still uneasy shuffling and exchanged glances.
"It will be done, my Lord," Aurelius promised. He didn't explain more, but Harry knew enough of the practices of the pureblood supremacist families to infer that the Averys had a cache of blackmail material for every purpose, and Aurelius was going to sacrifice some of it for the sake of the New Order.
"I shall call for a vote of no confidence in the morning," followed up Lucius, who had likely figured out even more of the details than Harry had – being a pureblood supremacist himself.
"Good," Harry approved, mentally going through his list of prominent allies, because leaving a power vacuum would mean they would be facing this situation again in a week. "Try to push in Portia Prewett. She's not ours, but she's not against us, either, and right now she's one of the few with a glimmer of a real chance to be voted in. Unless I'm mistaken?"
Malfoy mournfully shook his head. "My allegiance to you is too well known, my Lord."
Oh, martyr yourself, why don't you? Harry bit down a grimace. So, presumably, did Narcissa.
"Amos Diggory, perhaps, my Lord," Meadows suggested.
"No," Mulciber shot her down. "Diggory is a few bristles short of a broom, and everyone knows it."
"Longbottom?" Moody asked.
This time the others took a while to consider it.
"Very, very volatile," Tybalt summed up. "But feasible, should Prewett not work out."
"Augusta won't go for it," Aurelius objected. "She would be good in that position, but she dislikes the society, and I would not bare my neck to her in trying to manipulate her."
"A temporary solution will be sufficient right now," said Nott the elder, implying that they could just as easily topple another Chief Warlock anytime they needed. It was not exactly true, and it was the sort of defeatist thinking Tom would not have tolerated in his presence.
As it was, Harry was tempted to hurt the man just to exorcise some tension. He refrained.
"How long do we need to stall, my Lord?" Mulciber inquired.
"Until the New Year," Harry replied with optimism he didn't feel. Still, he obviously managed to convey enough authority to convince the core of the New Order that he knew what he was talking about, and that there was a plan in the works.
Yes, well… Harry's plan was to get Tom back on his feet and have him solve this mess. Simple and practical.