Chapter Two:
Harry moved quietly through the street, gesturing for the two muggleborns to follow him.
In a Britain that was increasingly hostile towards their kind, despite how they were also held up as a necessity, more and more 'mudbloods' were looking for passage out of the country, to France, or anywhere else where they could slip past more unnoticed and less discriminated again.
He helped them with that, when he could.
Cries for help were established under the pretense of fan mail, and fan gatherings led to escape. It was perfect, elaborate, but perfect.
Albus Dumbledore was a very clever man.
Upon joining the order, Harry found himself moving quickly up the ranks, and whilst he couldn't claim himself the role of lieutenant, he was one of their top agents, he knew.
"Come on," he whispered, "we're almost there. Just into here."
He slipped into Hermione's area. Hermione travelled with him, seeing as society saw fit to put a clamp on her own ambitions. She was his lawyer, his best friend, and his partner in crime.
He knocked three times on the door, before ushering the two muggleborn girls in. Being female, in this regime, was infinitely worse when everything was prized on blood lines, and their continuation.
They exchanged a few quick words, hushed in secrecy, before he had to go back to his everyday life. He couldn't be missing from parties and the like for too long - not longer than anyone would assume he'd just spent some time kissing some girl, or whatever else.
"Hermione has set you up with some passports, and all the relevant information you will need. On arrival to Paris, look for the Tabby Cat curiosity shop, there you will find Madame McGonagall. She will help you into the next stages of your journey," Harry whispered. "Good luck."
He received a hug flung over his neck in return, a whispered thank you, and Hermione in turn a wide, tremulous and frightened smile, which she returned with comforting words as she led them down to the passageways in the cellar.
The door shut.
Harry hurried back to fame and frivolity.
He did not think about his dinner invite.
Tom couldn't help but feel frustrated as he looked around his dinner table, and, more specifically, the empty seat.
No, more than frustrated - he could feel a cold fury seeping through his skin, which darkened the room around him and had his guests staring at their food with a greater intent, unsure of why they felt so uneasy when to all visible eyes he was still smiling and acting perfectly pleasant.
Hadrian had neglected to turn up.
He had killed people for less. Did he really think just because he was some famous brat stuck on the walls of fourteen year old girls that he had any right to refuse his lord and master?
Of course, he'd already gathered that there was something different about Hadrian Black, as he was called, and it wasn't star quality either.
The boy was powerful. Incredibly powerful. He'd sensed it the second the child had swaggered his way on stage to his swooning audience.
Why would someone so powerful settle for being a singer?
He was supposedly a muggleborn, despite the name. He couldn't be. The lineage wouldn't be that powerful. And the boy reminded him of someone, though infuriatingly enough he couldn't think who.
He'd had Lucius look into the boy. Everything in his cover story certainly seemed to check out. Raised in a small village in Germany by his relatives, a Mr and Mrs Durnswell. Attended Hogwarts briefly, being homeschooled before the age of fifteen. Average student, nothing special. Fantastic flyer, average in everything else, poor in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions.
He should, by all merits, be some boy who fluked out with good looks and singing talent, and a smidgen of luck on top of that.
But he was powerful. It was the only jarring point. And he didn't even act powerful.
Was Hadrian even aware of it? He had to be. But either way, such things couldn't be left unchecked and he either had to securely recruit the boy, or find a way to subtly dispose of him if he proved to be trouble.
Like he was currently trouble.
The fact that the boy hadn't turned up, that he'd been audaciously defiant enough to refuse such an invitation when he'd made it so clear, was appalling and pointed.
He couldn't remember the last time anyone had done that to him - refused him anything! He would have been amused, perhaps respected the courage involved, if he wasn't so irritated by the whole affair.
It itched beneath his skin.
He much preferred getting his own way, and he always would in the end.
For now, he took another sip from his champagne flute, turned to give Bellatrix a smile and to talk to his other guests as he mingled.
And plotted.
When Harry received a second summons, he sincerely considered not going.
Unfortunately, people had seen him receive the letter - one of the man's lackeys had hand delivered it, with no care of being discreet either.
He couldn't refuse, not when paparazzi had such a dangerous habit of trying to stick to his heels. It would make him stand out too much, make him seem like too much of a rebel, and for the sake of his actual activities and the good he was doing, he couldn't afford to be seen as someone like that. He couldn't seem a threat.
Even if it meant having dinner with the man who'd murdered his parents.
Then again, Voldemort had probably killed a lot of people's parents, but that didn't quell his rage to want to stab the monster in the face.
Besides, maybe this was a good thing - it would allow him better room to infiltrate, sabotage, and deliver some actual blows to the man's atrocious regime.
It was good what he was doing, and he was glad to help, and stepping up his game could make that impossible if his cover was blown...but surely he had to take his chances were he could get them?
At the moment, he was treating the symptoms, surely it would be much better if he could treat the cause?
Lord Voldemort was notoriously difficult to kill, and a phenomenal duellist, but Harry felt he had the advantage of surprise. If he could get close enough, he could assassinate, or even just tear the whole smokescreen of a utopia down by the shreds and stomp on it.
The thought swelled in his chest.
Then Hermione would be free to be as brilliant as she could, the remaining Weasleys could return to the country, along with everyone else and this whole blotch and shadow would be cast aside.
They could start afresh, away from tyranny and oppression.
He sighed, gave a tight smile and replied that he would be there this time.
So that was why he was here now.
It was rumoured that the Dark Lord had many different bases throughout Britain, to make the possibility of someone sneaking in less. They could only ever get fragments, pieces.
Harry suspected he even had more than one home.
One that was actually home, and then the house that everybody knew about. It was an intimidating, if aesthetically pleasing sight, heavily warded. A veritable modern day fortress smack in the centre of London, as if the man wasn't repulsively arrogant enough in his dictatorship already.
Harry was shocked he hadn't taken over Buckingham bloody Palace, considering how much he hated muggles - but the royal family had been allowed to stay, trapped and puppeted straw figures as a mouthpiece to the rest of muggle society, just another shackle to clamp order on a society still teaming violent below the surface.
No, the Medwin Tower was steel and glass and obsidian. Everything hard and cold.
Hell, Harry would have happily renamed it the Tower of Sauron if he could.
He stepped in, suddenly feeling very small. Inside was just as elaborate as the outside, and it only emphasized to Harry that this was a place of public function. Though there was a certain spin of ruthless efficiency that fit the Dark Lord. It didn't seem very homely.
Maybe he was wrong. He didn't know. His feet clacked against the floor as he followed, looking around himself with involuntarily wide eyes.
It was bloody impressive. He hated to admit it, but it was. And everywhere there were signs of magic. Maybe that was the one thing he could say was good about Voldemort - he prized magic, and knew exactly what to do with it.
He was led into a large dining room and...there was just the Dark Lord there.
Harry's insides ran cold. This was dinner, right? Not execution. Maybe he'd be poisoned for his refusal. He'd expected more people.
His heart hammered in his chest, and he suddenly couldn't help thinking that as awful as a fully-fledged political dinner full of snooty purebloods was, being alone and the sole focus of the man's attention was even worse.
What the hell had he done?
He inclined his head, forced himself to bow, and give a smile.
"My lord, thank you for having me."
"Hadrian, how good that you could make it this time. Please, sit down."
A pale hand gestured at the table. Harry resisted the urge to swallow, sat down, accepted the wine that was poured for him by a servant.
"I prefer Harry."
Scarlet eyes watched him closely. He felt sick. Wondered how he was going to stomach anything. His hands were mercifully steady as he reached out, took a sip of his own drink. It didn't taste spiked, but that didn't mean anything.
"I prefer Hadrian," the Dark Lord replied, smoothly. "Far more noble. Less common."
They made an attempt at stiff small talk as the food was served, delicious and exquisitely looking little snacks presented on gleaming white plates.
Did the man eat like this all the time?
"I was surprised to receive your invitation, my lord," Harry said, after a while, glancing up to meet the red eyes still unnervingly fixed upon his person. Did he know? Surely he couldn't, or they wouldn't be having a conversation over dinner. He would be dead, or locked up somewhere and tortured.
"I was marginally surprised that you deigned to grace me with your presence this time," Voldemort said lightly. Harry wetted his lips.
"I did say I was busy."
"Hm. What was it that you were busy with, a...fan gathering, from what I managed to conclude? You're very dedicated to them."
"Well, they brought me where I am today," Harry said. "They're my living. I'd be stupid to turn away their support and take them for granted."
"Ah yes. Not often a national sensation isn't part of a large corporate image, especially these days."
"I prefer a personal touch. The fans mean a lot to me."
"So I noticed at your concert. I dare say a larger, state funded stadium would fit your needs better though," the man said, delicately. Harry's brow furrowed, just slightly.
"I suppose, my lord."
Voldemort gave him a smile, and Harry didn't believe for one second it was real, despite how there was nothing to indicate that.
"It is very pleasing for me to see such creativity come out of this new world. The first signs of fruition, I should think. I was very impressed."
Where was this going?
"Thank you, my lord. That means a lot. Coming from you."
"Does it?" the words were light, but there was something mocking about them, something knowing. Harry's fingers tightened around his wineglass.
"Of course," he said, as smoothly as he could, forcing another smile. "You're a man of very high regard and rumoured impeccable taste. I'm flattered by your approval."
"And surprised by it," Voldemort murmured, slipping another soft slice of meat in between his lips. "Doesn't the lines in one of your songs go like - 'the music is dead when it kills to be outspoken, your smile looks so perfect when the whole world is broken'?"
Harry felt a slight flush grow on the back of his neck, even as he could recognize the comment there. He wasn't always the most regime friendly lyricist, he couldn't actually bring himself to sing the songs of bloody praise.
"Everyone has that one 'fuck the government song', excuse my language, my lord. It doesn't mean anything." He gave a small, innocent laugh. "Teenage rebellion is a brand of its own that's always existed. You can't take it seriously. What, you think a bunch of teenagers are going to pick up the pitchforks over one line?"
His heart hammered wildly in his chest. Voldemort said nothing immediately.
"You are a curious case, Mr Black."
"I'm sorry?"
"Why is that you take on the guise of a foolish, immature party boy, when it is clear that you are in fact a very powerful and intelligent wizard?" Voldemort questioned.
Harry's insides lurched with unease.
"I'm not entirely sure I know what you're talking about. I mean, I'm not thick, but I hardly think I'm at your level or anything to be considered smart. I mean, I did alright at school, but-"
"Do you believe I am so egotistical that switching to flattery will divert my attention from the matter at hand?"
Harry's mouth felt dry.
"I'm not-"
"Answer the question. Why the pretense, and how long did you think it would go unnoticed?"
Harry sighed, wetted his lips, thought quickly.
"I'm a muggleborn, sir. Does the fact I am a powerful make any difference under your regime when your policies belie the existence of people like me?"
The man blinked at him, Harry set his cutlery down.
"I think I should go," he continued."Thank you for the meal. It was delicious. I won't impose on your time further."
He was at the door when that cool voice stopped him.
"Normally, Mr Black, when people take the guise of something weaker than themselves, it is because they are hiding something. What are you hiding, Hadrian?"
Harry glanced around, their gazes locked, and his chin jutted up a little.
"I don't like your regime, sir. I think you're a tyrant, and a bully, and that getting noticed by the most powerful wizard in the country cannot possibly mean anything good for me."
He turned and left. Voldemort watched him go, head tilting a little to one side.
He thought the boy wasn't entirely wrong about that.
A slow smile crossed his lips.
A/N: I am not a lyricist, so I apologize if my song snippet is absolutely awful and makes you cringe. I hope you enjoyed the chapter anyway. Reviews would be much appreciated :)