(AN: I fuckin' left Bed Sheet at that one manor, but let's collectively pretend I didn't do that (Sobbing). Blame the sluts. I am. It means we get this scene, so I could have just said nothing, and you would have been none the wiser. But seriously, I'm running on 25k words in my notes folder. If you're sitting there like, 'Wtf happened to 'Plotline?'' Please let me know I might have unremembered. Thank you to those who pointed out that I left his sheet ass there; much appreciate. Oh uh also, while we're (I'm) admitting to sloppy mistakes, 'technically', the attacks on the Beaufort and Perrot estates happened Sunday night, not Monday night; that one's on me. For reference, this is Tuesday the 4th of Nov.)
Fragile Tension, Depache Mode
There's a fragile tension
That's keeping us going
It may not last forever
But oh, when it's flowing
There's something magical in the air
Something so tragic we have to care
There's a strange obsession
That's drawing us nearer
We don't understand it
It never gets clearer
There's something mystical in our genes
So simplistic; it kicks and screams
The instant they reappeared in the Ministry of Magic—in the office where they'd last seen the Unspeakable—Harry realised why he felt oddly exposed.
It wasn't because he'd fucked the Dark Lord in a stranger's house.
"Er," he said, watching Voldemort's shoulders draw together, "We left Bed Sheet."
The Dark Lord turned to face him, blinking under the mask.
"Technically your fault, before you say anything," Harry said when he didn't say anything. When he hadn't said anything for an awkward amount of time, he continued, "…We can't leave him there; he'll eat whoever lives there. And he'd be sad." He threw the last part in because he knew Voldemort would flinch.
"It is a Lethifold it will not be sad." He snatched Harry's arm and Disapparated anyway.
Despite what the Dark Lord said about Bed Sheet not being sad, the way he was yowling at the door of the manor—like a cat trapped in a mine shaft, high pitched and echoing, haunted, also like a cat trapped in a mine shaft—said differently. When the Lethifold noticed them, he was on Harry instantly, low to the ground as he shot across the distance. His mouth was open, thread-like tentacles and sawblade teeth a mild concern as the Lethifold draped over his shoulders.
He was making angry noises, so Harry apologised, much to the Dark Lord's distaste.
"You leave Nagini all over the plac-" He was Disapparated before he finished his sentence.
"Bathe," Voldemort said once they returned to the office, gesturing at the bathroom.
Harry didn't have burn salve or any of the things Tom had put in his bathwater, so he stood hesitating with squinted eyes, debating whether or not he'd die if he suggested another detour. "I don't have-"
"Everything you need you will find in the cupboard. Go."
"Oh." He didn't dwell on his words while in the room with the Dark Lord; instead, he dwelled on them in the bathroom—a change of robes hung on the back of the door that he was claiming regardless of who they were meant for.
He went straight for the cupboard in question, and, as he'd been told, everything he needed was inside. Burn salve, the vanilla-esque potion, and several others that Harry was too awkward to ask about. Things he didn't strictly need, as well. Products for his hair, skin, and the oud scent Tom had picked were all stocked within it, kept away from another set of products that Harry couldn't resist snooping through. He unstoppered the bottle he correctly guessed was the cedar scent and inhaled it while kneeling on the tiled floor, for long enough to feel weird about it and put it back.
The stinging of every inch of his skin called him to the shower-bathtub combo while he tried to scrutinise how he felt about the pre-stocked cupboard.
'Do you have a thing about being naked?' Harry wondered as he watched the tub fill, shrugging off a still grumpy Bed Sheet.
Normally, he'd leave the Lethifold outside the room while he bathed, but in that instance, he figured it wasn't ideal.
'…What?' Tom thought.
'A thing about being naked?' He repeated, then when he realised he'd thought the same thing twice, 'He won't… Take his shirt off?' He went beet-red as he thought it and questioned his own line of questioning.
'Oh. No? I believe he has a scar. A mark. Like yours.'
Harry's hand froze in the water.
'It is something I have been meaning to broach with your Horcrux, but…'
'Yeah, he's a psycho. You really think it's like mine?' He touched his forehead while he wondered.
Tom threw off his robe and unbuttoned his shirt—wand in hand—collected the potions and poured them one by one into the bath, 'Yes.'
The curtness of his tone gave Harry pause, and he bit both lips as he wondered, 'Are you okay?'
'I am as 'Okay' as I could possibly be.'
'So not really okay at all?'
Tom was smoothing burn salve on his skin with magic and glaring at the bathtub. 'We're doing what it takes.'
Harry felt something not unlike nausea as he debated how, if at all, to correct Tom's obvious discomfort. He was still gnawing on the thought when his wounds were healed; as he lowered himself into the tub and turned off the taps, Tom thought:
'Let me relieve you. I am not upset with you. I… Manipulated you into this. I can't be mad at you for succeeding.' He sighed with Harry's mouth, gritted his teeth, 'This would be simpler if your Horcrux had never found- without the extra weight.' He sighed repeatedly, staring at the ceiling as he sank into the water, 'I am jealous. That much is obvious. The end goal is as seductive as it is repulsive. And I can scarcely explain any of this to you,' he laughed, startled Harry with how loud the sound had come out in the tiny bathroom; sure the Dark Lord would have heard the strangled, deranged noise.
'I'm stable,' Tom thought.
'…Okay?' Harry thought, not thinking out loud that he didn't sound stable.
When he'd finished—his dirty clothes cleaned with magic and shrunk to fit in the pocket of the new set that fit like a glove—Narcissa's name all over them, formal enough for the Ministry, as showy as almost every other set—he found the Dark Lord at his desk, still obscured, and Harry wondered if they'd have company.
"Three people are keyed into the wards on this room. If one should happen upon you," Voldemort said, standing, "Do not speak to them. Understood?"
"Stare at them like a creepy doll?" Harry said.
The Dark Lord didn't answer and pushed past into the bathroom. It dawned on him that he'd been allowed to use it first, and he frowned all the way to the desk. He sat in Voldemort's chair and tried to open the drawers, unsuccessfully—stuck fast by spellwork.
"…Kreacher," Harry said—hoping the elf could pop into the office—once it was clear he wasn't getting any drawers open without being uncomfortably overt.
The elf appeared, bowing low, "Master Harry, what can Kreacher do?"
"Breakfast? Something greasy, I need bacon. Eggs. Probably toast." He noticed he was melting into the desk, propped up on his elbows, arms sliding apart under the weight of his heavy head.
The elf was gone and back and gone again in what felt like an eternal blink. A reliable feast was summoned on the desktop a few minutes before the Dark Lord was finished.
He exited the bathroom masked, so Harry said, "You'll have to take that off. There's bread."
"Get out of my chair."
"Oh, yeah." He'd forgotten he was in it, brain fogged and bewildered by the previous twenty-four hours. He swapped seats, and Voldemort took his, though he didn't take off the mask. "You need to eat. And take one of the potions that stops you from dissolving into nothing," Harry had bacon in his mouth when he said it, and he was almost shocked to watch him remove the mask and hood.
His breath caught in his throat, and he nearly inhaled bacon at the sight of the mark he'd left on the Dark Lord's neck, a blue bruise well-formed under a set of punctures, still there despite the ample opportunity to heal it. His hair was immaculate, his skin slightly too pale, cheeks sunken—light rings under his eyes. Still breathtaking. Clean and well-presented but not healed. It was for his own sanity that he steadfastly ignored his erection.
"The attacks seemed goading," Tom said in Parseltongue when Voldemort picked up a piece of toast and placed an unstoppered potion on the desk. "A threat, a warning. They wanted you to watch and see the Obscurial."
"It has crossed my mind. The Beaufort and Perrot estates hold nothing of value to me or my cause."
"Apart from your followers," Harry muttered, fixed on watching the Dark Lord's mouth move as he spoke.
"You believe Aberforth found a way to keep his son alive?" Tom asked.
"As unlikely as a wizard reaching adulthood while carrying an Obscurus." He uncorked the potion and drank it, then cut into a sausage with a knife and fork while Harry held one between his forefinger and thumb—biting into it like a barbarian, judging by Voldemort's face.
"…I'm tired, are we gonna be here long?" He wondered.
"And yet you suspect this to be the case?" Tom continued.
"How many Obscurials could Aberforth have access to?" Voldemort said, "Grown?"
"Why aren't you gonna tell Nagini?" Harry asked.
Tom answered, "He is the enemy. If he is who we think he is-"
"She does not find out. Understand?"
"I think she might have guessed?" Harry said, remembering her under the table when they discussed the attacks at Malfoy Manor.
"Assuming and knowing are different things."
"Are you going to lie to her?" Tom asked.
"If needs be."
To his surprise, Tom agreed with Voldemort, nodding curtly while Harry made a sandwich with bacon and egg. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said.
"I did not ask you."
Harry didn't argue because the Dark Lord had eaten more than usual, but he filed the disagreement away.
After they'd finished breakfast they left the office, Voldemort re-concealed. He would have liked some warning about a Ministry walk-through, alarmed to watch the elevator doors open to the central atrium, wizards and witches bustling around the room where he'd cursed Bellatrix and woken Tom up.
It seemed a shock to them as well, which Harry supposed was a consolation prize; there wasn't a swarming crowd already lying in wait. Somewhere less than one hundred people buzzed around; a small but expanding portion paused to watch the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived pass.
Crux chose then to pepper Harry's head for entry. 'Good morning. Busy, aren't you? Reckon he'll fuck you three times before you even sleep? How's your fuckhole, princess?' He didn't wait for Harry to answer, not that he hadn't intended to, 'I've been wondering, did squeezing Bellatrix like a tube of toothpaste make you feel better? Revenge? Revenge murder?'
He frowned and focused on walking, partway through the atrium with no knowledge of his destination.
'Don't be scared, I'm curious for totally calm and normal reasons,' Crux thought, 'Dream tonight.'
'Come on, really?' Harry thought. He noticed a few cameras were flashing in their direction.
'Answer the question.'
'Uh… Which question?'
The space was made irritatingly wider by the speed with which the growing crowd got out of their way—achingly slowly.
'About brutalising Bellatrix, stupid, I don't really care about your fuckhole.'
'I don't know, sort of?'
'Okay. Great. My room,' Crux thought.
'What?'
'My room. The dream. It'll be in my room. I'll give you the details in private, sweetheart.' He directed the last part at Tom, absent the entire discussion, still absent when spoken to.
'…Your room, as in…? Godric's Hollow? No. I'm tired. I want sleep. Like actual rest?' Harry thought.
'I'm gonna remind you, you couldn't have done this without me. And all the blackmail stuff I said, I still mean that I will blow your asses up. I'll tell him everything right now in this atrium in front of these nice, unsuspecting people. Watch Morty turn around and pull your guts out on the cover of the Daily Prophet. Would they put that kind of gore to print, do you reckon?'
Voldemort drew his wand—held at his side—and the people were quicker to get out of the way. Tom took Crux's threat as a cue to pull him away from Harry's awareness.
He followed the Dark Lord blessedly out of the bright, wide atrium into a narrow, darkened corridor. Paper memos zipped overhead, flickering on the reflective black tiles that lined the space, firelight like shimmering liquid on the glossed walls.
Harry was preoccupied with the idea of a dream held in Godric's Hollow, but it didn't stop him from staring a hole into Voldemort's back, eyes trailing down to watch his legs, partially hidden under half-length robes. He was walking so fast he was nearly jogging, and Harry wondered, not for the first time, what exactly kept the Dark Lord upright.
He himself was tired in a raw, irritated kind of way, his muscles fighting the speed with which he walked. "We're not seeing the Unspeakable, are we?" Harry asked in Parseltongue, scowling with clenched fists.
"Not today."
He'd been surprised to get an answer, absent as it was. Hard to catch as he kept a pace that was just slightly too fast for Harry's comfort.
They passed several offices, some of them wide open spaces jutting off the hallways, so now and then, they'd pass a room full of shocked Ministry employees, mouths agape as though two unicorns had strolled by. By then, Crux was gone, propelled wordlessly from his head as usual. Tom was silent, as was also becoming usual, something that Harry didn't know how to fix.
The dream was an urgent concern and something he didn't want to broach or think about.
"…How long are we going to be here?" Harry repeated, grimacing as he passed another group of unprepared witches and wizards.
He was almost relieved to stop outside Corban Yaxley's office—not too relieved, he didn't particularly like the man—as he stopped, he wondered why the Dark Lord hadn't called Yaxley to him with the Dark Mark and saved them a lot of fast, public walking.
"Why didn't you just call him to you?" He wondered.
Voldemort didn't wait for Corban to realise they were there, pushing into the office without announcing himself.
"…Did we walk through the Ministry for publicity?" Harry asked, persistent despite the silence and the silver-haired man at his mahogany desk with his eyebrow raised.
The Dark Lord forced Harry into a seat by his shoulder—made Bed Sheet hiss an ignored warning—his hand lingering for probably a beat too long, though he was probably overthinking it. Wide eyes flicked between Yaxley and Voldemort as the latter rounded to sit beside him.
"My Lord," Yaxley said, standing to bow and staying there like he didn't know what to do with himself.
"It is time to do away with Thicknesse and pretences," Voldemort said. "Your campaign is prepared."
Yaxley's face split with a toothy grin, eyes beady and glittering as he bowed again, "As you will it, my Lord."
"Did you just tell him to kill Thicknesse?" Harry asked, still fighting for a response in the serpent tongue.
He tried to keep his face neutral as he watched the Dark Lord, eyes firmly and finally pulled away from Corban. He knew his cheeks were red and hoped that it would be assumed it was because of the fireplace and not the way Voldemort's eyes alone could make his stomach jump like he was falling.
"Yes. Does that bother you?"
Harry swallowed, "No? Should it? Why, though?"
"Dumbledore's ill-begotten resistance has shown they are desperate enough to kill. And so they are surely ready for the war to come to them. Thicknesse was a moderate insert used to 'Delicately' endorse my cause. Yaxley bears my mark and will send a clear message as the new Minister."
His face had gotten redder, and he didn't think he could blame the still heat of the room anymore. He could feel himself licking his lips and shifting in his seat but couldn't stop. 'What the hell is wrong with me,' he thought, crossing his legs to hide the boner.
"What kind of message?" He asked, just to keep him talking.
The Dark Lord didn't take his gaze off Harry either, intense enough without seeing his expression. If Corban was still in the room it was news to him.
"You are licking your lips," Voldemort said, as though Harry didn't know.
He did it again as he'd said it, bit his lips to stop, heart skipping beats. "I know. How long are we gonna be here?"
"Obliviate."
Harry hadn't noticed the Dark Lord was holding his wand, "Am I being that obvious?" He asked, watching the silver thread beam from Yaxley's head into the Elder wand, more interested in Voldemort's hands.
"He noticed. Control yourself." His voice was husky, betrayed the command almost as much as the serpent tongue did.
Harry fixed his eyes on the burgundy carpet with colossal effort, frowning through the pull he felt to blatantly stare at him.
Yaxley was reset, the Parseltongue discussion and starved staring—Harry assumed—deleted from his head.
"An intensified Auror focus on apprehending Order members and those that associate with Ironwood," the Dark Lord said.
"As you say," Corban bowed a third time, bobbing into his peripheral vision.
"…Can we go now?" Harry asked, still red in the face, too tired to get a grip.
Voldemort stood, and he followed instantly, feeling like he was being physically dragged by the thread that bound them. He extended his arm and the Dark Lord took it, Disapparating.