Chapter 5 – The Domestic Bliss of Planning Murder
Last time they'd spent the night together, Harry had woken when his Intended had already left the bed. Even though Voldemort had stood only a few feet away, the distance had felt far too cold and empty. It's thus with great happiness that he finds this is not the case today, the slow breath tickling his ear showing how deep the other is sleeping.
It's likely very early morning, for the stretch of sky visible through the large windows is streaked with rosy and golden clouds so typical for a perfect summer sunrise. A sight Harry normally deprives himself of, much preferring to darken the windows during the night to sleep in whenever possible. During most of his current life, he'd spent the nights sneaking out to go Horcrux-hunting or stalk supporters of Voldemort in Knockturn and upon returning home had wanted to catch as much sleep as his godfathers would allow, so there was hardly a use in making a habit of getting up with the sun. Meticulously drawing the heavy curtains was a must for that, as Harry had trained himself for too many years during the war that physically seeing the light of dawn meant work: checking in with everyone, breaking up the tent, erasing all traces of having camped there before finding a new spot...
It looks like Voldemort doesn't use either the sunlight or the starting chorus of chirping sparrows as an alarm clock, fast asleep as he is. Carefully freeing one arm from the tight hug, Harry summons his watch and glasses from the nightstand, not surprised at all when finding it's barely five thirty in the morning. With breakfast having been announced for seven, it would be lovely to turn around and sleep some more. If only the Dark Lord would have lived up to his title and slept in a pitch-black room, that might have been possible...
"St'p mov'n," said mighty Lord mumbles unintelligibly, clawing at the sleeve of Harry's nightshirt to fully pull him back into the possessive embrace he'd dared to free his arm from.
"It's too bright to keep sleeping."
There's a haphazard attempt to manoeuvre Harry so his head is propped underneath Voldemort's chin, as if that would be enough to shield his eyes completely. What follows is more struggling, with Harry trying to summon either of his wands to cast a darkening spell on the window. As he's still tired, only one of them moves to obey his will at all – the Elder Wand, interestingly enough – then clatters uselessly to the wooden floor instead of flying into his opened hand.
"You need more discipline," his soulmate dryly comments, sounding far more awake now.
"How about you teach me before uttering critique?" Harry bites back without a single thought on his mind apart from being a typical snarky Gryffindor. Only when the response he gets is a low hiss does Harry catch onto what he just implied.
"Once you shed this body of yours? Gladly."
It takes a long second filled with rising panic to realise that Voldemort is talking about ageing potions, not killing curses. What a lovely reminder of all their baggage to start the day with. It might take a while before waking up in each other's arms holds enough airy romance to combat any chance of emotional whiplash.
Harry groans, untangling himself from an unhappy Voldemort and slipping out of bed. "I need coffee, not a chance that I can find sleep again like this."
When receiving no reply, he assumes that his Intended is already well on the way to the next dream. Turning around, he picks up the Elder wand to transfigure his nightshirt into acceptable lounge-wear, for lack of having his usual wardrobe at hand. Harry hopes that all the charms cast on these poor robes to stretch, shrink and change them since putting them on yesterday morning won't make the fabric unravel at the seams out of nowhere.
"That looks lovely on you."
Cold fingertips are placed on his shoulders from behind, tugging at the fabric to straighten out a few folds. Turning slowly to face his Intended, Harry is met with staggering beauty: gleaming indigo silk serves as a luxurious morning robe that makes already pearly skin stand out. If he would not just have been reminded of Voldemort's reservations around Harry's younger form, this absolutely would have been the moment any last hesitance would have flown out of the window.
As it stands, Harry makes no move other than openly admiring the flattering attire and stumbling over his tongue to say: "you- err, don't look too bad yourself."
"That sounds as if I need to try harder," the older wizard speaks, though a smile that reaches pretty eyes reveals amusement.
A tad embarrassed over being so out of his depth with doling out compliments, Harry clears his throat and tries again: "That's not what I meant, you look bloody gorgeous. I just hadn't expected to see you wrapped up in more than sheets and blankets for the next couple hours, with how grumpy you were about my waking you a minute ago."
"As if I could have resisted the offer of a shared morning coffee with my fiancé."
Blood rises to Harry's face the moment all of yesterday's crazy happenings come rushing back. They got engaged. That actually happened. Literal days after Voldemort had declared they were in a relationship, had Harry accepted this man's proposal to get married.
It takes the entire way to the kitchen to process the thought, even after sliding the black-stoned ring on his thumb and walking side by side with his at-some-point-to-be-husband. Due to being so preoccupied with thoughts on their relationship, Harry only recalls the disastrous talk with Death he had in this very kitchen upon walking in. While Voldemort brews a pot of coffee, Harry cannot stop staring at the spot near the fireplace where it had stood yesterday evening, taunting with its refusal to change its face. No matter the reasoning, insisting this was polite did not make it so, certainly not after having received the same horrified reaction last time Death had shown itself wearing the face of someone who'd tragically been killed in Harry's stead. If only he could have articulated this when Death had brought forth its arguments about that instead of a whole day later...
Sharp debates certainly aren't his strongest suit. This is why he prefers having Hermione by his side. If she'd witnessed the first conversation with Death, she surely would have quickly fired holes in the being's faulty logic.
"Is it Death that weighs so heavily on your mind?"
A cup of steaming coffee is set down in front of him with a heavy clink, interrupting those depressing musings.
"How did you-"
"Troubled by your reaction, Granger already informed me about you having had a chat with your new pet before you yourself did so, and revealed this to have taken place in the kitchen so I would have a starting point for my search. As you cannot pull your eyes away from a spot that holds nothing but empty air, it wasn't a terribly difficult deduction. Why did you call upon Death again so soon?" the man asks. There's a pointedly unspoken 'without me' that silently completes the sentence.
A bit uncomfortable, Harry warms his hands on the cup that is still too hot to drink. As Master of Death, he shouldn't need to feel bad about calling it whenever, should he? Voldemort is not entitled to being present for any of those conversations... Yet there's no use raising a fuss over making that clear when it wasn't the question verbally asked. Ignoring subtext that he might be imagining with his still weary mind, Harry takes the question at face value, answering: "I thought it'd be easier to explain the turn of events to Hermione if I showed her Death than if I told her about it. I also figured it would be a good opportunity to ask why it did not appear before me when I killed the Muggle, earlier."
"Ah yes, the triple homicide was riveting," Voldemort reminisces. "I too wondered about why your servant did not show any of its faces during it."
"I still don't know, I had no real chance to ask in the end... Wait, triple? What do you mean? I murdered one person."
"You? Yes. Surely you hadn't expected me to twiddle thumbs while one of my prisoners insulted us and another witnessed your breakdown. After seeing your wonderful carnage, I could not hold back. It was immensely satisfying to decorate the floor with their intestines before we left." The sudden viciousness in Voldemort's expression at recalling these murders that Harry had not been aware of serves to rouse him more thoroughly than the caffeine would have done. "No need to fear our experiments being hampered for it, dear, I already ordered Barty to restock so I can continue in the morning."
"Restock..." Harry mutters, discomfort deepening. "About that. I understand they must all die, be it for your research or simply to remove them, but if you insist on comparing them to livestock, can you at least treat them more humanely?"
"You think Muggles treat their livestock better?" Voldemort counters with no small amount of astonishment. "Small farms like you may have seen in picture books barely exist. They pack animals in factory farms by the thousands nowadays. My prison is incredibly humane by that standard. Why, even compared to Muggle prisons for their own kind-"
"Just be better," Harry harshly cuts him off. He might not actually be willing to die on this hill, but throw some hands on it? Absolutely. For a brief moment, he spots a glint in ruby eyes, showing he isn't the only one prepared for a fight, a glint that shockingly flickers and dies as fast as it appeared. "What?" he challenges, on edge about this sudden readiness on Voldemort's side to cave to demands. It's odd, out of character, highlighted by the very recent memory of being told to cough up all remaining secrets or forget about becoming more than business acquaintances - despite the soul bond that his Intended very clearly holds in such high esteem.
The shark-like smirk he is met with does not look like he'll get a promising answer. "There is some merit in a death trap that looks nothing like it. It reminds me of a story I heard as a young man, of a Muggle who had allegedly designed a 'murder castle' a century ago, a hotel in which he would lure victims to kill in various nefarious ways in order to sell their remains."
"That sounds excessive," Harry says, though even as the words leave his mouth, the maze in the basement he'd been guided through yesterday comes to mind.
"It did turn out to be no more than a sensationalist work of fiction. This man was a Muggle, after all. Such a thing would have been difficult to pull off unnoticed. He ended up being a pathological liar: the remains he sold had been dug up from cemeteries, the few hidden rooms of his medium-sized and unfinished hotel contained stolen wares instead of death traps, and none of the supposed victims of this murder castle were proven to have died. On the contrary, guests whom he claimed to have killed in it were verifiably still very much alive and living elsewhere. The few people he did murder were all for personal gain and in far less elaborate ways, ways that weren't thrilling enough for the press. As much of a disappointment as that fabricated story turned out to be, the idea does have flair. If I must go through the effort of decorating my holding cells for my prisoner's comfort, I might as well go all out. The upside is that kidnapping Muggles off the street is far more tiresome than sending out invitations for an exclusive holiday in the countryside."
"Wouldn't it leave more traces?"
"Do you take me for an amateur, darling? I've left crime scenes that even mages could not decipher. Muggle investigators stand no chance. Naturally, the invitations will disappear, as will the memories of anyone they'd tell of winning this exclusive trip. I will coincide with their weekends or planned holidays, which are easy enough to figure out..." Voldemort actually looks excited about the idea, as if he's been handed a shiny present. "It will also prolong the time before they'll be reported missing, which works in our favour as it grants more time to stage their death scene. I do not wish to alert authorities with sudden spikes in the statistics of long-time missing people."
"What do you mean?"
"You see, while over a hundred thousand people are reported missing every year in this country, the vast majority is found, most of which shortly after the report was made. At the moment, only about a thousand people are considered long-term missing. If that number rises significantly as our experiments continue, this may lead to unwanted investigations on a wider scale and endanger our secrecy. Much better to have the bodies found mauled to death by wild animals off the beaten path or robbed and stabbed in a back alley of a bustling city. We must take into account that some inevitably can't be found when the experiments do not leave enough of a corpse behind to disguise as a common death. As such, minimising the damage and keeping those statistics as low as possible is key. It's quite ironic that we can get away with any missing victims at all due to the sheer number of Muggles," Voldemort then remarks. "For the first step in our plan, it's a good thing that they number billions... Any single witch or wizard disappearing would cause a riot."
"Wouldn't count on that," he responds, thinking of Bertha Jorkins and Rita Skeeter, both women who'd gone missing for months without anyone truly caring or investigating. "Because we wield magic, we seem to expect a capability of self-defence of our fellow mages. Plus, our Auror task force is relatively small and cannot be asked to scour every corner of the world to find missing people when there are daily pressing reports of murders and harmful magic that needs to be dealt with."
"Be that as it may, my point stands that Muggles appear to have a margin for error due their high population. Like a certain number of victims in traffic-related incidents is considered acceptable before additional safety measures are taken, or how thousands of people disappearing every year is considered the norm. Information that we can study and use for our own purposes."
Harry hums, finally taking a careful sip of his coffee, which has cooled to the perfect temperature. Naturally, he could have used a cooling charm, but the spell always leaves a strange acidic taste in the back of the mouth when drinking whatever beverage it was cast upon. "I have been wondering about our populations... Most of humanity does not wield magic, but do you know how we actually compare?"
"Obviously. Estimating our enemies' forces compared to our own was my first step. Broken down in simplified percentages, the magical population makes up only 0.013 percent of human beings, effectively meaning that Muggles outnumber us seven-and-a-half-thousand to one."
More taken aback by these bleak numbers than expected, Harry processes that information in worried silence. Sure, he already knew they are few, this having been the main reason Muggles had overwhelmed them so easily, but a tenth of a single percent? Taking into account that most mages will disagree with Harry's and Voldemort's ideals due to inner political conflicts, how many supporters will be left to gather?
To drive the nail deeper, Voldemort draws his wand and taps on an empty spot on the kitchen table they share, where glowing numbers appear, displaying '721.311'. Another tap, and a new number – 7804 – appears beneath it with the letters 'UK' in front. Harry blankly stares at it until it fully dawns on him why in the entirety of the United Kingdom, they only have one busy shopping street, one school, and a handful of villages designated as living areas for magical folk, most of which function only by cohabiting with Muggles. He thinks back on the Quidditch World Cup, where avid Quidditch fans from across the world had filled the space of a couple of fields with their tents. Even when most of those tents had been expanded on the inside, there is something chilling about the thought.
Across the table, his Intended carefully observes Harry's reaction. "This is why I am not concerned about your demands to keep magical children in Muggle families safe. From experience, you must know that mages are overwhelmingly Pure- or Halfblood. With Muggle-borns only making up about an eighth of the magical population, the number of underage Muggle-borns we need to watch out for so they do not get caught up in the crossfire, is very manageable. Half of the children are already accounted for as other magical schools generally function as boarding schools in similar fashion to Hogwarts, meaning that we must only additionally track those under ten to twelve depending on the minimum school age per area."
"So, about ten thousand kids scattered across the world," Harry concludes after doing a bit of maths with the provided numbers. "That's still quite a few."
"Certainly, but we do not strike everywhere at once and will be in control of the specific areas we choose to target. There'll be plenty of opportunities to secure anyone or anything with a drop of magic in their blood."
It seems that no matter the question Harry comes up with, his partner in crime has long considered the issue and found realistic solutions. It's admirable and reinforces the belief that only his Intended can see this through. Travelling through time to request aid from Lord Voldemort has undoubtedly been the correct decision. At least one thing in Harry's life that he didn't wholly fuck up.
If he's being honest, it is relieving to have someone else step up for once. Harry had been an appointed, reluctant leader far too often, and although he'd done an alright job most of the time and genuinely liked teaching the D. A., he had never enjoyed the role of being the one whom others looked up to for guidance. That Voldemort strives for this kind of power, having gladly accepted the crown Harry placed atop his brow, gives a feeling of security he's never had before.
"I'm so glad to have you at my side," he blurts out with a lump in his throat, placing his hand atop Voldemort's cold, dry one. The skin is impossibly smooth. A result of having been only recently resurrected? Or of the way this body was created with non-human elements? Both of those options are somehow comforting, making Harry smile. "I just had a thought," he says. "How we've both been reborn in this world, in a way, as well as how we're both more than human. I quite like the parallels. To share even more with you."
"I, too, am thrilled by the many bonds between us," the other agrees. The words hold a formal tone and are said without a smile, but the affection is present in how Voldemort relaxes and brushes his thumb against the hand that covers his own – although 'cover' is a relative term with the laughable difference in size.
''Voldemort…'' Harry softly says, a tad flustered. ''Have I told you yet that I love you?''
The man sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth, an expression that can only be described as yearning hushing over his face as he meets Harry's eyes. ''With your actions, you have told me many times,'' Voldemort speaks, cool fingers sliding over the ring that adorns Harry's thumb. ''You've been much sparser with words.''
Whether it's meant as a reprimand or not, it certainly feels that way. A flush creeping up his cheeks, Harry stumbles over his tongue. ''Ah… it never seemed like a good moment, really.''
A corner of the man's thin mouth lifts, dry humour evident as he states: ''So, the best moment you could find is when you look twelve and I cannot answer your confession with a proper kiss?''
Groaning in embarrassment, Harry buries his head into his own arms to not show his flaming face. ''I was trying here, you twat,'' he mumbles. As he still hasn't fully expressed his feelings, he adds a muttered: ''I love you,'' for good measure.
''I know, darling. Come here.'' Still unsure how to act, Harry follows the tugging at his hand, which leads him away from his own chair and around the table until he ends up being pulled into Voldemort's lap. Though his Intended strictly adheres to the established boundaries, he allows Harry to curl up in his arms and drops a gentle kiss to the crown of Harry's hair, then plants another on his scar. ''I love you, too.''
They fall into a casual silence, foregoing further discussions about the upcoming battles that are to be fought, to exist in the moment: the pleasant smells of the kitchen, the bubbling cauldron containing the dragon egg, the feel of the silken robes he clings to and sturdy arms that hold him tight... If Harry could choose any moment to stretch into forever, this would be it.
It's not meant to be with roommates wandering the house. Their second pot of coffee is strong enough for its wafts to summon Hermione, who is rubbing the sleep from her eyes, a far-too awake and cheerful Barty, and lastly what looks like a hungover wreck of a man.
Worried, Harry takes note of red-rimmed eyes and crumpled robes. Sliding off Voldemort's lap, he approaches his godfather to ask: "Siri? You look like you were haunted by ghosts tonight. Did something happen?"
"After coffee," Sirius mumbles, apparently too tired to throw a disapproving stare at Voldemort for the cuddling as he reaches for the pot. The glare only comes when it hovers out of reach.
"This is not a gathering spot for an impromptu breakfast, Black."
"You were here brewing coffee first!"
"Yes, because it is my kitchen. Pull yourself together and wait in the dining room. In clean robes."
Hermione, who is immaculately dressed despite the early hour, hides a devilish grin behind her sleeve as Sirius is reproached. There's unlikely to be actual malice behind it, as Harry also feels slightly amused by his godfather - who has been one of the main authoritative figures in this life – being ordered around.
Of course, Sirius wouldn't be Sirius if he didn't deliberately pretend Voldemort were air and saunter to the fireplace to inspect the boiling egg. "Cosy. I can't wait to see how you handle this when it grows up, Harry. It will probably hatch in a couple of weeks, after I return to work, so do call me for its christening at least?"
"Are you suggesting I baptise a dragon?"
"If you must have a religious naming ceremony," Voldemort interjects, "An aqiqah would be far more appropriate for a magical creature. It traditionally takes place on the seventh day after birth, and I am certain a dragon can appreciate the meat of sacrificed sheep."
Harry wrinkles his nose at the thought of either suggested ceremony, whether in jest or not. "Isn't there some sort of magical equivalent? I can't imagine people like the Malfoys would adhere to the customs of Muggle religions, nor to pass up on any possibility to announce Draco's name to their entire circle of family and friends."
His Intended throws him an odd look, then explains: "Anyone who attended Hogwarts grew up with Muggle customs. I would have expected you, who so thoroughly reminds yourself that we are part of the same species and share a society, to be aware of how Muggles have shaped our own traditions. Some were perhaps influenced or started by mages, but we cannot confirm this. Whether you celebrate Christmas or Yule, Passover or Easter, you take part in customs that have Muggle origins."
"Wait, even Yule?" Harry asks with genuine surprise, having never heard of this holiday other than in reference to the Yule Ball at Hogwarts.
"A pagan winter festival, celebrated throughout Europe in different forms before various tribes became primarily Christian. Certainly, Mages and Muggles lived together somewhat more harmoniously before the statute of secrecy, and as such some mages may have exerted more influence over these traditions. However, remember the numbers of our population which we just discussed. Unless Muggles are gone, we will never have the opportunity to fully call anything our own. We live in their shadow. In short, a naming ceremony with similar notes to a christening was indeed held for Draco Malfoy, as this is what has slipped into our own traditions. I imagine your parents did the same, considering you have a godfather. One who is still present."
"Pardon me for wanting to spend time with my children," Sirius huffs, drawing his wand to straighten and clean his robes to an acceptable level. "I'd have thought that Harry would want to hear news of Hogwarts now rather than later. For which I do need to be awake enough."
Grimacing, Voldemort directs the coffee back to the kitchen table, where it fills another cup. "This will not become a habit," he growls. "Barty, where are you going?"
The Death Eater, who was almost out the door, sheepishly halts to reply: "It did not appear that you needed me here, my Lord, so I was going to go to the dining room and wait..."
"Sit down and keep an eye on this lot while I have my back turned," the Dark Lord orders, rising to his feet as kitchen cupboards open to let tableware and breakfast spreads levitate to the table. Pans rattle, butter sizzles, and Harry amusedly observes the first time he's seen someone aggressively fry eggs. "Black, start talking," Voldemort snarls without caring to turn back around.
At Sirius' perplexed expression, Harry leans over with a grin. "Aren't you the one whose only relationship advice was 'get yourself someone who can cook?"'
His godfather cracks a smile at that, dropping into the seat next to Harry and giving him a quick morning hug before downing half of the offered coffee in one go. "Fair point. There's not enough cayenne in this, though, so I'm still reserving judgement. Speaking of relationships-" he hurries to say before anyone can start an argument about Sirius' odd tastes, "I managed to contact Sev last night. It's looking pretty bleak. Dumbledore has figured out a great deal of the true story and knows that he-" he juts his chin into Voldemort's direction, "-is still alive and in contact with you. The memories you left have him convinced that this alliance stems from visions of the future you've had. Severus managed to hide being aware of any of this prior to speaking to Dumbledore and has agreed to return home to 'make you see the error in your naive ways,' as Sev put it. If he can't, he is to report any of your moves to Dumbledore."
Harry's hand, which had been on its way to grab the jam, hovers in the air. "Severus agreed to spy on me?"
"Course, he won't really spy on you, else he'd hardly have told me, or pretended not to have a clue what Dumbledore was talking about. Agreeing to it is the only thing he can do to protect you at the moment, while at the same time receiving information on Dumbledore's own moves. Like a double spy."
So, Severus has found his true calling, then. What irony. Hopefully that won't mean the man will meet the same end as Snape had. Harry will do anything to prevent that...
"He also received valuable insight into those moves already, which is my main worry. Dumbledore sees it as his civic duty to inform Cornelius Fudge of, well, all this. Harry, you need to make a strong case for yourself."
"The Ministry..." he grimly states. "I'm aware. I've already laid the groundwork last year: Fudge likes me and several of the people he listens to do as well."
"That might not be enough," Voldemort darkly interjects, placing several plates of heavenly-smelling food on the table. As he takes a seat, he steeples his fingers together and speaks: "I agree with Black on this matter: a strong hand of cards is essential. Fudge needs to hear your side of the story, preferably in a pleasant environment, before the Ministry decides you're too much of a risk and sends out a hearing. A few days from now, the Minister will attend a soiree of notable wizards and witches. A perfect opportunity to show your angelic face and stomp Dumbledore's fearmongering into the ground."
At the mention of this event, Harry involuntarily pulls a face. "Not the Sunday Sorcerer Soiree?"
"You keep up with such social events? I'm impressed."
Sheepishly, Harry scratches the back of his head. "Not usually. Slughorn extended an invitation to myself and Lockhart yesterday morning, clearly with the intention of being the one to introduce the Boy-Who-Lived to the Minister for Magic. He was sorely disappointed when informed that he was a few months late to orchestrate that monumental first meeting. With terrible regret and sorrow, I must admit it will be a good opportunity to get my version of the story across and position myself on the side of the media that will get preferential treatment. Last thing I need is having Skeeter out for my blood like a persistent mosquito. That woman single-handedly destroyed my reputation when I was fifteen years old, she's ruthless. Setting her on the trail of Dumbledore's secrets early on instead could provide just the distraction we need."
There's little he hates more than gatherings of people who overestimate their own importance. Be it snobbish balls or Slug Club meetings, he rather keeps far, far away. Unfortunately, one cannot always pick their battles, this being one he must dust off his armour for. His soulmate is right: there will be no better bet to get ahead of the rumour mill. The few days they'll need to wait will already be precarious.
"Excellent. In that case, we merely need to contact Slughorn. Far easier than going through the trouble of faking invitations."
Sirius lets out a cynical chuckle. "Faking? My son is Harry Potter, who can go wherever he damn well pleases without bothering with paper tickets. Contact Sluggy if you want, but I promise it won't be necessary."
"We will not to leave a thing to chance, Black," Voldemort disagrees. "With Harry being eleven years old as far as the Ministry is concerned, he cannot show up alone, and any company will need an invitation of their own to not be frowned upon."
"Slughorn also invited Lockhart, though, who could act as the responsible adult for the day," Hermione pipes up. "Our dear Professor will already be there, never one to pass up a chance to flaunt his heroism among the favoured. Sign an autograph or a hundred. Right, Harry?"
He nods in agreement, for although he does not look forward to spending more time with his wayward follower, Harry cannot deny that this shiny key can open many doors. Hanging on Lockhart's tailcoats is sure to give access to everyone who matters.
It appears Voldemort isn't so confident about that. "You control Lockhart for now, but he cannot be trusted. The smartest decision would be for Black and Granger to join you. We do not know what narrative Dumbledore will spin exactly. If he tries to paint the picture of a broken family or you as some runaway rebel, it would be preferable if the majority of your family unit – everyone apart from the one under Dumbledore's thumb – confirms no such fallout took place. Perhaps an opportunity will even present itself for you-" he turns to Sirius, "-to address the concerns over Harry's safety at Hogwarts and the choice to have personal tutors. The presence of the elite in the Ministry at this soiree will pave the way for the paperwork to pull him out of school to go through in a timely manner, without risking official expulsion or the legal consequences that go hand in hand with that."
"Do you have a little folder with 'masterplans' ready for grabs whenever?" Sirius questions. "You couldn't possibly have constructed all this on the fly."
The sharp smirk that earns is incredibly handsome. Nonchalantly, Voldemort leans closer. "Or, consider this: I am just that good."
Harry only manages to suppress a swoon as the confident words are directed at someone else. "I'll send word to Slughorn that I wish to attend the soiree, then," he announces in hopes of getting Voldemort's eyes back on himself. "Hedwig was out hunting when I left for Hogwarts, though, so I'll have to check Grimmauld Place to fetch her first."
"Hedwig?" his Intended questions.
"My snowy owl. I specifically waited to get a pet until my eleventh birthday to ensure I got her back in this life." Strangely, that explanation wipes the smirk off Voldemorts face. "What?"
"Nothing," is the suspiciously neutral answer. "We do not know if your home is safe. Anyone on Dumbledore's side can floo in and ambush you. I propose that Black fetches your bird. You have more important matters to take care of than running errands."
"And my life is a snooze-fest, or what?" Sirius protests.
"Rich heir turned Ministry worker with your fated partner, two kids and a picket fence? Yes, your life sounds thrilling, Black. You may of course spice it up by taking over Harry's duties in teaching your daughter invasive mind magic and Unforgivable curses, but something tells me you won't be so open to the idea. Nor do I suspect that you'll be inclined to assist my own daily activities. A hint: it involves murder."
Before his student can get too excited, Harry corrects: "We're focusing on Occlumency, and I'll only teach the Imperius curse if Hermione manages to shield her mind within a month. Though I see you point. Sirius, could you check in on Hedwig for me?"
There is no reaction at first, Voldemort's scathing words or Harry nonchalantly speaking of Unforgiveables perhaps having robbed the man of the illusion of a quiet, homey breakfast more than the company did so far. Sirius no longer touches the food when curtly replying: "Fine. Sev will come home today too. You know, for the 'talking sense into you'. Which would require him to visit if you can't go to Grimmauld Place..."
"Not until Dumbledore's official version of events that he tries to sell to the Minister is known to us," Voldemort denies. "We shall not make any move or give out a single snippet of information beforehand."
Not seeing Severus for several more days doesn't sit well with Harry, especially when they have no guarantee to receive the info Voldemort wants. "What if Fudge ignores it? He refused to believe you returned last time. Didn't allow the press to print a word about it until seeing you with his own two eyes. We might not find out his thoughts or tactics on the matter before the soiree."
"I still have other avenues of possibly extracting information through the underworld," Voldemort vaguely states, the sideways glance he throws Sirius making clear why there is no elaboration. Fair enough, for when all is said and done, Harry' godfather is still an employed Auror. The moral dilemma regarding whether to turn on or shield his family may have ended positively for Harry and his soulmate, but it's understandable that the Dark Lord remains tight-lipped about how he operates or who he controls around Siri. "If those avenues run dry too, you will have to live with it," his Intended adds. "There's too much to lose, and Snape has made himself a dangerous card in this game by agreeing to become a double spy. If Dumbledore verifies he's left Grimmauld place too, then returns with no or unsatisfying news, the Headmaster has another chance at influencing Fudge before you do."
As much as Harry dislikes being told 'no', there aren't many other options, and he isn't willing to start a fight over this by going against Voldemort' advice. With the plan on how to handle the current turn of events somewhat agreed upon, they disperse. Barty and Sirius leave for London, and Voldemort gives a chaste kiss before he disappears into the cellar, leaving Harry behind with his sister.
"Only Occlumency for now," he warns again as they find a good spot to practise in peace. They settle on the library, partially because it's where Hermione is most comfortable, partially to have more resources readily available if needed when Harry's explanation falls short.
As he'd given her books on mind magic months ago so she would become familiar with the subject matter, they make fast progress. It helps that he's spent the past school year teaching her a wide variety of extracurricular spells. By now, they both adapt to each other's teaching and studying style as if it is second nature, and Harry knows when to give praise and when to leave Hermione alone for a while to meditate by herself.
During those spans of time, he lets his own thoughts drift to wholly different topics. One in particular circles back again and again, the memory of Felix' guidance for Harry's less noble goal of getting devoured by his soulmate. It had nudged strongly to 'tomorrow', now being today. Does that mean his Intended still has a dose of ageing potion stowed away? When would be a good moment to bring that up without showing how desperately thirsty he is? And once he does regain a more comfortable body, how to even begin seducing his Intended in a manner that won't feel incredibly awkward or fabricated?
It is strange to plan for such a thing when Harry has rarely taken active steps in pursuing anyone, let alone when his goal is not exactly innocent. It's a hundred times worse than asking Cho Chang to go to the Yule ball with him. Voldemort and he are already engaged and yet he does not have a clue how to go about initiating a conversation about intimacy when it's not steered by pure instinct or a luck potion.
Merlin, he's such a disaster.
"Harry? I'm ready for the next try," his sister calls out, eliciting a sudden wave of embarrassment. Harry is suddenly very glad she's nowhere near the level of attacking his mind, filled as it is with lewd images about cold hands groping his arse and a devious mouth filled with sharp teeth and an even sharper tongue-
"Harryyyy!"
"Yes, yes, present, Ma'am!" he says with rolling eyes.
Sharpness... perhaps that is the answer, is the last thought Harry spends on his seduction scheme, absent-mindedly rubbing the flat of his hand against his jawline, now bare yet soon to be sprouting hair that Voldemort had threatened to shave off. Perhaps he ought to give his Intended exactly that: the opportunity to set a knife to Harry's throat.