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“You know, Harry,” Hermione says as she watches him try to become one with the wall at his back, “you didn’t have to come with me tonight.”
“Kingsley said he’d bench me for a month if I didn’t.”
“That seems. . . excessive.”
“Yeah, well, he usually means it when he threatens someone.” He takes a sip of his champagne—which he grabbed solely to have something to do with his hands—and winces at the taste, eying it dubiously. “I’ve learned not to test him on it.”
Besides, he owes Kingsley a favor.
His gaze catches on the tall, dark-robed figure of Lord Voldemort across the atrium, and he grimaces. He owes Kingsley many favors.
Hermione follows his gaze. When she sees Voldemort, she gasps, reaching over to clutch at his wrist. “Is that him?” she asks, voice hushed like he might hear them otherwise.
“Mhm,” Harry hums, twisting his arm in her hold so he can lace their fingers together. “He’s wearing a new face, though.”
“You think so?”
“He looked a bit off, last I saw him,” he explains, cataloguing the changes with more interest than he’ll admit to should anyone ask. “Tonight, he looks almost human.”
“Huh.” Hermione tilts her head, squints. “Almost.”
Together, they watch as he moves through the room, greeting old friends and foes alike. Harry can’t help but wonder how many of them are aware of who they’re talking to. He’d like to think the too-pale skin, stretched over features just a bit too sharp to be human, would be enough of a tip off. But. Well. He’s learned by now not to expect too much situational awareness from these people.
In all honesty, it’s a strange sort of joy, watching Voldemort work his way around the room.
Some might call it satisfaction.
He used to be so terrifying. And of course, he still could be, but he’s a tame beast now—the sort that walked willingly into his cage after nearly a decade of battling the Order into a standstill. From staring him down across a battlefield to spying on him as he makes polite (if exceedingly awkward, by all reports) conversation across the room, it’s been a hell of a transition to get used to.
Hermione’s grip on his hand tightens. She hisses in his ear, “He’s coming this way.”
Startled, Harry blinks, realizes he’s lost sight of the former Dark Lord, and turns to follow her gaze. Instead of baring his teeth at a host of politicians who smile nervously back at him, Voldemort is striding across the room, an intent look on his face as he ignores all those vying for his attention.
“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”
He drains the rest of his champagne, then sends the empty glass to a nearby table with a flick of his fingers. With one last look Voldemort’s way, he hooks his arm through Hermione’s and proceeds to drag her away from the wall and into the crowd.
“What are you doing?” she demands, though she doesn’t protest the sudden manhandling.
“He’s been stalking me for months, Hermione,” Harry says, glancing over his shoulder.
She snorts. “Years, more like.”
“Everywhere I go, he’s there.” He tugs her out of the way of a dancing couple, who glare before realizing just who they’re looking at. Harry ignores them with practiced ease. “He keeps talking to me.”
Another reason he never comes to these events if he can help it: the movement of the crowd is dizzying as it ebbs and flows around them; the murmur of half-heard conversations is enough to make his head spin.
“Oh, the horror.”
“Easy for you to say,” he says, frowning. Somehow, he’s managed to lose sight of his pursuer. You’d think Voldemort’s ridiculous height would make him easier to spot. “You’re not exactly the one who—oh!”
It’s only Hermione’s arm in his that keeps him from falling when he turns his head just in time to see the broad chest he walks right into. A hand—cold even through the fabric of his robes—curls over his upper arm, steadying him. His scar doesn’t even twinge at the touch.
He looks up, eyes wide.
“Good evening, Mr. Potter,” Voldemort says, expression inscrutable.
Harry wonders how much of their conversation he heard, then decides he doesn’t care. “Voldemort,” he says. Hermione digs her elbow into his ribs, and he adds, “It’s good to see you.”
Voldemort’s eyes narrow. “Is it?”
“Well. . .” He bites his lip, and Voldemort’s gaze lands on his mouth. He swallows, and those red-brown eyes track that motion too. He carefully squashes the urge to flee again. “Relatively speaking.”
For a long moment, they only stand there, staring at each other.
Hermione clears her throat, and Harry jumps at the sound.
Voldemort doesn’t even look at her.
“Well, I’m glad you two are getting along,” she says brightly. She frees her arm from Harry’s strangling hold. “I’ve just seen, erm. . . someone. Who I need to talk to.” Ignoring Harry’s pleading expression, she pats him on the arm—the one Voldemort isn’t still holding—and backs away. “I’ll see you later, Harry.”
She pointedly doesn’t address the former Dark Lord.
And then she’s gone, swallowed by the crowd.
After a pause that makes Harry want to crawl out of his skin and disappear for quite possibly forever, Voldemort asks, “Are you enjoying your evening?”
Harry takes a breath, holds it. Lets it out in a gusty sigh.
“It’s. . . fine.”
“Ah.” Voldemort folds his hands behind his back. His posture is as straight as ever, and Harry’s shoulders ache just from looking at him. When he finally looks away from Harry, his gaze lands on a nearby dancing couple. “Would you care to—"
“No!” Harry blurts.
Voldemort doesn’t look offended, not exactly. “If I’ve made you uncomfortable—"
Harry, already shaking his head, interrupts him again. “It’s not that. . . Well.” He stops, because it kind of is exactly that. He frowns, looking down at his shoes and wondering how mad Kingsley would be if he apparated away just to spare himself from this conversation. “I’m just. . . not very good. At dancing, I mean.”
Cold fingers touch beneath his chin; he lifts his head, holding his breath.
“I wouldn’t mind,” Voldemort tells him, and Harry shivers.
“You say that now,” he says, forcing a laugh as he turns his head, dislodging Voldemort’s hand. “Just wait until I’m stepping on your toes.”
“Hmm.” Voldemort’s eyes narrow. His lips twitch into a smirk. “By your hand alone, I’ve suffered worse than a few crushed toes. I’m certain I’d survive the experience.”
Harry’s breath catches.
Worse than a few. . .
In his mind’s eye, he sees Voldemort as he was after the last battle—less a body and more a smear of blood and viscera on two legs. He feels the shape of the spell that did it on his tongue, the wild ache of his magic as it made him so. Then he remembers the other casualties of that battle, and he thinks he could choke on his sudden fury.
With a snarl on his lips, he closes the distance between them. At his sides, his clenched fists drip sparks that sizzle when they hit the marble floor.
He feels as though he could breathe fire.
Curling one fist in Voldemort’s robes, ignoring the smell of burnt fabric that rises from his touch, he pulls, forcing him to bend. “You’ve suffered—?”
But Voldemort only laughs, hooking his fingers in the collar of Harry’s robe to tug him impossibly closer. He goes, feeling off balance. “Peace, Mr. Potter,” Voldemort says, ducking his head, so Harry can feel his breath against his cheek as he speaks. “Everyone is watching.”
At the reminder, his rage leaves him as quickly as it came.
He releases his grip on Voldemort’s robe and refuses to feel guilty about the charred spot left behind. “If we were still at war—"
“You’d kill me,” Voldemort finishes for him. He looks delighted at just the idea of it, and Harry shivers again. “Yes, I think you would, even if it took your death to do it.”
And it would, they both know.
He tries to take a step back, but Voldemort doesn’t let him. Closing his eyes, he forces himself to take a deep, even breath—then another. When he next opens them, Voldemort is watching him with blatant interest, a smirk still on his lips.
He scowls on principle. “You’re not funny, you know.”
Voldemort’s smirk stretches into a grin.
And it’s incredibly unfair, Harry thinks, that he could look so—human. That’s what he meant to think, not. Not handsome, not at all. And, honestly, even if it was. . . What does it matter that Voldemort is handsome?
It doesn’t. Not even a little.
He huffs, looking away.
“Something on your mind?” Voldemort asks after a beat.
“No,” he snaps. He sees Kingsley watching them from over Voldemort’s shoulder, looking stern, and frowns back at him. Then again, he supposes it’s his own fault for agreeing to play nice. “. . .Maybe. You’re wearing a new face tonight.”
Voldemort looks pleased. “You noticed.”
“I always notice,” he says without thinking. Then his brain catches up to his mouth, and he flushes. “I mean—"
“Do you like it?” Voldemort asks before he can embarrass himself further.
Harry stills. “What?”
“My new face,” Voldemort says, tilting his head with an odd look on said face. If he were just a bit more buzzed, Harry might call it coquettish. “Do you like it?”
“I—That is. . .”
Voldemort sighs, and that’s all the warning he gets before the fingers still latched onto his robes tug again, and he’s forced to plant his palms against Voldemort’s firm chest lest he faceplant instead.
Looking down at him, thoroughly unimpressed, Voldemort says, “It’s a simple question.”
Harry feels his cheeks flush hotter, feels the heat spread down his neck. “Bullshit,” he says. Voldemort rears back, offended, and he rushes to continue before he can interrupt. “When has anything between us ever been simple?”
After a beat, Voldemort gives the faintest of nods, like he’s conceding the point. “Not simple, then,” he says, and Harry feels cold fingers twitch against his heated skin. “Still, I’d appreciate an answer.”
Of course he would.
He clenches his jaw, then carefully releases the tension, rolling his shoulders. He says slowly, “I don’t. . . dislike it.”
“Hmm.”
Harry crosses his arms over his chest, feeling defensive and not wanting to spend too much effort wondering why. “Shut up,” he snaps, glaring off to the side. “It’s not—It looks fine.”
“Fine,” Voldemort echoes softly. “Well, I suppose—“
Whatever Voldemort is saying is lost to him, then, when Draco Malfoy sweeps into the room, replaced by the usual static and internal cursing at the sight of his least favorite ex. When Draco’s eyes land on him, mere moments later, he feels as though the bottom drops out of his stomach. Then he sees the man—the incredibly attractive, dark haired man—on Draco’s arm, and he feels even worse.
“Fuck,” he whispers harshly.
He’s met with Voldemort’s offended silence. Then, “Pardon?”
Harry shakes his head, grabbing Voldemort by the arm and all but dragging him toward one of the halls leading away from the main atrium. “I refuse to do this tonight,” he explains.
He realizes, of course, that this explains exactly nothing, but he finds it difficult to care.
Voldemort allows himself to be led until the sounds of the crowd fade and they’re thoroughly out of sight. Then he plants his feet, refusing to go any further. “Explain yourself, Mr. Potter,” he says, and he sounds almost flustered.
Harry glares.
He tugs on Voldemort’s arm, but the bastard doesn’t even pretend to be moved. When he realizes he’ll actually have to explain himself, he huffs. “You’ll laugh,” he says, sullen, as he peers past Voldemort’s shoulder to make sure they weren’t followed.
“This displeases you?”
“What?” Harry looks oddly at him. “Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t it?”
Voldemort clears his throat. “I wasn’t aware you cared about my opinion of you.”
Harry stares blankly back at him, because he doesn’t.
Does he. . . ?
He shakes his head, tells himself to stop being ridiculous. “It’s Draco,” he explains instead of examining these thoughts. “We dated a while back—“
“I’m aware,” Voldemort says darkly.
“—and ever since, he’s been insufferable. He won’t leave me alone. Worse, he brought a date tonight, and I just know he’s gonna rub my face in it.”
Voldemort doesn’t laugh, thankfully. Harry doesn’t think he could handle it, not when he’s already feeling bad for getting worked up over something so juvenile—and even worse for actually telling Voldemort about it. Instead of laughing, he gets the impression that Voldemort is thinking very hard about something.
Eventually, he says, “Would you—“
“There you are!” Draco’s voice interrupts before he can finish, and Harry watches with dismay as Voldemort’s expression closes off again. “You ran off before I got the chance to say hello.”
Putting himself between Draco and the former Dark Lord, because he doesn’t fancy having to scrape his ex off of the floor for getting on Voldemort’s nerves, he says, “Imagine that.”
Draco pouts at him, exaggerated and surely mocking. “So hostile. Can’t we be friends, Harry?”
He feels Voldemort step up to his side and resists the urge to wrap a quelling hand around his wrist. Instead of answering Draco’s question, he says, “I saw your date.”
“Oh, him?” Draco waves a dismissive hand. “Mikhail Borokov; you may have heard of him.” Harry furrows his brow. The name sounds familiar, but. . . Draco sighs at him. “He’s a quidditch player, Harry, for the Bulgarian team. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I even bother.”
“Right,” Harry says, certain he should feel offended but not sure it's worth the effort.
“He’s a fan of yours, if you’ll believe it,” Draco continues. “Says he’s heard all about your flying from Krum. He’s not as good as you were, of course, but few people are.”
Harry. . . really doesn’t know what to do with all of that. He hasn’t played quidditch in years. Maybe he should start again. “Erm, alright?” he says when it’s clear Draco is waiting for an answer. “I suppose I could say hello. . .”
“Oh, would you?” Draco smiles, and it’s the one he usually reserves for when he’s trying to win over a particularly unfriendly audience. Harry feels an absurd urge to take a step back. Before he can say anything, or actually back away, Draco adds, “I ran into Granger on my way over. She told me all about how you so kindly agreed to escort her when Weasley couldn’t make it.”
Harry blinks, surprised by the turn the conversation has taken. “Okay?”
Draco takes a moment just to observe him, and Harry very deliberately doesn’t cross his arms over his chest the way he wants to. “Still single, then?” he asks, looking away to examine his nails, like he doesn’t care at all about the answer.
At the familiar sight, Harry has to take a deep breath. One would think he’d have learned better by now, but somehow, Draco always manages to get under his skin. If Hermione were here, she’d tell him to ignore him. She’d tell him that his ex being petty and annoying is no excuse for doing something rash.
But Hermione isn’t here, which is why he says, “No, actually.”
Voldemort’s quiet presence at his side turns murderous.
Draco doesn’t notice the mood shift, or the drop in the hall’s temperature. He’s too busy gawping. “What do you mean, no?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Harry says, forcing himself to stand taller. He thinks about crossing his arms then decides not to—it might make him look defensive.
Draco sneers, recovering from his shock. “I don’t believe you.”
“It’s funny that you think I care,” Harry tells him, ignoring the fact that if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have lied because whatever. That’s not the point.
“Where is he, then?” Draco demands.
“What.”
“Your new boyfriend.” Draco stalks forward, until he’s all but looming over him. “Where. Is. He?”
Harry feels as if his mind has gone blank, like it’s full of static. In his panic, he doesn’t even stop to think before he reaches back, grabs Voldemort hand in his own, and says, “Right here.”
Draco scoffs, then glares at their clasped hands before looking up into Voldemort’s face. Whatever he sees there makes him blanch and take a step back. “O-oh,” he says, and Harry thinks this might be the first time he’s seen him so ruffled since the war ended.
“Draco,” Voldemort says, voice dangerously soft.
“I didn’t realize—I meant not offense, my Lord” he says, his gaze dropping to the floor. He casts Harry a last, helpless look before he turns and heads back to the atrium, as fast as he can without running.
Harry stares after him, brows raised.
He wonders if he should be concerned that Voldemort is still being called by his title, then decides it’s not his problem. “Why don’t you call me by my first name?” he asks idly.
A beat, and then, “I was under the impression you didn’t like it.”
“Well, no,” Harry says, “I wouldn’t have, seeing as you were trying to kill me and everyone I loved at the time.”
“Ah.” For a moment, he wonders if Voldemort will continue. “And now?”
“Are you planning to kill me and everyone I love?”
“. . .No.”
“Then I guess you should call me Harry.”
“Harry,” Voldemort says, and Harry can’t help but look up at him. What he sees in his expression makes him feel almost breathless.
Voldemort’s fingers twitch, then. Upon realizing he’s still holding his hand, he drops it like he’s been burned. He takes a step back, putting some much needed space between them. His cheeks are hot. “Thanks, by the way,” he says, his gaze trained on the floor.
Cold fingers touch beneath his chin, and he looks up to meet Voldemort’s gaze again. “For what?” he asks, and Harry wonders if it’s normal that the touch of Voldemort’s thumb on his jaw makes his legs feel like jelly.
“For, you know, not saying anything,” he says. Voldemort tilts his head in question, and Harry huffs. “For not telling him it was a lie.”
“Was it?”
“What?”
“A lie. Are you. . . single?” Voldemort’s nose scrunches at the word. When Harry doesn’t answer, his hand drops away, his jaw clenches. “I see. I shall—“
“No!” Harry reaches out to grab Voldemort’s retreating hand before he can stop to think about it. “I mean, yes, I am. I’m not seeing anyone.” When Voldemort’s silence lasts too long, he snaps, “Well? Say something.”
“My apologies, I am only. . . surprised,” Voldemort tells him. Harry glares, looking away. “There’s no one?”
“Obviously not,” Harry says, rolling his eyes.
“And so you chose Lord Voldemort for your charade.”
“Er, well.” Now he’s starting to feel bad. “Sorry—“
“Don’t,” Voldemort says, then stops, clearing his throat. “There’s no need to apologize, I was only. . . Surely there are others you might have chosen.”
“Probably,” Harry admits, because he knows at least half a dozen people who would jump at the chance to pull one over on Draco. “I guess I just, er. I wouldn’t want to. . . pressure anyone.”
“I see.” Voldemort sounds disappointed, and Harry bristles, uncomfortable. “Am I not awarded the same courtesy?”
“What?” Harry asks, too confused that Voldemort cares to be annoyed at the idea of owing him anything, let alone courtesy. “No, that’s not what I—I just, you know. I don’t imagine I have much influence. With you.”
It’s hard to abuse your influence over someone when there’s no influence to be had.
“Ah.” Voldemort’s expression is unreadable again. Finally, he asks, “Will you be attending the upcoming Yule celebrations the Ministry is holding?”
“Yes,” Harry says slowly, wondering where this is going.
Voldemort’s jaw shifts. “Draco will surely be in attendance.”
“. . .Probably.”
“Perhaps.” Voldemort clears his throat. “Perhaps it would be beneficial to continue this charade.”
“Oh.” Harry tells himself it’s absurd to feel so pleased. “It wouldn’t bother you? People thinking we’re together, I mean?”
Voldemort looks at him like he’s an idiot, but there’s fondness there too, so Harry can forgive the slight. “It would not.”
He thinks his chest might burst open, but in a nice way. “Cool.”
“Indeed,” Voldemort says wryly; his thin lips twitch into a smile.
He doesn’t know how long they stand there, just staring at each other. Eventually, however, he remembers that part of his deal with Kingsley involves actually showing his face rather than hiding out of sight. “We should get back,” he says, though he doesn’t particularly want to.
Voldemort nods his head and extends a hand. When Harry only looks at it, he says, “They will expect us to be close.”
“They?” Harry asks, placing his hand in Voldemort’s.
When he feels Voldemort’s strong fingers wrap over his own, his stomach flutters, and he has to take a steadying breath.
“You just told Draco Malfoy that we’re together,” Voldemort tells him, and there’s something like pride in the way he carries himself as he leads Harry down the hall. “Surely you didn’t expect him to keep the news to himself?”
“Oh, right.” Harry frowns. “I didn’t really think about it, to be honest. It was mostly just instinct.”
“Instinct, to claim me as your own?” Voldemort asks, sounding far too pleased for Harry's peace of mind.
He huffs, cheeks heating. “Shut up,” he mutters for lack of anything else to say, and then they’re back in the main atrium. He does his best to ignore the many eyes on them, turning to Voldemort instead. He doesn’t want to answer anyone’s questions, and he isn’t allowed to leave yet, which means—“Dance with me?”
Voldemort grins, and it looks like triumph. “It would be my pleasure.”
- - -
“So, let me get this straight,” Hermione says later that night (or morning, rather), ignoring Ron—who still hasn’t stopped laughing, “you told Draco Malfoy that you’re dating Voldemort, decided to continue the charade indefinitely, and asked him to dance in front of the entire Ministry, and he agreed?”
“Mhm.” Harry nods, chewing nervously on his bottom lip.
“Okay.” She grimaces, like she’d rather be doing anything else, then asks, “What’s the problem, exactly?”
“I just don’t understand why he agreed,” Harry says, flopping over to lie on his back, his head pillowed on Ron’s stomach. “I mean, what does he get out of this? There must be something.”
“Really, Harry?” Hermione asks.
“Did you kiss him, too?” Ron asks, breathless from laughter, his fingers tangling in Harry’s hair.
Harry blushes, refusing to give them more fodder to make fun of him. But apparently his silence is answer enough. “Merlin save me from idiots,” Hermione says under her breath. Ignoring Harry’s offended protest and Ron’s snort, she tells him, “I could have gone my entire life without once feeling sorry for Voldemort. You’ve ruined that for me, Harry.”
He tries to sit up, to defend himself, but Ron plants an arm over his throat, holding him down. “Hey!”
Hermione sighs, shaking her head at him. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you.”
“But I didn’t even do anything!” Harry protests, hiding his face in his hands.
“And apparently that was enough,” Ron says, then refuses to explain even when Harry manages to flip over and pin him, threatening all sorts of torture to make him talk.
Giving up, Harry crosses his arms with a huff. “You guys are the worst.”
“Maybe so,” Ron says, grinning. “We’re still gonna be the best man at your wedding.”
“Both of you?” Harry asks, intrigued by the possibility. Then, “Wait, what wedding?”
He isn’t getting married. He isn’t even dating anyone. Why would he—? Oh.
Oh.
Okay, so, maybe he’s an idiot.
“And now he gets it,” Ron says, mocking. “Gonna put the bastard out of his misery and ask him out for real?”
Harry thinks back on the last seven months—the last three years, really—of confusion, of Voldemort inserting himself into his life without explanation, of him never once just saying what he wants. “No,” he says, thoughtful, “I want to see how long he lasts before he breaks.”
Ron laughs, Hermione sighs, and Harry. . .
Harry can’t wait.