Harry was in his drawing room with Lin. It was the same room, actually, that he had first drink with Voldemort in, and maybe that was not exactly helping his feeling of uneasiness. He was on his third glass of wine – Lin did not like Harry drinking hard alcohol with him, as he had said it made him too talkative – and the two had been sat in silence for the whole time so far. Harry's mind had been... elsewhere. He was frantically thinking about the suddenly oncoming war, how he had failed to see it coming, and so he had failed his followers, too, in a sense. The alcohol was not really helping his clarity of mind, however, and so the later the evening became the more he felt completely lost. At first, he had thought it would be fine. He had a strong following, plenty of man power, and he had defeated Grindelwald before. But this felt different. More chaotic. Instead of fighting alongside Dumbledore against a muggle hater he was fighting alongside a muggle hater against Dumbledore. It refused to quite fit in Harry's mind, especially with the issues of magical unity, but he knew that he had to protect his own first and foremost, and Dumbledore was threatening them.
"What is troubling you, my friend?" Lin finally asked, swirling the wine around his glass.
Harry knew that his mentor was looking pensively at him, but he was content to stare at his glass instead.
"I would have thought it was obvious what's troubling me," Harry mumbled and took another gulp of his wine.
Lin did not seem too concerned about the potential war, and perhaps that should have calmed Harry's nerves about it all, but it had not. It mostly made him feel annoyed; he had every right to be stressed, and he most certainly did not need asking why he was stressed.
"You are mistaken if you think that you are stressed because of Dumbledore and the war, Harry," Lin said smoothly, but Harry did not find his voice calming now. "Look inside yourself. It is not war that is causing you turmoil."
Harry scowled and finally looking up from his now empty glass.
"Of course it's Dumbledore, of course it's the war! What else could it be? This war is a threat to our peace, it's a threat to everything; we had been making progress, but if we lose this, we'll likely be imprisoned merely for our magical affinity! More than that, this is threatening my own values of magical unity! Why would it be anything else?"
Lin just shook his head sadly. "You are really trying to convince me that you are pouring yourself a fourth drink over a mere political threat?" Harry froze over the wine bottle. "Please, Harry, do not patronise me in this way. You never have more than one drink over political problems because it clouds your judgement. This is different, and you know that as well as I do."
Harry frowned as he poured his drink, deciding that he did not care what Lin thought about it. He did not respond to his ex-tutor, opting instead to work on blocking his thoughts, which was quite easy once he was drinking his wine again. There was not anything other than the war too trouble him, Lin was being stupid. Lin is stupid Harry thought petulantly.
"I'm not stupid, Harry" Lin warned, almost as if he had read Harry's thoughts. "I can see what's going on here."
Ungracefully flopping himself back on his seat, Harry scowled this time. "There's nothing to see, Lin. I don't know what you're talking about." And really, by this point, he meant it. He just knew that he was annoyed and that Lin was making it worse.
"Could we maybe start by taking the drink away from you, Harry?" Lin asked tentatively, suddenly now seeming very friendly.
"What for?" Harry asked as he finished his glass.
"Alcohol dependency is no joke. I shouldn't have let you drink for this long, but I confess I was in my own world for a lot of it. But please, Harry. This is not how we deal with your problems. Now hand me your glass."
Ah. He supposed, even in his tipsy state, that Lin was right. This most definitely not how he should deal with his problems; but he could barely work out what it was this time! Even still, he handed his glass over without a word, knowing that his mentor always knew what was best for him, even now, or especially now, as he suspected that he was acting somewhat like a child.
"Perhaps I should have been blunter with you, my friend. I am merely concerned, about the war, yes, but about who you're fighting it with."
"Voldemort can be trusted!" Harry interrupted, not wanting to here that his tutor was against becoming allies with him. "I trust him."
Lin sighed again. "I know you trust him, Harry. And if you trust him, I trust him too." Harry felt himself relax. "You just can't lie to yourself on this. You absolutely cannot work with this man if you insist on so stubbornly denying your feelings for him."
"Fuck," Harry said, and buried his face in his hands.
"I understand," Lin said soothingly.
"It does concern me," Harry said, removing his face from his hands. "I am aware of it, sort of. It's just easier to ignore for what I need to do. I don't want to let Voldemort get the better of me just because of his looks; just because I'm attracted to him doesn't make him suddenly a good person, it doesn't excuse his behaviour one bit. What him and his followers do to muggles is vile. I can't just ignore that. And that's why working with him is going to be so hard too." Harry groaned. It was absolute madness.
"You have never been one to deny yourself such things as this," Lin commented, looking incredibly thoughtful. "Even when the person in question opposes your morals. Did you not once have a lover who wanted to have all Dark animals hunted down? Not that I thought that she was a good choice in partner, mind you, never mind how charming she was."
Harry sighed, stood, and started pacing. "That was maybe once true, Lin, but I'm older now, I have more responsibility, I have more strength-"
"You have more wine to drown yourself in?" Lin contributed, and Harry gave him a playful smack.
"I haven't taken a lover in years, Lin, you know this. I just can't afford to have somebody poking around in my morals and my feelings these days."
"I suppose not," Lin agreed solemnly.
"It'll be okay. I'd be mad to take on another bloody Dark Lord as my lover, I can leave it be."
Lin hummed in agreement. "I very much doubt he'd let you top."
"Damn right he'd let me top if he was in my own damn bed!" Harry growled. "That's not the point! The point is..." he allowed himself to breathe, and stopped pacing. "If it's just lust, I can handle it. It's just lust, so I will be fine. Right, Lin?"
His ex-tutor said nothing.
This is not a dream, Voldemort told himself confidently. Lord Voldemort does not have frivolous dreams like mortals do. This is merely a mental practice, one which is very difficult to pull off correctly and very difficult to differentiate from a dream, in order to clear my mind of what is bothering me. Because I know that there is something. And I will find it in this room right here.
Voldemort was content with his statement. Dreams meant a lack of control, but Voldemort would control this one to his benefit, because he was stronger and more capable than any mortal. And so, he just had to use his higher brain functioning to work out what it meant by him being in an empty classroom in Hogwarts.
It was raining heavily outside the castle, and the sound of it pounding heavily on the weak windows was disturbing the clarity of his mind. It was as if buckets were being thrown onto the windows, making a repetitive but out of time splat- splat—splat-splat and he could barely think through it. The sound was possibly enhanced by the fact that he could see very little; the rain clouds were clearly working as a thick coating over any natural light that might have made its way to him. From what he could tell, however, the room was very empty, perhaps with no furniture at all, and so the cold, damp feeling was quickly latching onto Voldemort and soaking into him until he felt like his very bones were saturated with the damp.
While the rain continued to slam against the windows, there appeared to be a break in the clouds just long enough for the moonlight to shine briefly into the room, illuminating a letter on the flagstone floor that Voldemort was sure had not been there previously. He recognised the letter, sneered in distaste at the looped green writing. It had once provided him with hope of freedom, but once he had arrived at the school he had known that Dumbledore would not be giving him any of the freedom he desired. He did not dare touch the letter, wishing to see where the drea- mind exercise would take him. Since he was in Hogwarts, and facing his Hogwarts acceptance letter, it was obviously something to do with his time in school. Perhaps what Dumbledore had been saying about his childhood to Potter?
Then, without warning, the parchment set furiously alight and burnt out of existence. Voldemort thought long and hard about what troubles this could represent. In a very obvious sense, he supposed that it could mean the ending of his childhood, but, well, Voldemort never really had a childhood in the first place, and it certainly would not have lasted as long as this. Dumbledore had set fire to his wardrobe when he delivered the letter – he had trusted the man, then. But that was the first and last time. Was this to do with trust? Voldemort had to admit it had been bothering him lately. He had had to trust Potter with the information about his horcruxes, and now his childhood on top of that. Potter had once worked alongside Dumbledore, so maybe his subconscious was trying to convince him that it was a mistake to trust Potter as it had been to trust Dumbledore.
Before he could contemplate the letter further, he was distracted by an army of snakes slithering from under the windows, and Voldemort knew that that could not be, as the windows had no holes in them; the snakes seemed to be travelling through the windows like ghosts. Crawling across the floor, they slowly slithered up Voldemort's rigid body, and curled around him comfortingly. He had always found some level of comfort in snakes, perhaps merely because he could talk to them. As a child, snakes had been his only true friends, despite them not being particularly stimulating conversation. They looked upon him in awe, and he was their master; a speaker of their tongue. It had given him such an immense feeling of power that he was almost addicted to it at the time, having never had such power before, and he had always favoured snakes since. The basilisk, especially, had been a lovely comfort to him. She had been gentle with him, considered him to be a nestling as well as a master due to his age, and nurtured his magic. And so as the snakes wrapped around him now, Voldemort felt immediately at peace.
Until the door opened behind him.
He whipped around to see the intruder, and could already feel his peace shatter as he recognised him. This clearly was meant to reflect on experiences with Dumbledore, as the man who entered now was the younger version, still with auburn hair and bright eccentric clothes contrasting deeply with the dampness and darkness of the room they were in, and adding some light; there were candles to his side, flickering wildly despite there being no wind. Something about him was not quite right, however; his look was off.
It took Voldemort a moment to realise (astounded that he had not seen the change the moment he lay his eyes on the blank faced man) that it was the eyes. They were no longer blue, as Voldemort knew them to be, but they were a clear, cutting green.
The green-eyed Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but Voldemort could not understand the words that were coming out. Hissings and raspings and gluttural sounds from the throat were emerging, and while Dumbledore's expression was still blank, the eyes that were not his glowed in intensity. He was speaking parseltongue and Voldemort could not understand it.
Around him, the snakes that had at first felt so comforting started to tighten around his body as if at the instruction of Dumbledore, pulling his arms painfully to his sides, but Voldemort could only feel the tightness growing around his heart, as if the snakes had managed to enter into his body and were attacking only this organ. The rest of him felt numb.
As Voldemort started to feel that he would not be able to take any more, the feeling burst inside him, and he was left with nothing.
The snakes had gone.
Dumbledore was no longer present.
Voldemort was left alone in the room with the pouring rain, and a sinister whisper dancing around the room.
"You will never know..."
At the 102nd European Convention of Dark Magic, held in Athens, a heated debate was taking place. Though there were formal oak tables to sit at with delicately made name plates, perhaps in the hopes of a peaceful and professional session, most of the participants of the debate were stood, their hands smacked down on their table, and looking ready to leap over the desks and throttle whichever person was causing them the most grief. Harry, for his part, was desperately trying to counter or further every point made as the rapid debate went on, attempting to keep it focused to the original issue; that being the support given to the Dark in the potential civil war in Britain. The members of the organisation were almost a random selection, in the sense that they did not all share the same status in their own country. In most countries like Britain, where there was a Light dominated parliament, the representative was usually somebody who was held in great esteem in the country for their Dark magic and politics, such as Harry. In countries where there was a Dark dominated parliament, like Turkey, or an equal parliament, like France, the representative attending was usually a government representative. Some, however, living under particularly oppressive systems, were risking life and limb to be there.
The Swedish representative was red in the face as he spoke out to the listeners, appealing to those sat down and silently observing, and attacking those who were shaking their heads at him.
"This is a ridiculous suggestion!" he cried, hands flying to his head as if in amazement. "Never before has the convention intervened in a civil war such as this, and it is not our place to start doing so!"
"There has never been an event of civil war that has threatened the balance of magic since the convention was set up, certainly not in a country as influential as Britain," Harry quickly pointed out, unsure if he was heard as the Swedish wizard spoke over him.
"Because we all have our own battles to fight!" he went on, gaining some support from other less aggressive representatives. "We can't afford to get involved with a British civil war, as this could very well lead into a world war!"
"Now be sensible!" Harry frowned as concerned mutterings spread around the room. "Just because other countries get involved it doesn't mean that those countries will be targeted themselves. This is a fight for freedom, and if you leave it be, if you allow us to lose, you will feel the repercussions! The light will continue to dominate the majority of Europe!"
A fair few more people nodded in agreement with this.
"But the peace agreements with Britain!" pointed out the Turkish representative and she pointed accusatorily at Harry. "Fighting the Light in Britain is like fighting the government, which would be completely disregarding the treaties! I refuse to betray peace with Britain for such a thing, you only want to cause conflict in our continent!"
Before Harry could get his retort in, another man responded to the woman. "Your loyalty should be to your magic, not your country! We all know Dumbledore's beliefs about the Dark, he would have us extinct if he could! We have a responsibility not only for ourselves but all of our Dark brothers and sisters and creatures that precedes the responsibility that we may have for our nation."
"Exactly!" Harry exclaimed, gesturing to the man. "This fight could severely restrict us and our people worldwide if we do not win, it's more than just money and more than just politics!"
Harry knew, regretfully, that many countries indeed could not afford to become involved in the fight, having weak economies or being repressed by the Light. This, however, was not the case for all of the countries present at this convention, and it certainly did not mean that they could not give their written support as a minimum. The reality was that Britain was just too influential in global politics to argue that this civil war would not make a difference to everybody sat in the room.
Many representatives were now speaking up in his defence, reiterating Harry's primary argument that the Dark magic was in danger on a global scale, despite it seeming such a small conflict, especially from outside of the country's perspective. It would be a fairly quiet war, Harry was sure. It may last no more than one or two years, but the end result would be the start of a new age no matter who won; if Harry and Lord Voldemort were victorious, it would mean the start of a more equal magic in Britain, but if Dumbledore won... an age of increased repression and aggression against Dark magic and its users alike. There was a weight at the pit of Harry's stomach far heavier than it had been during the war against Grindelwald. Grindelwald had resulted in the death of his parents, and had put the Dark at risk of being overcome by the Light because of his methods, but now the Dark was in danger. There was no question of it. And instead of fighting for his parents, Harry would be fighting to protect his friends, his followers, those who had become more like family to him than anyone ever had before. And this only worsened the pressure. But he was older, now, and stronger. He was confident that he would be able to protect them.
After hours and hours of interruptions and exclamations and accusations, Harry's voice having become quite raw, the convention had come to a conclusion. No nation was obligated to be involved in the conflict when it came about, and Harry had no issues with this. It would not do to have politically or economically unstable forces involved. In the first instance of civil war, the nations wishing to be involved would give discreet aid to the Dark forces in Britain, such as funds and safe houses. It was barely agreed, in the final argument of the evening, that once serious moves were made and more intense battles were taking place, threatening the blood of the Dark, the nations involved would publically support volunteer forces travelling to Britain to aid the fight.
It had been a tough battle in itself, Harry having never been part of a convention so violent, and so to ease the tensions, Harry accompanied a few of the representatives to a bar in the city. They did this often after conventions, and there was something of an established group for the evenings out.
They were able to secure the balcony area of an upmarket bar, looking out onto the sea. It was peaceful, away from the stuffiness and the noise further inside. The group had been sat in a comfortable silence before Harry spoke.
"I must say, I do love Greece," he hummed, sipping his whiskey thoughtfully.
There was another silence, though shorter this time.
"Are you going to elaborate, Lord Potter?" teased Lafayette, the French representative, who was swirling her wine in her glass.
"I just love everything about it, I suppose," Harry mused. "The scenery," he gestured to the sea beyond them, "the medical magic is astounding, it never fails to impress me, I like the bars..."
"You like the escorts..." added Jordon, much to the amusement of the group.
"Hey! Now that's unfair," Harry protested, though he was laughing with them. "There are many fine escorts in every country. I am happy to give anyone a try so long as they're treated with fairness."
"Speaking of escorts..." somebody commented.
A selection of male escorts had entered their area, advertising themselves. A few of the group rose to take their leave to one of the private rooms that the bar had to offer, but Harry remained seated, choosing to sit and chat and drink for a while longer, perhaps then just return back to Britain. He did still have a lot to do, after all, and he really was not feeling up to hiring an escort.
"Potter, what are you staying for?" Someone commented. "It's not like you to turn one of these guys down, go on, have your fun!"
"I know, but I'm just not interested tonight. Thanks anyway," he smiled, taking a sip of his drink.
There was a moment of silence.
"Oh!" another person exclaimed. "It's a female escort you're looking for, isn't it? We can arrange some to join us-"
"Really," Harry interrupted. "It's fine."
"I see... Go on then, who is it?"
"What?" Harry asked, confused at the sudden question.
"Who are you saving yourself for? There must be somebody, surely."
"Look, guys, please," Harry begged, "I have enough on my mind as it is, I don't need to be worrying about what's on my cock too. Can a man not sit and have a drink just to take his mind off things?"
The pair that had been harassing him looked at each other.
"Not to tell you how you live your life..." the first one trailed off.
"But the Lord Potter we know would be far more likely to find himself some fun under the present conditions." The other finished.
"Fine," Harry laughed, finishing his drink. "You two think what you want about me not wanting a fuck. Go ahead. So long as you're enjoying your speculations, and I'll be left alone with my own thoughts which will slowly bring me to the brink of insanity with trying to work out how to win a damn war."
As if on cue, one of Harry's followers entered the balcony and made a quick bow.
"My Lord, your presence has been requested."
Harry sighed and put down his drink. "And I'm not even granted that luxury. Enjoy your evening."
It had been snowing heavily, and still was. Thick layers of snow were being heaped upon with blankets and blankets more, and Voldemort found himself mildly irritated by the weather; it was less than convenient for the task that they had set themselves for the day. Nevertheless, they could not leave it any longer. It had been two weeks before both Lord Potter and him had internally established war status, and became allies, and neither of them had wanted to leave their holds without a heavy layer of wards for any longer.
Potter, at least, seemed pleased, Voldemort noted. The man was chatting amiably with his followers, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He had better be telling them what to do, Voldemort thought moodily, unsure if he would be able to keep his temper if the man was gossiping or something equally useless. It would not surprise him.
They had both summoned all of their followers for the task. Of course, warding did not have to be done in large groups, and it very rarely was, but this would make it more powerful. The both of them had been researching into wards, and Voldemort had managed to come across some older warding techniques, where communal living had been more common. They had worked together to improve on the charms for modern day usage, and to make sure that their changes would not influence the effectiveness of the wards. It had been utterly painful, spending more time in Potter's insufferable company, but he had to admit that they had worked a lot more productively than either of them would have alone.
He turned to his own followers, all of which had dressed in heavily wool cloaks for the occasion, and were murmuring among each other, presumably wondering at what they would be doing with Potter's followers.
"You will remove any enchantments you have on you immediately," Voldemort commanded. As soon as the first word had escaped his mouth, they were silent; he did not need to call for attention. "This will interfere with the wards, and I do not want any of you imbeciles to mess this up. Our safety is of the highest priority, and we cannot afford for this to fall flat. Lord Potter and I will be maintaining the bulk of the spell, but you all shall keep your wands raised towards the sky; this will focus your magical energy on contributing to the wards that are being created. You will likely not hear most of the words that Lord Potter and I are saying, and this is intended. When we do shout out a word or a phrase, you will all repeat this. It does not need to be perfectly in time, but there must not be anybody who speaks completely separate from the group. You are to spread yourselves about each property we are warding, so that there is magic concentrated evenly about for the wards to hold. Other than that, it is your task to stay focused on your magic. Is this understood?"
"Yes, My Lord," the group responded in unison.
As he approached Lord Potter, he saw that Potter was indeed briefing his followers on the task, mercifully. Once he had finished, there was a scattered response of "Yes, My Lord" in a completely unorganised manner. Voldemort sneered at the group.
"Lord Voldemort," Potter greeted, unfazed by his hostility. "Are we to begin the fire?"
Voldemort nodded his head once in response, and walked back away from the man, to the furthermost point of the property. He then drew his wand, and began to chant.
"Afi o le puipuiga
Afi o le puipuiga
Afi o le puipuiga"
As he chanted, he paced around the outskirts of the property, marking the border. Soon, where he had pointed his wand, a black fire started to follow him. It creeped, and creeped, and creeped, a scorching black heat against the icy white cold beneath it, but it never caught up with his pace.
The heat of the fire spread across the extent of the space they were warding, the snow becoming wet and mushy beneath his feet by the time he had reached where Potter had started and finished his half of the circle. Once he was sure that Potter had connected the circle of fire completely, he apparated to the roof of the building, and Potter quickly joined him. Potter, fortunately, seemed too involved in his work to make mind-numbing small-talk. Back to back, they stood firmly on the roof, and aimed their wands to the sky, and began to chant in unison.
They had practiced the chanting for hours leading up to this so that there would be no mistakes, and while Voldemort did not think that Potter was anywhere near perfect in the way he ran his life, he could damn well perform spotlessly when it really mattered. They waved their wands around in the air, forming runes from many different cultures, drawing upon their magic, their followers' magic, and the magic of the earth, and a shimmering cover began to form above their heads.
Potter's warding style was a near opposite to Voldemort's; it was the manifestation of chaos, and as he was warding alongside him, he could feel, more than he could see, the mad weave of magic forming, with no apparent structure to it. Voldemort's, on the other hand, was deceptively ordered. It was meant to look so, so that anybody trying to decode the wards would think that they would able to, they would think they could see the pattern, when the true pattern lay beneath in a complicated and tightly woven weave of magical thread. Though the contrast was so stark, it did not come to be a problem; their warding styles complemented each other, their magic dancing to and throw in the air and ducking and diving around each other in a complicated routine that made no sense but looked like perfection. He was so involved in the intricacy of the web that they were weaving that when him and Potter shouted out to their followers', he barely acknowledged their response.
Once they had finished, the property hummed with power, and Voldemort knew that they had been successful. Nobody would even come close to being able to break through the wards.
And so, working on their magical adrenaline, they all apparated to the next hold. And the next. And the next. Repeating the process for every hold that Dumbledore may know of or be able to find out about. This took some time, as Potter had a fair few different bases, and so it had long gone dark by the time they were finished.
"Report to the manor," Voldemort instructed his followers. "You will be presenting your reports to me when I arrive. They had better be good."
They all apparated, just as Potter approached him. He was holding a candle to create some light, and though it must have been charmed to resist the winds, it was quickly dying. Voldemort wandered why the man had not just used his wand, but he could see the faint glow of other candles where his followers were gathered, and so that must have had something to do with it.
"You've sent them off already, have you?" Potter laughed. "That's a shame, they could've had some hot cocoa!" He lifted up what appeared to be a flask. Voldemort blanched.
"What in Merlin's name is that?" Voldemort bit out.
"Hot cocoa! This has been draining work!" Potter exclaimed. "Would you like some?"
"No. I absolutely would not. The Dark Lord Voldemort does not sit around drinking hot cocoa."
Potter just shrugged. "Your loss."
The man conjured himself a mug and began to drink. There was silence. Potter did not leave. Voldemort was considering leaving himself when the man spoke again.
"There's a connotation around the title Dark Lord," Potter mused.
Voldemort just stared at him.
"Everyone, even some of my followers, expects me to be cold, ruthless, careless about anything other than getting my political ideals into the majority belief. They expect me to be... well, like you, I suppose!" he laughed.
Voldemort supposed he should have felt some sense of offense at this, but he did not. After all, it was largely an accurate assessment of his attitudes; he himself believed that these were the appropriate characteristics of a Dark Lord.
"But... I'm not. I'm not that, is that so wrong?"
"No," he responded softly, before he had even thought about doing so. The tenderness of his voice surprised even himself, but Potter seemed unaffected.
"The truth of the matter is that I'm scared. I shouldn't be scared. Dark Lords do not get scared. But I am scared. I'm scared for my people. I'm scared that my followers will get hurt, will get killed. I'm scared that I'll fail them. Is that so wrong?"
He thought before he responded this time. "You won't fail them." It was not particularly in his nature to reassure people, but he truly did believe that Potter would succeed.
The man turned around then, and smiled a brilliant smile at Voldemort. It left an uncomfortable feeling at the pit of his stomach, and yet for some reason he could not bring himself to feel irritated.
"No, we won't fail," Potter agreed. "I suppose you'd better get off to your followers then?"
Voldemort nodded, once. He looked down on Potter for another moment, observing how his smile left his eyes bright despite the darkness, how he had managed to get some chocolate on the corner of his lip, how a small moth which must have been attracted to the light was dancing about his hair. He had never seen somebody look so human. He had never felt so human himself.
Looking away from the man, he apparated to his manor, suddenly a lot less inclined to hear his followers.
This time, a dark forest was illuminated by a blinding white fire. Surrounding the fire was a large group, their loyalty indistinguishable; the followers of both sides had joined together once again, to carry out a group ritual for strength. It had been Harry's idea, a few weeks after the warding, having found the ritual in his studies of group charms, and he felt that it may ease some of the anxiety he had been feeling about protecting his followers. And it was only right, of course, to invite Voldemort's followers too, though the forest could barely hold them; there was a long way over a hundred Dark witches and wizards in total. Harry noted with joy that they all seemed to be getting on quite well, making polite conversation. Voldemort, he could tell, was not feeling so friendly, but it was not of great importance. He was likely just irritated by the friendliness shown by his own followers to Harry's, Voldemort was funny like that.
Despite the sharp white fire which was cutting through the air in a violent manner, the forest was a warm black. They were in the dead centre, and there had not been any signs of life other than the bare trees around them, a few crows flying up above. Despite the complete emptiness of the area, Harry felt a great thrum of power through his body, perhaps in anticipation of the ritual. The magic within him was jumping about, ready for an outlet to present itself. He had always been a powerful wizard; that much had been evident in the powerful outbursts of accidental magic that had occurred under his uncle's abuse. But over the years, he had learnt to tame it, to control it, so most people could not sense it. This was useful, because his type of politics did not work when one party was fearful of the other. Rarely did his magic break free of restraints, but he found that it did so when he was speaking. He was passionate, naturally, and so his magic would seep out and swirl around him excitedly. He suspected that this helped rather a lot with the impact of his speeches; it would not be of great surprise to him if his magic was saturated with compulsion, and it was inevitable that this would influence the audience. Had such a thing been occurring on purpose, Harry had no doubt that he would be caught and fined heavily for such a crime, but it was not something that he could help, and as such, people rarely noticed it.
In anticipation, the large group of Dark witches and wizards starting to form a spiral, with the fire at the centre. Harry and Voldemort were the first two from the fire, as they were undoubtedly the most powerful, and therefore were placed to help centre the magic. The ritual was not difficult, by any means, to complete. Or at least, not for everyone but Harry. Harry would speak, and then Voldemort would speak, and then the person behind him would speak, and so on. Harry, however, had a series of complicated actions to carry out towards the fire. If he went wrong, he went very wrong. Once the ritual was complete, each person had to step into the fire, Harry first. It was appropriate, he supposed, that should he go wrong, he would be the only one to be affected – and by affected, he meant burnt to a crisp – and it was certainly a motivation to focus. He was sure, though, that he would not go wrong. He had practiced it many times, and he had not gone wrong on a ritual in years.
After signalling for silence, the ritual began. Harry felt the magic thrum pleasantly in and out of his body, feeling at peace with its movements. He then lifted his wand, and made the first symbol over the fire.
"Fortitudo ignis" he stated loudly.
After a short pause, Voldemort repeated the phrase, and Harry made the symbol each time it was said around the spiral.
"Dona nobis" he said this time, and stayed attentive as it travelled around in circles. His magic was buzzing inside of him in excitement.
"Rogamus fortitude."
"Rogamus benedictionem."
"Robore silvae."
"Join nobis."
As the last person spoke, Harry felt a warmth go through him from his chest and outwards, settling like perspiration on his skin. His heart was beating rapidly, and he knew that he had done the ritual correctly. He could already feel the power he had gained. But of course, he first needed to walk through the fire; and he did.
It was, unexpectedly, uncomfortably hot. He had thought that he might be completely relieved of the physical effects of fire, but this was not the case. He was not, however, burning to his death, and this was certainly a plus. Once he had walked through, Voldemort followed, and the line progressed around until everybody had walked through the fire. As the last person stepped through, the flames extinguished themselves, and the ritual was complete. Both Harry and Voldemort's followers were practically glowing with excitement, especially Harry's, and they were happily chatting once again with each other, seemingly very pleased at their new strength.
Weaving through the masses, Harry found Voldemort.
"Thank you for the participation of you and your followers in this ritual, Lord Voldemort," Harry said, smiling at the man.
"It was a pleasure, Lord Potter," Voldemort inclined his head, but otherwise appeared impassive.
"Would you be willing to accompany me for some further discussions this evening?" Harry asked, knowing that Voldemort would not appreciate small talk.
Voldemort stared him down for a moment. "Are you just trying to con me into joining you for drinks again?" He accused, eyes narrowed slightly.
"Ah," Harry laughed, feeling himself flush lightly. "I wasn't aware that it was that easy to see through me. Yes, I would like for you to join me for drinks, if you do not have anything of importance to attend to first."
There was a pause, as Harry was so used to by now with the man, and it seemed like he was refraining from sighing; instead he merely breathed out gently. "If giving in to such petty requests makes you easier to work with, then I suppose I shall have to for my own sanity."
Harry grinned at him, suspecting that his attitudes on the matter were not completely sincere. Voldemort enjoyed his company, as much as he would not admit it.
Since Voldemort had participated in the making of the new wards, he was now keyed in and so did not need Harry's assistance to apparate directly into the drawing room. As Voldemort sat down comfortably in what was by now established as his preferred armchair, Harry headed towards the drinks cabinet.
"What do you fancy?" he called behind him as he pulled himself a glass out for whiskey and started to scan the bottles available.
"A red wine will do," Voldemort responded, just as Harry wrapped his hand around a bottle of firewhiskey. "Do you always drink this heavy?" he asked.
Harry froze. It was a completely innocent question, in reality, but it felt a lot like an accusation and weighed heavily down on his chest. Lin's voice rang in his ear about alcohol dependency, and slowly he released his grip on the whiskey bottle. He did not always drink this heavy. But it was becoming increasingly frequent recently. Of course, it was no surprise that Voldemort had noted it – he had a keen eye on everything that went on around him – but it was embarrassing all the same. He replaced the whiskey glass casually, and replaced it with two wine glasses. He was a bloody Dark Lord, he could damn well control his alcohol consumption, surely.
"Not really," Harry responded nonchalantly, though he suspected Voldemort saw right through the casualness of his tone. "It's more of a stress thing."
Voldemort did not respond to his, and Harry was grateful, though he was sure that the man was doing a great many calculations in his head as to Harry's behaviour and the potential meanings of it. Both men sat in silence for a long time, gently sipping at their wine. Voldemort, Harry started to realise, was just as strained as Harry was. He certainly did not look it, of course, having far too much control over his features to reveal such emotion, but he could feel it. After having interacted with Voldemort's magic recently, Harry was beginning to recognise it, and he could tell from this that Voldemort was feeling the stress of the war.
They sat in silence for an hour, in the end. Which was quite something, as Harry liked to talk rather a lot. But at this point, he did not feel inclined to, and so the two men sat quietly, and yet Harry felt like they were bonding all the same. Which, come to think of it, was perhaps not a good thing. Naturally it would make it a lot easier to work together in the upcoming war; that point could not be disputed. But Harry was finding it more and more difficult to ignore the feeling of attraction he had in Voldemort's presence. The man was hot, to put it crudely, and Harry found himself thinking about the Dark Lord when he was alone at night, and even during the day! The strong jaws, the mesmerising eyes – it was everything Harry had in him not to openly stare and start drooling right there and then. More concerning, however, was when he was not thinking about kissing those soft pink lips and biting playfully at his neck and ramming him over the armchair. It would have been completely acceptable and more than natural if those were the only thoughts he had about the man. But he had been thinking about Voldemort's background and his childhood, how he spoke so softly and gentle, how when Harry was stressed sometimes he had the urge to find him and hug him. It was beyond disturbing. He tortures muggles, Harry suddenly thought to himself, as if that would make the other thoughts go away. It did not. It only made them all the more confusing, as he had no idea how he was allowing himself to have such tender thoughts about a man who had committed such terrible acts of bigotry.
Merlin, he needed another drink.
On the topic of muggles though. It needed dealing with, it simply could not be ignored.
"Lord Voldemort," Harry started, and Voldemort tilted his head in acknowledgement. "I am aware that it is a, ah, something of a sensitive topic, but I really feel that there needs to be a discussion on the treatment of muggles."
"No discussion is needed, Lord Potter. They are scum, and thus my followers have every right to treat them as such."
Harry frowned. It was a mystery to him how he would ever bring Voldemort around to his way of seeing, but he hoped that it may still come with age."
"Whether that be the case or not," Harry continued, determined, "public opinion is not exactly on your side. It is still very much frowned upon to kill and torture muggles, and it is almost certainly a good idea to stop doing it while Dumbledore is still a threat. You surely know that the inhumane treatment of muggles is a very effective weapon against our cause."
"Not if nobody is caught," Voldemort responded, looking almost disinterested in the conversation.
"But they do get caught! It was not long ago that two of your followers were arrested for such behaviour!"
Voldemort's eyes darkened at this, and he spoke a little harsher. "That problem has been dealt with, Lord Potter, and is frankly none of your business."
"Do you even want to win this? Or do you just want another excuse to carry out your perverse torture fantasies on others? Because I cannot work alongside you if you insist on this nonsense of mindless torture and murder!"
Voldemort opened his mouth to respond, but Lin opened the door then, bowing to them both. Harry was surprised that Voldemort did not continue to speak anyway, usually not having much consideration for those he perceived lower than him, but perhaps he did not have much of a response.
"My Lord," he greeted.
"What is it, Lin?" he asked.
"We have received a tip that Dumbledore is planning to make an anti-Dark speech within the coming week that will establish his opinion on a war against our kind. It would be my advice to publish our own work, and quickly."
"Thank you, Lin. You may go."
Lin vacated the room, and Harry turned to Voldemort with an exasperated sigh.
"I suppose I have no choice then. But I would appreciate it if we could negotiate the matter further."
"It would be a pleasure," Voldemort said, but Harry could tell he was barely keeping his composure.