Chapter 5
The school year starts up again, and Harry is forced to bid a tearful goodbye to Draco. Voldemort, who relished going to school to escape the orphanage, does not understand the cause for tears.
“Bye bye Draco,” Harry says quietly, his hand still holding Draco’s. For his part, Draco does not know what to do when confronted with such pure goodness directed towards him. “I’ll miss you lots.”
“Goodbye Harry,” Draco says gently, and feels like a cad when fat tears drip from the boy’s eyes. This is amplified with dread, because the dark lord is looking a hot second away from cursing Draco into a slug. “But you mustn’t cry! I will be back for Yule in a few months!”
“P- promise?” Harry gulps, and oh lord, the dark lord is unsheathing his wand. “You won’t l- leave?”
“What? No! No, of course not,” Draco hurriedly soothes the child. “I will even bring you gifts from Hogsmeade.”
“I don’t want gifts,” Harry says quietly, reaching over from Voldemort’s arms to put his small arms around Draco’s neck. “I just want you.”
At this point, Narcissa is unable to control herself, and a single tear escapes her. “Oh, pardon, how unacceptable of me,” she murmurs, and is surprised when Voldemort bands her a hanky. “M- my lord?”
“A handkerchief,” Voldemort elaborates, “for your expulsions.”
“Oh!” Narcissa gasps, and runs off to powder her nose. Voldemort is very happy to not have to contend with the minds of women.
“Harry, we must let Draco go now,” he says to his child. “Draco, I trust you will write?” Translation: write to Harry, or I will boil your toes in molasses.
“Certainly,” Draco says with the ease of someone who has already given the matter thought. This pleases Voldemort, who nods and ceremoniously boots Draco out the door.
“Come, child,” Voldemort says, turning around, “let us go and bother your godfather and his common-law spouse. You may even make the biscuits that you are so fond of.”
“Papa, are Uncle Siri and Uncle Remus married?” Harry asks, starry eyed.
“No. I don’t think that they even know that they have established an ersatz homosexual marriage. Not everyone is as in touch with their emotions as we are.”
***
Yule is a festive occasion that Voldemort actively tries to hide away from, to little success. He has already found Harry’s gift for him - a little handmade book that Harry has made to relate his original story of The Hungry, Hungry, Basilisk, starring his friend, the Friendly Hippogriff.
He has, to Voldemort’s surprise, gotten most of the details about basilisks correct - something that Nagini takes credit for.
Nagini goes on in this vein for some time, until Voldemort concedes and comes up with a potion to ease her shedding process each month.
Narcissa is rather full on with the celebrations, and can be found humming and decorating Harry’s hair with a little wreath, while he braids little mistletoe berries into her long, golden hair.
Voldemort quickly wears a hat.
The situation is not much better at Black’s residence, where the man has made a small fortune from supplying eggnog to his village pub. The muggles don’t know about the mild cheering charm, and it makes everyone rather chirpy afterwards.
Black has made a non-alcoholic eggnog for Harry and Voldemort, who is strangely touched by this gesture.
Ron and Hermione are also there, which confuses the dark lord. “Do you not have your own families? Why are you always here?”
Hermione looks up and explains, “My parents actually have a holiday house in the village. It’s not far for me to travel.”
“But they are sanguine about your spending time in Black and Lupin’s house? In my day, a girl would never come to a gent’s house without a chaperone,” Voldemort says.
“Well, in your day, women wouldn’t be able to show ankle, mate,” Ron says. “Things have changed.”
“Precisely how old do you think I am?” Voldemort seethes, as Harry giggles and tumbles into Lupin’s arms. “I was born in 1926, not the Tudor times.”
“Well Sirius and Remus met mum and papa, and assured them that they would ‘care for me like a daughter’,” Hermione explains. “I think my parents think that they are helping two men who are longing for a child of their own.”
Sirius pauses and frowns. “I have a child. Harry,” he says, pointing at the boy helping to stir a vat of eggnog.
“Yes, but it’s easier letting them assume than explaining that you and Remus are not actually pining for a child to complete your family unit.”
“Remus, what is this bushy haired girl talking about,” Sirius asks, and deliberately fluffs Hermione’s hair even more. “Ha. I used to use that charm on Lily in third year. Made her hair frizz like the dickens. She pushed me into the lake when she found out that it was me.”
“Suitably vicious,” Voldemort opines.
“Uncle Siri, I got you and Uncle Remus gifts!” Harry cried. “Aunt Cissa taught me how to crochet, and I made scarves. Uncle Remus has blue, and you get green, because Aunt Cissa says it’s your favourite colours-“
Sirius has to bite back a screech because Narcissa knows full well that he hates green, and associates it with Snape. However, he smiles now, because Harry has learned how to crochet, his pup is so talented.
“Aunt Cissa says that these skills will help me make a suitable match once I’m older,” Harry prattled on. “I don’t know what that means, is she talking about quidditch matches?”
“I think your Aunt Cissa really wanted a daughter,” Voldemort mutters. “And you don’t need to marry anyone you don’t like, or at all, preferably.”
“Oh lord, you’re one of those,” Remus realizes.
“Those?”
“One of those fathers who’ll chase all of his child’s suitors away,” Remus smiles. “Because no one can be good enough.”
“Who d’you want to marry, pup-pup?” Sirius asks jokingly, and also because he could see the vein in Voldemort’s skull throbbing.
“I’m going to get older, and then I’ll marry Draco, he’s got nice hair and he always helps me put flowers in my hair, even though Uncle Lu says that it’s not proper,” Harry replies easily, as he grates cinnamon into the eggnog, unknowingly causing both Ron and Voldemort equal amounts of emotional damage.
The pair settle on sitting beside each other, drinking eggnog, and looking mournfully into the distance, until Voldemort realizes that Ron is a minor and takes his boozy nog away.
***
Lord Voldemort finds that he is more frequently having to step into the shoes of Thomas Gaunt to fulfill his duties in the Wizengamot, drafting legislation, and political maneuvering. Not to mention claiming the Gaunt lands, which are now a barren wasteland, acres wide.
“I have a lot of land,” Voldemort muses aloud.
“You can plant berries, papa,” Harry suggests. “Tons and tons of berries!”
“Huh.”
***
“Granger.”
“Hello, Voldemort. Oh, nice ring.”
Voldemort smiles at the compliment towards the Peverell ring on his finger. After all, one cannot leave one’s horcruxes around once they have demolished their ancestral shack. “Thank you. I was hoping you could do me a favour.”
“Oh?” Hermione asks, hesitantly. “Would this involve killing, bloodletting, haruspicy, or inferi?”
“No, daft thing. Could you look up the price of imported raspberries and blackberries in the UK, specifically for wizarding Britain?”
“Alright…” Hermione says slowly. “What for?”
“Price gouging.”
***
Gaunt’s Berry Farm has acres of fresh berries, which seemed to grow practically overnight. Voldemort makes Harry Chief Berry Inspector, and every Friday, he takes Harry down to the farm to watch his child pick ripe berries.
The rest, of course, fly into baskets that Voldemort sells to pad his own pockets, and is set aside for a growing trust fund for Harry.
It is a beautiful sight, to see his ancestral lands come alive once more, and his child beaming up at him with a basket full of berries. The oodles of money are nice too.
***
“Granger.”
“Yes, Voldemort?”
“Do me a favour?”
“…okay?”
“Find me a competent accountant who is rather good at keeping their work private, and is in no way related to Lucius Malfoy.”
***
“Hermione said that you needed an accountant.”
“I did not know that you did accounts, Lupin.”
“Oh heavens. I’ve been investing and managing Sirius’ fortune since he was in Azkaban, so that when Harry came of age, he could inherit it.”
“Wait, we’re rich? Moony, what the hell! Then why do we eat pigeons that you catch for lunch, instead of just buying chicken?”
“There is nothing to be ashamed of in living off the land, Sirius.”
“Your dietary habits aside, can you handle a business account, Lupin?”
“Oh sure, let’s see here- oh my, how on earth did you come into so much money?”
“Price gouging,” Voldemort says proudly.
***
The paperwork for his business is quickly becoming rather much. Voldemort quickly decides that he needs to delegate.
“Weasley.”
“Yes?”
“How would you like to make some money?”
“Say more…” Ron says cautiously.
“I need a business manager that is not related to Lucius Malfoy.”
“Say less,” Ron breathes euphorically.
“You’d need to liaise with accounting, and find opportunities to grow the business’ exports, as well as handle local distribution.”
“Sweet, I can do that.”
“You can hire some underlings, too. I’ll allow two.”
“Do you have any objections working with a muggleborn and a Lovegood?”
“The muggleborn is Granger, I’m assuming,” Voldemort says, “and I didn’t think that there were any Lovegoods left after Santandus Lovegood got himself eaten by a feral gnome colony in Germany.”
“Naw, he had a son, old Xeno Lovegood. Luna’s his daughter, and she travels a lot, has loads of contacts.”
“Santandus Lovegood procreated? Good grief.”
“But yeah, I’ll run your business. Let’s talk salary.”
***
“Ron and I are not going to be full time employees until we graduate, we still need to focus on our studies, and we have NEWTs next year,” Hermione says, as Ron looks upset next to her.
“You’re raining on my parade, woman,” Voldemort growls at Hermione.
“Either it’s part time for now, or you’ll have to go through Lucius Malfoy.”
“…part time it is.”
***
“Papa, would you like to have some berry jam with your toast? I made it myself,” Harry says, beaming up at the dark lord. There is a gooey little smudge on his nose, and Voldmort licks his finger and wipes off.
“Thank you, I shall,” he says, and finds that he enjoys the sweet and tart flavour of the home made jam.
“He likes it!” Harry calls to the house elves in the kitchens, who cheer and applaud themselves.
“Perhaps a little more lemon,” Voldemort calls to the elves, who blink happily and waggle their ears at him sweetly.
Voldemort thinks that his conquest of wizarding Britain wasn’t meant to make everyone so happy, but he’ll take it as a win.
***
“Hi!”
Avery looks up from his newspaper, and then down to where Harry is sitting next to him on the sofa. “Hello,” he replies, a smile coming unbidden to his lips at the boy’s dimpled grin.
“Aunt Cissa says that you’re marrying papa,” Harry gabbled. “Does that mean that you’re also going to be my papa?”
Avery’s brain short circuits as he contemplates his future. “I… I suppose,” he hazards, and is briefly blinded by Harry’s grin. “If your papa lets me. He is rather the possessive sort.”
***
“Harry asked me if I was going to be his papa once we are married.”
“I am his papa,” Voldemort glares at Avery, and yup, he totally called it. “You can be his unfortunate looking mother or something.”
***
To really drive the point home, Voldemort places two pictures on Harry’s bedside table - one of the Potters, who look up at him questioningly before seeing Harry and waving happily - and another of himself with Avery, the latter of whom is looking dubiously at Voldemort.
There is also a small picture of Sirius and Remus in the sock drawer, which Harry giggles at and then puts next to Voldemort’s.
Harry is thrilled by the pictures and tells Sirius, who looks strangely at Voldemort before wordlessly handing him another cup of tea.
***
“What on earth is a Wheezy?”
“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,” Ron corrects him. “I made a deal with my brothers, they own the shop. For every purchase of a Pygmy Puff, you can buy a jar of Gaunt Jam at half price. Puffskeins eat Berries anyway, so they’re marketing it as pet food for half the cost. It’s making us good money, and your old stock is clearing out.”
Voldemort is suitably impressed and pats himself on the back for making good hiring decisions, while Hermione has to pat Ron’s for him.