Chapter 8
Harry hadn't missed Press Conferences.
He hadn't missed the aggressive flash of cameras in his face, almost blinding him beneath them. Voldemort, the insufferable bastard, was utterly unfazed. Barely even blinked.
Harry still remembered their first proper planned press conference. Tom had been calm then too, as charming as he always was but he'd spent the whole of the night before going over what to say then too. Agitated.
It was pretty much Tom's way of showing nerves; to study and poke something to death in the details. Make sure he had every single possible avenue covered, and to keep going over it even when they both knew it was practiced perfect.
The press swirled around them like vultures, and Harry hated it even more now than he did back then. Before, the flashes of lights had been irritating, unnerving in their voracious demands for attention.
Now, they reminded him of things that he shouldn't be reminded of. Flares in the night, the flash of spells searing past his skin on the battlefield. He bit the inside of his mouth so hard that copper flooded his mouth.
He could feel Voldemort's eyes resting on him for a moment, as they sat down.
The interviewers leaned forward hungrily in their seats. Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort answering questions? It was front page.
All things considered – Harry hadn't had breakfast. He'd had an ache in his chest when he woke up to the smell of coffee and cinnamon.
It had been years since he'd had cinnamon in his coffee, though it had been his favourite at Hogwarts. Voldemort had sent the fresh cup over with his house elf at breakfast, because anyone who had seen him in the morning knew he was hardly going to manage any level of diplomacy before at least a cup.
It hurt that the man remembered all the small, stupid details like coffee preferences (Tom preferred tea) as well as he did. It was such a nice gesture that he wanted to slap the bastard Dark Lord.
Even worse, was that Voldemort had made no mention of it when he saw it; acted like it was their normal routine still. As if the years between had never happened.
Bastard. Absolute tosser.
The press packs had already been sent out to the journalists attending, and thankfully Voldemort was going first as the conference started.
"Good morning, thank you for taking the time to attend," he said. "As you know, Mr Potter and I are here to answer your questions regarding the recent crisis at the Paris Peace Meetings, and the intentions of our opposing factions within the truce that has been established."
Harry's eyes scanned the crowd, because for all he didn't like politics and wasn't as good at it as Tom, watching a room was second nature to him. He was a Slytherin too, for all of his Gryffindor traits.
"Our team has been busy attempting to identify the source path of the poison – which we have established to be a peculiar chemical compound that mimics the structures of cyanide. We have yet to ascertain who is behind the attack, though due to the large number of victims we have concluded it to be one of terrorism as opposed to a more direct assassination attempt. Our next steps will include continuing to investigate how the poison found its way through the Parisian security checks, as we work in conjunction with their government to neutralize this threat as quickly as possible."
Harry continued to listen as Voldemort talked for a moment longer, beginning to reassure people of their safety and opening the floor up for questions.
"Mr Potter - Lecrutia Black, from the Daily Prophet." He knew her, of course. Dark haired girl in their year, a fellow Slytherin. She had taken quite the fancy to him, at one point. "How is it that we know that this terrorism is not the cause of your resistance? You have been strongly affiliated with anti-government action, the most recent being the destruction of Diagon Alley and damage to over 25 thousand galleons worth of civilian merchandise."
Harry barely refrained from grimacing, though Voldemort had already anticipated this question. They both had.
"The resistance's aims are not to cause terror, merely to protest the rhetoric of Blood Purity currently invading the structures of society. I would happily reimburse any civilians who came to harm through our actions. Unfortunately, I am currently frozen out of my Gringott's accounts."
He could practically feel Voldemort's desire to throttle him for that not entirely planned last comment, but continued undeterred.
"An attack on a peace treaty is not in line with our intentions, and manifesto, to put it frankly. It would do nothing to further the aims of the resistance."
His eyes flicked around the room again, noting a shift in the corner of the room. They returned to Black as she spoke once more.
"And what of assassination?"
"If I was to attempt assassination, I dare say I would have attacked my target already," Harry said, tone carefully controlled, a bit dry. "Poisoning a whole room of officials seems overly elaborate when I could merely throw a blasting curse across the conference table."
"I can assure you, Miss Black," Voldemort stated, before he could talk further about such a topic. "Mr Potter's resistance is not behind this attack. They would not have the means with which to successfully pull off the scale or complexity of the plan."
And now Harry was the one wanting to throttle him. It was payback for the comment about his Gringott's account, he knew. Bloody hell, they probably should stick to their planned scripts or this was going to implode quickly. His fists clenched under the water, and he took a sip of water to calm himself.
His eyes flicked to the shifting corner of the room again, drawn to it by some instinct.
"Robert Skeeter, Witch Weekly. To the Dark Lord; does your newfound truce have anything to do with the rumoured sexual relationship between the two of you during your school years? Letting a known terrorist involve himself within national affairs hardly seems to follow your usual procedure."
The air could have been cut with a knife. Had he said he wanted to throttle Voldemort? It was nothing compared to know. Of course, something of this angle was to be expected, but Skeeter still gave a self-satisfied sort of smile.
"No, it does not," Voldemort stated. "Though of course, it is known that Mr Potter and I used to be close friends, any further relationship between us only alleged, that has little bearing on either of our political activity which takes precedent over such sentiments. Moreover, the national affairs in question deal with a significant and potentially global level of threat and so-"
Harry had been distracted by the crowd again. The shifting in the corner. It had been nagging at him.
The next second, on that instinct alone as Voldemort continued to deal with the onslaught of sudden questions regarding the alleged relationship (of which most reporters had been wary, they'd counted and hoped on, to approach considering Voldemort was known as a dangerous, murder-capable Dark Lord and Harry himself as an armed and incredibly deadly militant) he'd lunged across the table and shoved them both to the floor.
The screen behind them exploded with the spell, sending people screaming and shards of shrapnel flying everywhere. Harry swore under his breath, but then immediately snapped into a familiar battle mode.
He kept an iron grip on the back of Voldemort's neck, forcing him down low against the floor because it was pretty obvious who that curse had been aimed for. Unfortunate timing outside.
He looked up through the lingering smoke to see that the conference room had been all but flooded with hooded figures – white robed, with black masks. It was like a parody of Voldemort's forces, an inversion on the design of the Death Eaters.
Harry could see Abraxas already looking around for his lord, trying not to look panicked though his immaculate hair was wildly dishevelled. Harry didn't hesitate to leap into action, wand already in his hand.
"Get out of here," he instructed, distractedly. Tom grabbed hold of his arm, and Harry manoeuvred them quickly so he had the idiot politician slammed up behind cover again. Through himself forward to brace them as another spell narrowly missed where the Dark Lord's head had just been.
"Go," Harry repeated, in a hiss. "You're a liability here. It's you they're after. Fuck you, you're putting civilians in danger if you stay and I am not negotiating with you on that. I'll deal with this." There was absolutely no room for disobedience in his tone, and he shoved Tom at Alphard as he appeared with the security detail. "Get him out of here," he ordered again, to Black this time.
He trusted Alphard. And he trusted Tom to defend himself too – that had never been a problem. Voldemort was a lethal dueller; truly formidable, somewhat mesmerizing to watch.
But Harry was the soldier here. And the point remained that Voldemort's presence would not help the situation.
Tom had always been a politician and a visionary first, regardless of his skills on a battlefield.
"Harry-" Tom began. He had already thrown himself into battle with the white hooded figures instead, the words swallowed by the cacophony around them.
Harry slashed his wand down, knocking several of the reporters aside as he constructed a large shield charm. It was one Hermione had invented, to minimize the possibility of unnecessary damage in the resistance's attacks.
He looked for a way to get people out there, even as he felt the anti-apparation wards rise around him like prison bars. Evacuate and protect, that had to be his first priority.
And then to interrogate - by whatever means necessary.
When he glanced back behind him, Voldemort was gone.
If Harry had enamoured him all over again during the truce meeting, by throwing the cloak of Tom's own field of expertise upon his shoulders and wearing it well…
It failed to compare to watching Harry on a battlefield.
If war was theatre, and if Tom himself took the stage and the performance, then Harry took the operating theatre.
The grisly truth of it all, up close and ugly.
It took his breath away every time he saw it. The raw, radiated power. Harry's expression was dramatically different from the normal warmth and sense of good-natured easy goingness that he always projected.
He was beautiful. Exquisite. Never so perfect as he was whipping through the crowd of his enemies with a deadly grace.
Tom's angel of death.
Harry was just never supposed to turn his judgment on him, his condemnation. Damnation, perhaps.
It made him want him want to shove Harry up against the nearest surface and take him like nothing else did, really. Kiss him hard, and snatch up that ferocity and feel it in the pressure of Harry's hands as they gripped him tight. Feel it soften too, and melt away the jagged contours of the world like the first rays of morning.
But that could hardly be the point right now.
Voldemort would have been indignant to leave such a compelling sight, let alone when he was ordered to do so. He was the Dark Lord, he was in control of the entire country and most of its populace. Nobody should have been giving him orders, let alone the leader of the terrorist opposition.
Not to mention, it hardly benefited him to let Harry be seen defending his people, whilst he himself fled like a seeming coward. Regardless of the – admittedly sound strategy – behind Harry's commands on the matter.
Harry could get hurt if he stayed to fight on his own.
But that was hardly supposed to be his largest consideration either. It wasn't his largest consideration. How Harry would react to him disobeying or obeying the command was completely irrelevant too.
Salazar, he should have killed Harry when he had the chance. Or let him die at the peace treaty.
Alphard gave him an apologetic look, and shoved a portkey into his hand as they disappeared from the scene.
As Harry had suspected, the brunt of murder vanished with Voldemort's absence.
The Dark Lord was definitely the target, to whatever was going on here.
But it wasn't his resistance. So who was this player? The same people who had attacked the Paris treaty meeting…or someone else entirely?
Harry couldn't decide which was a more ominous thought.
His breathing was heavy as he continued to fight back, determined to take at least one of them alive for his questioning. He couldn't let them slip through his fingers.
But it was very odd to be working alongside the forces and guards who had hunted him down not so long ago.
Harry snarled as he felt the anti-apparation wards fall, lunging forwards. He managed to grab hold of one of them, tearing the black mask off. Only to stare, wide-eyed.
It felt like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer, and he had no idea why.
Blue eyes stared back at him, with something frighteningly similar to the churning mess in side of him. Pale, freckled skin, and a flame of red hair.
Harry had never seen the man before in his life.
But he felt like he was going to be sick.
"Sorry, Harry. It's for the best – you'll see."
The man grabbed the mask from his suddenly slack fingers, and that snapped Harry out of whatever weird pit of inaction he'd fallen into. He started to curse, furious, making a grab for the man again as he disapparated with a crack right in front of him.
Harry's mouth felt dry. His mind spinning, heart hammering in his chest.
He could feel the battle winding down around him. Some civilians injured, one dead, but it was nowhere near as bad as it could have been.
But it wasn't great. The only evidence they had were corpses, and even as Harry stepped towards them in hopes of identification, the bodies started to burn.
It was a mess. A bloody mess.
"Harry!" He heard Hermione shout behind him, having apparently just arrived. "Voldemort informed us what was happening. We came straight here. What were you thinking trying to take the situation on alone!" She thumped him on the arm, ashen faced.
"Voldemort? He's supposed to be in his safe house by now." Harry's brow furrowed. His words sounded distant. He felt numb.
Maybe it was just the customary adrenaline crash.
Hermione caught his arm, expression softening.
"Are you hurt?" she asked. "Come on, we should get you checked over."
Harry shook his head.
"I'm fine."
"Harry-" she began, exasperatedly.
"No, I really am fine this time. Honest," Harry held his hands up in a placating gesture. "It was more of a scrape than a battle. It was Voldemort they were trying to kill, not me."
She was looking at him with an odd expression on her face, and Harry scowled. Took a step back.
"What happened?" she questioned instead. Harry rubbed his eyes tiredly. God, he wished more than anything that he knew the answer to that.
"Well," he replied. "I think we made the front page."