Chapter 9
"You're no longer with Tom?"
Harry should have expected this, really, but he hadn't expected to be found so quickly. Perhaps he should have known better than to think he could sit in the pub and enjoy a drink.
Or, if not enjoy it, use it to drown out the frantic mull of his thoughts and the raw ache in his chest.
"I thought we were not supposed to call his royal highness under such a common name," he said, in order to avoid directly getting into that other conversation. His eyes flicked to the side, watching Abraxas as he hovered beside him.
Malfoy looked thoroughly disgusted to be in such a muggle place as this at all, so maybe it said something that he'd bothered to come. It did nothing to make Harry feel better right now though.
The blond sat down without being asked, mercury eyes fixed unforgivingly upon his face.
"Did he end it, or did you?" Abraxas demanded, with a careful sort of neutrality. Harry resisted the urge to sigh, and took another sip of his drink. He could feel a headache blooming.
"I did. No, I don't have any intentions of crawling back and begging for forgiveness."
"I wasn't going to suggest it – I know you well enough to know it would do no good. You're a very proud man, Harry Potter," Abraxas murmured.
Harry glanced over again at that, finger spinning the rim of his glass.
"Tom didn't send you to persuade me back?" he checked. Abraxas said nothing in response to that, studying him with hooded eyes.
"Do you have any intentions of not crawling back?" Harry ventured, instead, as the somewhat unnerving silence stretched. He phrased it lightly, flippantly. Turned his gaze back to his glass; but he didn't need to look to feel Abraxas stiffen fractionally next to him.
"Don't." The words were practically hissed out, through clenched teeth. "That's – just don't, Harry. I'm not you. Don't even talk about such things, and don't you dare ask Alphard. There'll come a time when you can have your life terminated for less."
The room was warm with chatter, so removed from Harry's own mood currently.
"You think it was easy for me to leave him?"
Abraxas sagged next to him, at that remark, ordering himself a drink.
"You still left. There are many among us who won't forgive you for it. He's-" Abraxas cut himself off, going silent for a moment. "There's a war coming, Harry," Abraxas continued, seemingly on a different track entirely. "You know that, don't you? You can feel it too. Is that why you left?"
"I can't fight for Blood Purity. I won't."
"He's better with you. At least, there are plenty who certainly think so." If Malfoy's tone was careful before, it was nothing compared to the way it was now. "I know Prince does. Lestrange does, however reluctantly he admires you."
Harry nearly threw the glass, hands clenching in his lap instead as he shot Abraxas a look that had the man's posture straightening abruptly, though he remained blank-faced.
Of course he did. Abraxas Malfoy was a stoic bastard in his maturity.
"I take it I can include you among those who will never forgive me for leaving him?" Harry asked bitterly.
"As I said," Abraxas said, softly now. "You're a very proud man. Perhaps too proud."
"And dearest Tom is, of course, a god with no need for modesty, right? He can do no wrong."
There was a bad taste in his mouth – but he'd made his decision, and hadn't chosen nearly as lightly as he was sure many would assume.
"I cannot force you to stay." Malfoy's tone was more business-like now, as the blond turned to face him more squarely on the chair. "But you know who my loyalty belongs to. Who it must belong to." His expression was like frost, no apology or kindness left in his posture. "If you leave, don't ever come back, Potter. Don't you even dare do that to him. If you return to us, do so now. Because I will not let you do it later."
"You won't let me? My, I'd almost think you were in love with him yourself," Harry replied. A spot of furious colour appeared on Abraxas' cheeks.
The blond stood up, looking down at him haughtily.
Harry wanted to snarl, standing up too, shoulders squared, itching for his wand.
"You know perfectly well that I never…agreed with our lord in his relationship with you. The way the two of you carry on…" Abraxas looked like he'd smelt something foul. The ache in Harry's chest seemed to only spread. "But we are not school boys anymore, Potter. Things have changed."
"So I noticed," Harry replied curtly. Malfoy's eyes flicked over him once more.
"So, regardless of my personal feelings on the matter, make it a clean break. Or don't make it a break at all. However, I will not stand to see you half-heartedly toy with him. Do not make a spectacle of this mess, regardless of your private feelings. I like you, Harry, despite your…well." Malfoy smiled now, tightly, hands tucking behind his back. "And I say this because I like you. Don't make this war between us. You know I'm doing the PR for his campaign."
Harry's eyes narrowed and Malfoy paled, even as he drew himself up to a taller height to compensate.
"We're not schoolboys anymore, Malfoy," he countered, oh so softly. "Careful now. I'd so hate to think you were trying to threaten me. Especially when I'm already in so jovial a mood."
Malfoy's hand clenched around his wand, and Harry raised his brows, looking at him impassively.
"If you care about him, you will do as I ask."
The blond left without finishing his drink.
"I heard all about the attack, are you alright? Êtes-vous bien?"
Dufort was sickeningly transparent in his fawning, eyes fixed on Harry's face as if he was a sight of wondrous beauty, something to be cherished and protected.
Which, whilst it was true that Harry had grown up handsome, and he could understand wanting to capture the resistance leader before someone else did (in more ways than one) that was hardly the point. Harry was not some fragile little flower, to need the type of protection Dufort looked like he wanted to give him.
Harry would go mad on that type of life – and Dufort was not strong enough to be able to tame his former lover, if he wanted to give him that type of life anyway.
Still.
"We are fine, merci," He stated, stepping up behind Harry and spearing with Dufort with a cold glance. Dufort's gaze seemed to drag most reluctantly to meet his. He nearly placed and tightened a hand on Harry's shoulder in response, something hot coiled dangerously in his gut.
He hadn't said anything to Harry, upon his return from the 'battlefield.' There wasn't time, before their next engagement. Well, there was time. But he hadn't said anything. There were too many people around for either of them to speak openly, besides – and it was easy enough to ascertain that Harry was unharmed by the events of the morning.
So the silence brewed between them.
Dufort gestured for them to sit down, in the conference room where there meeting was to take place. They both sank into their seats, and for a moment, they both just surveyed the Frenchman.
He couldn't help but think Harry was going out of his way to avoid looking at him.
"I see the rumours of the truce between your forces is true," Dufort began "Certainly, the Parisian papers were full of the most intriguing photographs and stories of Lord Voldemort carrying an unconscious Harry Potter out of the truce meetings. Perhaps you were intuitive to remain in Britain, Mr Potter."
Voldemort's eyes flashed. He decided, for now, it was best not to consider what the English papers would be full of tomorrow morning. There was something in Dufort's expression, as he looked at Harry.
Maybe Harry was right about the unprofessionalism, because he really could not stop himself from rearing up at that comment, like a spitting cobra.
But that thought did nothing to ease his quickly growing-black mood.
"Currently, I find the fact that he was unconscious and poisoned during a peace treaty arranged to take place in your city to be far more interesting, Monsieur," he stated coldly, before Harry had the opportunity to speak. "And far more worthy of my time than idle gossip. Don't you agree?"
Dufort blinked, gave Harry a half-glance and hurriedly sorted out his papers, straightening in his seat.
Harry was, a little suspiciously, silent.
"We have been examining the source of the poison, the possible pathways for it to have entered the meetings," Dufort said stiffly. "We interrogated the kitchen staff, of course, along with conducting informal interviews with the other guests as suggested by Mr Potter."
"And?" Harry leaned forward. Tom watched Dufort's face carefully.
"The poison was contaminating the food, but by all our investigation we can conclude that this contamination occurred only when the food was already in the meeting one. The kitchen staff were all unaware of it, and the food was tested before being used as an ingredient."
"So it would have had to be added manually, when the meetings were in process," Harry summarized. "Presumably by one of the guests, as I suspected."
The French themselves, seemed a likely suspect. Or at least, someone within Dufort's circle. They had motive to want him dead, if this was truly an attack on him, considering the possibility of his attacking their country in his expansion plan.
Really, if a certain rebel leader hadn't destroyed his Birmingham factories, this wouldn't have happened. So, really, it was all Potter's fault.
"Do you have a more specific suspect?" Voldemort questioned.
A truce treaty, the wards, and everything was however designed for assassination attempts to be impossible. If he had truly been the target (as he would have been, if the Parisian attack and the assassination of this morning were linked) why would someone choose such an elaborate method of murder? There were plenty of other opportunities.
Easier ones, even – as much as killing him would ever be easier. He prided himself on his meticulousness. All in all, it suggested that there was something specifically about the peace treaty, about everyone there, which had been targeted.
Unfortunately, that left him with two problems. A global one, and a more personal one of people actively trying to kill him. Again. It would have been far easier to fell two birds with one stone, but oh well. He was good at finding silver linings.
"I'm afraid not," Dufort replied. "Though, of course, it would depend too on the motives behind the attack. Which we concurred were terrorism, as you no doubt remember." The tone was cool, bristled like Dufort was aware of the dangerous possibility of being accused himself.
Harry frowned slightly.
"Obviously the culprit is somebody likely to suffer if the country goes to peace. Perhaps someone working in security, or some form of magical weapon trade," the green-eyed man reasoned. "In which case I believe I will look more closely to the American and Russian ambassadors, and their histories. I may try and contact the leading Russian resistance, as they'd been fairly active recently."
Fantastic. That was all he needed – Harry talking to more resistances and getting even more defiant. Whilst Harry's defiance was a thing of untamed beauty, like a stallion that had yet to be broken in, it was not something he could afford right now to indulge.
"Excellent," Dufort said.
"I maintain it is possible for seeming terrorist activity to mask deeper or more specific motivations," he interrupted. "We cannot rule out something more specific, regardless of what the press is told."
"Of course, my lord," Dufort responded. "But that seems unlikely. This does seem an inordinate amount of effort to go to. Our security would not have been easy to get through."
Clearly it was. He levelled the Frenchman with a look, not quite openly scathing but certainly a mild question as to how such great security was apparently so disasterously unsecure as to bring about this disaster.
Dufort flushed.
The meeting continued.
"Thank you for your time," Harry smiled, bright and deliberately innocent. He leant forward to shake Dufort's hand firmly.
He didn't think Dufort was behind this. That didn't mean he wasn't going to be useful, and the man's interest in him was more than evident.
Seeing as Voldemort – bastardbastardbastard – had seen fit to talk over him as if he was incapable, weak and in need of a mouthpiece, he would nonetheless use it to his advantage now.
It was even familiar in a way, to the small time he'd once spent at Tom's side on the political playing field before. People looked at Tom, admired and coveted and trembled beneath his power.
They looked at Harry and for some bloody annoying reason assumed he was the more harmless one out of the two of them. The weak link.
He'd learnt to utilize their ignorance. Even if it still annoyed him, especially now when he knew for a fact that his own reputation was hardly insignificant. Really, just because he didn't feel need to strut around aggressively like an overly proud peacock like some people didn't make him weaker. Meeker. Merlin.
"By all means, thank you for being on board with the investigation," Dufort replied, watching him in that way of his. Harry tilted his head.
"I am sorry that our time together has been so riddled with misfortune. It would have been nice to meet under better circumstances," he said. "I shall no doubt be spending some time in Paris as the investigation proceeds…"
He left it hanging. Dufort's smile broadened.
"I would be delighted to entertain you, Harry. Should you find yourself with the time."
"I'll await your missive warmly." He bent low, in one quick sharp gesture, as was the custom among the higher levels of French wizarding society, brushing his lips against the man's hand, before straightening and turning away.
"You are utterly transparent, Potter," Voldemort said, as they were leaving, jaw tight.
"Oh, someone's transparent," he replied, in an entirely too cheerful tone, "but I don't think it's me."
So maybe, despite his mind being clouded and occupied by the redheaded stranger from the attack, he could still find some vindictive delight in tormenting Tom. But really, it wasn't his fault if the man was still so bloody possessive and easily jealous.
With a crack, they arrived back at Voldemort's headquarters, and Harry's mind had turned immediately away from Tom and onto his resistance, and the varying tasks he had set them. And, of course, to his own tasks of investigating Mr Michael Grayson, and Viktoria Alkaev. He'd have to see if he could set up a meeting. He'd talked to them a little at the truce dinner – though not together, obviously.
It was no secret that affairs between the Russians and the Americans were tense indeed. He was sure they were busy trying to ensure matters did not flare between their two countries, after the whole poisoning affair.
He paused as Abraxas swept towards them across the hall. More, he paused at the woman at her side. She was small, and more pretty than she was beautiful. Soft-seeming, but dignified.
Harry immediately had a lurch in his gut.
"My lord," Abraxas smiled, "I'm glad I could catch you. There is someone I would like you to meet – this is Miss Evelyn Rowle. Miss Rowle, may I introduce you to Lord Voldemort, our esteemed leader."
Rowle. Pureblood family. Very strongly pureblood family. He recognized her, vaguely, from Hogwarts.
Tom's lips stretched in a mimic of his smile, as he inclined his head. It still had a hint of his old charm, but the face was different now. He was rather amazed that Miss Rowle simply gave a demure, lovely smile back.
"The pleasure's all mine," he murmured. Harry knew that tone all too well. Could imagine how electrified Miss Rowle felt.
Certainly, she was someone who would make a perfect trophy wife. Not that he was bitter. He caught Abraxas' eye briefly.
"This, Miss Rowle, is Harry Potter. You have heard of the recent truce between the rebel forces and our Lord, of course…" Abraxas waved a hand in his direction. She nodded her head at him, instead of curtsying like she'd done for the Dark Lord.
"I've heard a lot about you, Mr Potter," she murmured, offering her hand to him, obviously intending for him to politely kiss her knuckle. He caught her hand and shook instead, watching her eyes flicker, head tilt.
"All bad, I would imagine," he returned lightly. "Excuse me, I'm rather busy. It was nice to make your acquaintance." The old customs and manners fell easily enough off his tongue, even now.
He felt cold.
"Miss Rowle was just expressing her admiration for the gardens, my lord," Abraxas said, quickly. Managing not to sound like he was hurrying to speak before Tom or himself could say anything further. "I suggested that you might like, later if you are busy now, to accompany her for a stroll. The rose garden is beginning to bloom exquisitely for the season."
Tom and Miss Rowle walking among the roses in the evening. How perfectly charming.
He vanished to his far more important work before he had to listen to the reply.
"Have you ever heard of knocking?" He didn't need to look up to know who had entered his room, later than evening.
He was bent over 'his' desk, going over all the records he could get on his ambassadors of choice, before he met with them again. No point going in blind.
Of course, Hermione had researched everyone at the truce meeting for him the first time, but their conditions were hardly the easiest for an extensive search.
"Vaguely," Voldemort replied. He heard the door swing shut behind the Dark Lord. "I noticed you escaped Miss Rowle's company rather hastily this afternoon."
"The sooner this poisoning affair is solved, the sooner this farce of a truce can end. Have you managed to make any progress on the case?" Harry asked, instead.
In an instant, Harry was yanked up and pressed flush against the wall of his quarters. Tom slammed hands pinned above his head, and savage lips crushed against his own, warm in comparison to the cold stone at his back.
Harry hated how Tom seemed to fit just as well pressed against him now as he had done all those years ago, as if every line and inch of their bodies were perfectly moulded like two halves slipping together. At least, until sharp elbows and knees and teeth and nails got involved.
His eyes widened, and for a second he felt like he was going to liquify. He'd put it down to shock, a small moan of surprise escaping his mouth.
Then realization struck, and he snarled.
As if anticipating his next move, the Dark Lord's fingers curled in his hair, shoving him back more firmly against the wall, leaving him craning his head up, back arching involuntarily with the contortion of his neck. His hips pressed against Tom's, dizzyingly, as the Dark Lord ground him further against the wall.
And he was unable to turn his head away as planned.
His hands strained against the fingers trapping his wrists in place, nails clawing against Tom's hands as he made another sound somewhere between extreme disgruntlement and...something entirely on the other end of the spectrum of emotions.
His thoughts were racing, even as he could hardly think straight all - any noise they made was muffled in each other's mouths besides. There was nothing kind about the kiss. If it could be called a kiss and not a particularly talented assault on his mouth.
Harry parted his lips after a moment, and Tom immediately took the bait. The next second Harry had bit down warningly, hard, without mercy and the other man recoiled, leaving the taste of copper in Harry's mouth.
They were both panting, heavily. Tom's – Voldemort's – eyes were hooded, black devouring up that unnerving scarlet. He felt like they devoured him up a bit too.
Harry flattened himself against the wall, furiously jutting his chin up a little. He opened his mouth to speak.
The next second, Tom's mouth had claimed his again, utterly undeterred as he nipped Harry's lower lip between his teeth, drawing a hiss. Heat rose in his chest, despite himself.
The same urges as always, to fight and kiss and settle in stolen snatches of peace after. To claim and possess in turn.
Dangerous.
Harry didn't bother with further warnings; couldn't afford to do this longer, because each passing moment made it harder to pull himself out of the other man's centre of gravity.
Really, he should have known better than to think such a gesture as biting would work with Tom.
In a split second he'd swept Tom's ankles from beneath him, felt the other man grab his shirt to bring him lurching down with him, only for Harry to use the motion to spin them and slam the Dark Lord hard into the wall.
The former Slytherin groaned, and Harry shoved his forearm into Tom's windpipe before he could react further.
"No."
It was the word that made his once lover go still. At least that hadn't changed.
Considering they'd fought so often, and that the violence and power play had been imbued so deeply within their lovemaking, Harry had learnt very quickly at Hogwarts that struggling had absolutely no effect in making Tom stop. The bastard simply could not seem to differentiate with Harry tousling with him as part of their everyday, and genuinely fighting to get him off.
So he'd made bloody well sure Tom respected verbal commands when it came to this.
They stared at each other for a moment, chests heaving. Tom's eyes flicked hungrily over his lips, over his eyes – drinking up every part of him like fine wine.
"-You were exquisite today," Tom said, just as he was about to speak again, to shout his rage at the situation. Red eyes were aflame with his fervour, so different to the ice it normally was, voice reverent in a way Harry had never expected to hear again.
Yet dark, too. Merciless and demanding.
It made his insides squeeze.
"I didn't do it for you. There were civilians in trouble." He hated that his voice was just a little hoarse. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he hated that too.
He removed his arm from Tom's throat, taking a step back, and rolling out his shoulders. The Dark Lord straightened and smoothed out his shirt in turn, still staring at him – unblinking.
"I know."
Most of all, Harry hated that now, with the distance between them, he felt cold all over and wanted nothing more than to close the space again.
"I'd prefer it, too, if you did not kiss me to show your appreciations." Harry forced his tone to be flat, as icy as the look on Voldemort's face. "You, presumably, have a fiancé and I am pretty sure that I have made it more than clear that I-"
"Oh, I dare you to finish that sentence," Tom murmured, viciously. "Please, do, Harry. Tell me how you want nothing to do with me as if your heart isn't about to burst out of your chest. As if you don't feel sick imagining me walking through the garden – our garden – with somebody who isn't you."
What the fucking hell was bringing this on? His eyes narrowed.
"Goodnight, Voldemort. It is late. I was just about to turn in. I would really prefer that you left now."
Just like on the battlefield, his tone brooked no argument. He was not, however, stupid enough to turn his back dismissively. However much he wanted to.
Voldemort advanced a few, slow steps towards him, and Harry's wand hit the palm of his hand.
"It would be so…so much easier for you, if you would just surrender, Harry."
"Surrender's not really in my forte, sorry." He watched the man warily, refusing to take a step back, his shoulders squaring. "Or did you expect that you could just kiss me, and all would be forgiven and forgot? This isn't a fairytale, Tom, and your mood swings are enough to give someone whiplash. Back off."
The Dark Lord twitched at the name, slightly, and a pale, spidery hand grabbed hold of his chin.
"Never."
Harry was cursing in a split second, and Voldemort had reacted just as quickly, other hand lashing out just as fast.
Harry didn't even feel the pain of his wrist snapping until a moment later, and he stared at Tom in utter disbelief. His wand, of course, clattered to the floor by proxy and lay between them. Voldemort placed a foot on it.
"Wow," Harry said flatly. "A minute ago you were telling me how exquisite I was. You sure escalate quickly. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Voldemort brought the injured hand up, fingers still clenched unforgivingly around the (dislocated) wrist, pressing a slow kiss to the knuckles. His eyes hadn't changed. Harry nonetheless felt a healing spell move through his bones with the press of lips, reverting the damage in forcing him to drop his wand.
"What do I have to do to get you back, Harry?"
"Seriously?" Harry repeated, lowly. "You have no sense of timing." He could only imagine how this scene would be coming across to someone not well versed in the nightmare that was Tom Riddle. "Oh, I don't know, some small level of human respect would be a wonderful start."
It was when he saw the honest flicker of confusion flash in Riddle's eyes that the true enormity of the mess sank in.
"I do respect you. Greatly," Tom said stiffly, thumb tracing into his hand. "And if I had you again I would worship-"
"Admiring and coveting something is not fucking respect," Harry snapped. "It's pretty obvious you don't anymore, when you consistently rank your desires to be of more importance than mine."
Tom stared at him.
"I'm not a submissive man, Harry. But-"
"It is not about submission," Harry growled. "It is not about control. For once, Tom, it may shock you…but it's not about power. I don't care if you can or can't make me do something, you twat. That doesn't give you the right to do it. My god, what next – you kiss me, I say no, and you decide that if I don't surrender you take what you want by force?"
Maybe it was a low blow, considering all he knew of Tom's past, but…
He couldn't believe all of this was bubbling out. He couldn't believe Tom needed to be told this after so long.
"I would never rape-" Tom began, drawing himself up haughtily.
"No. You wouldn't. At least I'd like to think you wouldn't. So why the hell is it any different on things when we're not in bed?"
The man looked stunned. Harry sighed, extracting his grip.
The bastard recovered quickly.
"You cannot expect me to give up trying to persuade you to-"
"-and when you find you cannot persuade me?"
Tom went very quiet. Looked down, before up at him again with a once again renewed fierceness. Harry's heart stopped at the expression on his face.
"If there is no chance for us, look me in the face, and tell me that you do not still love me."