Harry Potter: Circumstances

"A wise choice. So, try to cut back on the alcohol for now. The story ahead is no shorter… Let's start, perhaps, with the end result we need. First and foremost—I think we all want a peaceful life. For that, we need our names cleared. And to do that, we need to get into an international court, because there's no way we'll win in our local courts. Of course, you can't just walk into the international court off the street. In our case, I happen to have the French Minister of Magic as a debtor, and he can help. Let's say we claim political refugee status, I think that's what it's called these days. Once my honorable—ha—name is restored, we wait a week or two, and Lucius either gets nominally caught, or comes forward on his own, or someone raises the issue. We'll think of something. Then I'll deliver some heart-wrenching speech and present Malfoy as a good and decent man. Worst case, I'll find someone to buy a full pardon or build my own chain of influence. That's about our freedom.

"Now regarding our strictly political activities, excluding self-defense: we can say—underline this—we've had enough of warring, for fuck's sake. Even considering that this time everything could go quite smoothly and without much loss, let's just not. If by some miracle we can't seize the reins of this country's government politically, only then might we take the path of a power grab. Questions?"

Potter decided to pause and listen to his subordinates, who so far had only nodded silently. They themselves agreed to hear the plans for the future. Honestly, Harry was feeling drowsy himself, and there were still many points to be resolved…

"No, we don't really have any questions," said the blond man after exchanging glances with his wife.

"Good. Now about the Death Eaters. The name is officially going straight to hell. The organization as such no longer exists, officially. I'll keep control myself. Tomorrow, I will—firstly—show up in person. Secondly, I'll scare them until they piss their pants, just as a precaution, so they keep their heads down for at least a week. After establishing power, we can quietly get rid of the idiots. Not necessarily physically—maybe financially or politically. So, that's the general direction you need to know," the wizard informed them. Noticing a hint of relief on their faces, he hurried to disappoint them: "Now for the details. More precisely, I suggest we start gradually reworking the old program from my and Abraxas's party to fit modern times. There are a ton of points to remove completely right now. There are also several that need to be added…"

The next few hours were pure bureaucracy. Since they decided to discuss everything now, they really were going to go through absolutely everything. Creating paper and pens was no problem for Harry. Lucius was a shark in business and finance, but as a politician he was pretty average. Not worse, not better than others. So he understood all this at a moderate level. But Tom was something else entirely. He knew how to make people like him, make them do what benefited him, all while making the victim believe it was their own idea. He'd done that since school, let alone now.

Reshaping the old foundations of Magical Britain, Potter felt in his element, unlike Malfoy. Alcohol, fatigue, and everything else took its toll. Lucius started to fall behind Harry's train of thought, while Harry himself only got more fired up with the idea.

Leaning back in his chair, giving up on arguing, Lucius listened and realized with a mixture of surprise and pride that the last person to have seen Voldemort this engaged and visionary was his father.

The discussions ended around four in the morning… or perhaps Tom just snapped out of his document-trance and, seeing the couple nodding off, decided to call it quits.

There were no problems separating Lucius and Narcissa. They were so eager to sleep that they just shuffled off in opposite directions. Watching the man drag himself upstairs, Harry, feeling like a strict father for a second, cast a German charm on the fireplace. Now no one could escape.

Glancing at the documents left on the small table by the fireplace, Harry decided that was enough for today. His body needed rest.

Returning to his bedroom, the Dark Lord found the former Lestrange still curled up on the large double bed.

"It's only the second night since we fucked, and I'm already comfortable having this nutjob in my bed," Potter thought as he gently shifted the living little bundle closer to the edge so he had space to lie down himself. "And the most frightening thing is that this thought doesn't bother me at all."

Black, apparently half-awake from the wizard's shuffling around, quietly shifted over to him, settling against his chest. Harry had no choice but to wrap his arms around her.

"I take back what I said. The most frightening thing is that I don't even want to push her the fuck away," Voldemort realized before deciding to ask a question.

"Bella, listen, you know your husband's brother, Rabastan, is still alive. Maybe we should find him?" Of course, he wasn't actually planning to do that, but he was interested in one tiny reaction.

"Don't give a fuck about him," the woman mumbled, but Harry caught what he was looking for.

A brief moment—a defensive reflex—and the witch automatically clung tighter and almost shuddered. Had he not been expecting such a reaction, he might not have noticed. But he did, damn it, he did!

It seems her madness might be much simpler and nastier than he'd assumed. And the thought of it oddly infuriated and angered him.

But that's for the future. Once he gathers all the Death Eaters, he'll know for sure. Guessing now was pointless. Maybe there was just a draft that made his lover shiver. Sure, a draft in a closed room.

***

In the morning, Potter woke up alone in bed.

Judging by the lingering scent, Black had gotten up recently. Tom couldn't quite describe it. He wasn't an aesthete, able to decode subtle bouquets of scent, but it was quite a nice aroma. Probably shampoo or perfume. More likely just her natural body scent, because back in the prison, where they were neglected prisoners, with Harry barely keeping clean via spells, she smelled the same. Certainly, most of the scent came from her hair. Bellatrix's hair was a topic unto itself. Potter even admitted to himself that he really liked it. Luxurious, voluminous, black curls, which had been a nuisance last night while sleeping, but at other times could arouse him so easily…

Catching himself drifting into these thoughts, he almost fell back asleep. The wizard decided to skip all the usual morning procedures that everyone does after sleeping at five and waking at nine: opening eyes, staring at the ceiling, sitting up, staring at the wall, standing up, pondering the meaning of a pathetic life and the relevance of all efforts… He skipped all that nonsense, abruptly throwing off the blanket and trudging to the bathroom, not allowing his brain a chance to protest.

A cool morning shower—just what he needed for his sleepy state and slight hangover. Sniffing and catching Bella's scent even in the bathroom, his sleepy mind mused that he might make a decent bloodhound. He couldn't resist zoning out, staring at the wall under the shower.

Thinking about the meaning of life, he naturally came to the idea that he could just flee to Hawaii now—he had enough gold. Why not grab his lover and go sunbathing under the warm sun, instead of sitting in this old manor hatching another plan to take over England? And most importantly—he'd be able to sleep there. Suppressing the sudden urge to actually do that, the wizard firmly switched back to current affairs.

He had exactly two immediate tasks: eat and con… get in touch with the Delacours. Maybe through Fleur. Tom didn't think she was involved in any conspiracy around him or directly with the minister… In fact, the "plan" he described yesterday hung terribly on this one thin thread. And what if the Delacours told them to fuck off or, worse, ratted them out to the fakes? Who knew. Realistically, he might have to start over again, playing donkey and goat, and personally kill the Potters… once more.

Finally stepping out of the bathroom and finishing up, Harry headed to the kitchen. He expected hot coffee there, or he'd just have to Avada someone—probably an elf. It didn't matter that poor Kreacher was clueless as to why his master might be angry at him, since he'd received no orders.

To Harry's surprise, a steaming mug awaited him on the table. That was the first thing he noticed upon entering. Then, of course, his brain analyzed the surroundings and, with surprise, noted that sitting next to him, as he sipped this sacred coffee, was a calm Bellatrix. She was genteelly drinking tea and giving him a look that would warm an ordinary person's heart, but gave Tom goosebumps.

"Morning, psycho," the wizard greeted.

"Takes one to know one," the woman retorted. "You could at least thank me for the coffee. You looked at that coffee more lustfully than you looked at me in Azkaban when we first fucked."

"Well, firstly, you didn't see how I looked at you. I hadn't had sex in… let me think… two months. Trust me, I looked at you with far more desire than at this mug of swill," Harry had no problem praising a Death Eater's sexual prowess. It was just sex, after all.

"Swill yourself, half-blood," Black feigned offense.

"Well, if you can't make proper coffee, you can't. No point in being upset at the truth. I'm actually surprised you decided to brew it yourself, instead of ordering the elf to do it," Potter shrugged.

Seeing Bellatrix blush slightly for the second time in a short period, he considered that the trend wasn't bad at all. Yesterday, in prison, at best she occasionally broke out of her pit of madness. Now she was almost always reasonable.

Given all he knew about psychology—which amounted to three months in a Muggle institute in fourth year and a couple of books—he could say with absolute certainty that he had no fucking clue what was going on with this crazy woman.

"I just decided to try making it myself," she answered in her usual mad manner.

"Alright, thanks for the coffee. It wasn't that bad," the Dark Lord relented, purely because he still felt sleepy and didn't want to argue. "I'm going to wake Lucius, that lazy aristocratic backside won't get up before noon otherwise."