Harry Potter: Circumstances

Potter found Malfoy half-dressed and almost on the bed. The top half of his body lay on the mattress while his lower half hung off it. Apparently, alcohol and fatigue hit him before he could fully reach his resting place.

Once again feeling like a father looking after a careless child—and that was a complicated feeling, given that the blond man was still a forty-year-old adult—Harry went to wake him.

From personal experience, knowing that gentle methods wouldn't work to rouse him, Tom simply created a bucket of water above the man's head and let it go. The reaction of a Death Eater from the inner circle was predictable, though the wizard secretly hoped for screams and curses. There was only an unconscious reaction: Lucius jumped up, and before his brain could process his surroundings, he cast a shielding charm followed immediately by a wide-area attack, which the wizard instantly dispelled.

"Calm down, Lucius. It's nine in the morning, time to get up," said Harry soothingly.

"Ugh…" The blond collapsed onto the bed, clutching his head. His sharp movement made it feel as if molten lead was sloshing around in his skull. "Why did you wake me at such an ungodly hour?"

"What do you mean 'ungodly hour'? It's nine in the morning!" Potter answered with exaggerated cheer.

"I wake up at eleven at the earliest! And I didn't sleep all night," Malfoy complained. It seemed that after yesterday, he no longer feared the Lord as if he were a rabid beast.

"Oh, you lazy bum! Your father slept only five hours a day during the most crucial periods. And that was when he wasn't even personally threatened, unlike our situation. So, get up, tidy yourself up, and get your arse to the kitchen," Harry finished, already turning to leave.

Nothing had changed in the kitchen. Except that Bellatrix was now reading today's newspaper, still sipping her tea with exaggerated elegance. Straight back, pinky raised—everything as proper as can be, if one ignored the hickeys on her neck and her slightly disheveled state. Though personally, Harry thought it made her look even better.

As Tom sat down at the table, telekinetically preparing coffee for himself, he caught a glimpse of the word "…Black…" on the newspaper Bella was reading.

"Any news on our escape?" the young man asked with interest. The almost-disappeared surname on the front page must mean something.

"Yes, it says Malfoy escaped. Also, new searches in manors, new taxes, Sirius Black has been reinstated as Chief Auror, and restoration work on Hogwarts has begun," the former Lestrange listed simply.

"Yeah… that's all pretty shitty," the wizard answered, lost in his thoughts and sipping freshly brewed coffee. In the next moment, he nearly choked as one particular detail sank in. "What do you mean, Sirius Black reinstated?! He's dead, for fuck's sake!"

"Oh, well, then I guess he's alive!" the woman brightened a bit. She was likely feigning surprise. She had probably already realized and even felt a bit pleased that she no longer had to take credit for causing Potter pain.

Harry began to pale rapidly and cursed everything under the sun.

"Kreacher!" he called the elf.

"Yes, master?" The house-elf appeared nearby and bowed, remaining silent after recalling that Mistress Bellatrix got annoyed at his chatter.

"Am I your only master?" the Boy Who Lived asked quickly.

At that moment, Black also caught on to the situation. The moment of realization was visible on her face.

"N-no, master, Sirius Black is also a master," the elf stammered, sensing the tense atmosphere. Former Voldemort and Lestrange could scare even a toughened house-elf.

"Fucking house-elf!" Harry swore. "Can he enter this house?"

"Y-yes, he's also an o-owner," Kreacher trembled even more under the rising magic in the room.

Realizing they had spent all this time practically in the enemy's lair and were alive only because of Sirius's or Kingsley's apparent oversight, Potter froze. Then he broke out into quiet, hissing, incoherent curses.

"Wait, half-blood," Bella suddenly burst out with righteous indignation, "for three days in Azkaban you neither gave me yourself nor alcohol, always arguing it was because I killed that dog. And now it turns out he's alive, and you're not even happy?"

"I don't give a flying fuck about him," the Dark Lord waved her off. "I didn't give you any because I was wary you'd bite my dick off mid-act. I had no idea what to expect from you. And as for the booze—I was just stingy."

"Oh, Potter, you bastard…" Bella started to retort heatedly.

Right at that moment, a sleepy Malfoy chose to enter the kitchen, covering a yawn with his hand. His sleepy brain didn't pick up on the tension, so he mumbled something like "Good morning" and asked the elf for coffee.

"What coffee, Lucius?! We're getting the fuck out of here!" Tom snapped, too busy to argue with the former Lestrange.

"What? Why? Where?" The blond stared at the Lord with bewildered eyes, shrinking back.

"Black is alive. Which means we've been sitting on a powder keg this whole time. We'll have to speed up our plans. Right now, we're going to the Delacours. Through Fleur, of course," the young man explained emphatically, standing up and putting a pack of coffee and a couple of cups into his pocket dimension.

"But…" Malfoy looked mournfully at the freshly brewed coffee. His eyes openly showed sadness. Unhidden because, among their 'own,' he behaved normally. The mask of arrogance and scorn only came out when outsiders were present. The Lord, after yesterday's events and rescue, was now an insider. Bellatrix was questionable, but Harry trusted her enough to sleep with her—so, to Malfoy's mind, that meant he trusted her. That's how the wizard's brain worked.

"No time, Malfoy. No. Time," Harry repeated syllable by syllable, finishing packing his stuff. "Kreacher, Apparate the three of us into some forest, then return here," Potter ordered.

In the blink of an eye, they were standing amidst a coniferous forest. The mug and coffee vanished right from the platinum blond's hand. He stared sadly at his empty palm, still shaped as if holding a cup.

"Half-blood, why the hell are we in a forest?" the witch demanded.

"What, you want them to trace our path through the elf? We'll Apparate to 'Shell Cottage' ourselves. Be ready and follow the Mark. If I signal to attack, do so without killing. If I say wait, then wait… Hey, where are you putting your hands, you nutjob? I'm not weak—I don't need to hold your hands for Apparition." The wizard focused and Apparated all three to a spot near where Bill and Fleur lived. By ironic coincidence—again, a forest. But this time, a leafy one near their home. "Now, you two are not coming with me. Wait here. As I understand it, I don't actually need you for this part. I'm the one who needs the status. So keep your heads down and stay quiet until I call."

Leaving the strip of forest planted near a Muggle village, Harry saw the Weasley-Delacour cottage. It hadn't changed a bit in the last six months since he had seen it.

He passed through the protective charms easily enough. After all, what kind of half-baked security could stop the former Dark Lord? The kind Goblins use as fodder if needed, anyway.

Knock-knock.

He felt incredibly silly knocking on the door.

For some reason, he remembered that night when he came to kill the Potters. But now it was morning, not late night, and he certainly didn't plan to kill anyone. In the worst case, he might threaten someone a bit.

"Eaa-agh," came a loud yawn behind the door. "Who the hell is here so early?"

Bill Weasley appeared in the doorway, shirtless. He'd clearly just gotten out of bed. Scratching his red head with one hand and leaning against the doorframe with the other, he finally managed to focus on the guest.

"Potter, you dare come here?!" Weasley narrowed his eyes, tensing slightly. "Get the fuck out of here while you still can, or I won't care that you're a hero!"

"Hello to you too, Bill. I have no idea what you're talking about. I need to talk to Fleur," the boy replied calmly, containing his irritation.

"Don't you get it—" The redhead was about to get seriously worked up.

"YOU don't get it, Weasley," Voldemort snapped, genuinely annoyed now. "I need. To meet. With Fleur. Nothing dangerous. Just talk. Remind her of something. That's all."

Even when he was just the Boy Who Lived, in emotional moments he, like any powerful wizard, unconsciously exerted pressure on those around him. Now that he'd fully reclaimed his Voldemort-level powers, his irritation made Bill's heart skip a beat and cold sweat run down his back.

"Fine, go into the living room. She's there," Bill gave in, considering the request pretty reasonable after all.

Passing by the redhead, who had moved aside, Potter confidently headed in the familiar direction.

The cottage's kitchen and living room were combined, separated only by a bar counter, behind which the Veela sat in her nightgown, eating cereal and reading something intently.

"Sweetheart, we have a visitor," said Weasley, who followed behind Harry.

"Mm-hmm. Hello, Fleur," Harry greeted simply, sitting down at the bar opposite her. "I have business—literally a matter of life and death."

Fleur, eyes wide with shock, struggled to swallow the half-chewed food she'd forgotten to finish chewing upon hearing his words.

"Potter, after what you tried to do, you want my help?!" she exclaimed, slipping partly into French in her outrage.

"I have no clue what I supposedly did—I already told you. The last five days I've either been in Azkaban or on the run. Before that, I never did anything to you. That's certain," the wizard answered, carefully mixing a drink of whiskey from his inventory with the juice from the pitcher on the table. He had no idea how it would taste, but why not try?

"What nonsense are you spouting, Potter?!" Bill snapped, regaining his composure. "Just two days ago, when Fleur came to greet you, you almost raped her. If it weren't for—"

"Well, on the bright side, it seems you're not involved in this bullshit," Tom commented, distracted from his concoction. "Alright, I think you two need to hear me out…"