Heir Apparent By MonsieurClavier

Chapter 6

Sumarry:
Voldemort and Harry on a settee, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

(No kissing on the mouth, alas… but there is kissing elsewhere!)
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
That evening, by the firelight that illuminated the parlour of Riddle Manor, Voldemort received an invitation. It arrived by owl, following the delivery from Tabitha’s Tailoring that had, coincidentally, arrived just an hour prior. Tabitha had made quick work of stitching Harry’s clothes, although that might have been because of the large sum of money Voldemort had paid her to speed up the process.

It turned out to be money well-spent. Because Harry would begin wearing those clothes tonight.

Harry was currently curled up on the loveseat by the fireplace, sipping from a mug of hot chocolate that Flopsy had all but forced into his hands while exclaiming about how chilly the young master’s fingers were.

Voldemort himself had never been the recipient of such devotion from the house-elf, but he could not begrudge Harry being her favourite. If anything, it seemed right that Harry be the most beloved occupant of this house. It wasn’t as cadaverous with Harry in it, as if Harry dispelled unpleasant memories with his mere presence. A living Patronus, chasing Dementors away.

Voldemort had never been able to cast a Patronus—his sole magical failure. He pondered whether he would now be able to, with the recollection of Harry under the snow to fuel it. He would try tomorrow. Today, however, he had a son to introduce to his followers.

He rose fluidly from his armchair and handed over the invitation. It was classic Malfoy—a glass-clear parchment with silver words shining upon it like starlight, as if glass itself had been tempered to the consistency of paper. An elegant impossibility.

“We’re invited to Malfoy Manor for dinner?” Harry set his mug aside on a side table and perused the parchment, on which the silver words winked and glittered. “To celebrate ‘this auspicious occasion’? What auspicious occasion?”

My birthday. My return. My having a son. Take your pick. “Mulciber must have passed on the news that I now have an heir. Ergo, all of my upper ranks will know of you, and be impatient to meet you. Malfoy dare not offend me by inviting us a day too late, so he is inviting us now. All the Death Eaters will be in attendance. It will be an excellent opportunity to introduce you to them.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “I refuse to attend a Death Eater party like some twisted version of Cinderella, with you as a weird cross between my evil stepmother and my fairy godmother.”

Voldemort affected a wounded expression. “Why can’t I be the prince?”

“The prince isn’t Cinderella’s father.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Though I suppose you’re too narcissistic to identify with anybody except the most attractive male character in the story.”

Voldemort ignored the insult; it was, after all, true. “Is this fairytale-themed digression your method of escaping a Malfoy party? Understandable, but ineffective.”

Harry exhaled gustily. “Look. I’m not a born-and-raised Pureblood with all the… manners they’ll expect me to have. I’ll use the wrong forks, step on someone’s shoes in the middle of a waltz, and set fire to the drapes. What sort of introduction will that be? I’ll ruin your reputation.”

Voldemort—no, Tom—had nursed those very concerns before his first Hogwarts ball. “If it’s dining etiquette you’re worried about, you need only imitate me, as you will be seated next to me. Use whichever utensil I am using a split second after me, and they’ll be none the wiser. Setting fire to the drapes might actually be an improvement on Malfoy Manor’s unbearable ostentatiousness—”