Heir Apparent By MonsieurClavier

Chapter 9

SUMMARY:
THE LONGEST FUCKING DINNER PARTY IN HISTORY CONTINUES.

I’m not sure if this is a comedy of manners or a tragedy of manners, but there are manners, of varying degrees.

Voldemort’s manners would give Jane Austen nightmares.

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At the centre table were seated the Malfoys and their chief guests, Lord Voldemort and Harrison Gaunt. The Death Eaters seated at the surrounding tables craned their necks to catch more glimpses of the heir. The heir who was now the key to their success.

Harry hunched his shoulders. “I can just hear Sna—my old Potions teacher—referring to me as ‘our new celebrity’. He was a sarcastic prick, but he was accurate.”

“Language, Harry,” Voldemort chided mildly, as Morgane and Abraxas politely pretended that their lord and his son were not conversing under a Muffliato. To Morgane, Voldemort said, “Pardon us, Morgane.”

“Not at all, my lord.” A house-elf poured a silvery, mist-emitting wine into Morgane’s glass, and offered her a choice of appetisers from a tray. She chose a miniature sculpture of goat’s cheese and prosciutto, carved into an ivory-coloured swan with roseate wings. “I am sure you and your son have much to discuss.”

“Nothing I cannot involve my most trusted lieutenant in.” Untrue, but flattering enough. Morgane deserved flattery for her contribution tonight. “Your oratory was galvanising, Morgane. I commend you on your elocution.”

“You are too kind, my lord.” Morgane signalled subtly at Abraxas, who immediately sprang up from his chair and bowed apologetically to Voldemort.

“My apologies, my lord, but I must check the wards. Your son did blow through them like a hurricane through cobwebs.”

Harry winced. “Er, I’m sorry I—”

“It’s no trouble,” Abraxas said hurriedly, clearly terrified of upsetting Voldemort Junior, even as Morgane’s left eyelid twitched at her husband’s social ineptitude. Seeing her reaction, Abraxas tried manfully to convert the potential insult into a compliment. “It was most impressive, considering that many of those wards have been there for generations. But as they were Dark, they may not have withstood that quantity of Light magic… If you will excuse me, I must go and renew them, so that we can be assured of our safety within these walls.”

“You may go,” Voldemort granted imperiously, and Abraxas backed away from them, still bowing, until he almost bumped into a nearby table and had to turn around.

“Abraxas is a charming companion,” Morgane said in a strained tone, “but he is not, alas, the most tactful of men. I am sorry, my lord.”

Voldemort sipped his own wine, a dry white aged to perfection, with the distinctly smoky flavour produced by fermenting the wine amidst dragon eggs. “You needn’t apologise for your mate, Morgane; I am aware that his heart, as it were, is in the right place.”

Morgane’s lips curved. “His heart is mine.”

“As it should be.” Voldemort shared a smile with her; broaching such intimate topics with his low-ranking followers would be unthinkable, but Morgane was not simply a minion. She was among the few that Voldemort deemed his advisors.

“My apologies to you, as well, our lord’s heir.” Morgane fixed Harry with her steely eyes, although their cool grey had warmed infinitesimally. “Abraxas meant no disrespect.”

“You may call my heir Harrison,” Voldemort allowed generously. It was a privilege that Morgane would be thankful for.

But Harry, uncooperative as ever, rolled his eyes—and directly contradicted his father. “Please, just call me Harry. ‘Harrison’ makes me feel bloody old. And, you know, the obsession with eternal youth.” Harry gestured between himself and Voldemort. “Kind of a family tradition.”