The Other Potter

Part 14

The moment she placed her hand in his, the world narrowed.

Not vanished - never vanished- but narrowed, as though everybody had paused and decided to watch as the world shifted on its axis.

Lord Voldemort's grip was cool, precise. Not possessive. Not gentle. Simply... assured. He guided her onto the floor as though this moment had been inevitable, as though the music had been waiting for them specifically.

Harriet was acutely aware of his attention. Of the attention of every set of eyes in the room - She was pined by it.

It was his attention that was different though, it was not the broad, suffocating kind he directed at rooms or followers that she had seen him use before - but something sharper, more exacting. As though he were studying a spell mid-cast, observing not just the effect, but the intent behind it.

She forced herself to breathe evenly as they began to move.

His dancing was deceptively simple. No flourishes. No wasted motions. Every step was economical, perfectly placed, leaving her no choice but to match him - or stumble. She matched him.

A part of her wondered - Where he had learned to dance? Who had he practised with? Did he once stumble with nerves? But those thoughts quickly filtered out.

Fear coiled low in her chest, controlled but very real. His attention was dangerous. Precious. Fatal, if misjudged. And she could not, would not, give him reason to look closer than he already was.

"You hide as well as you move," he said calmly, voice pitched for her alone. "That is not a common pairing."

"I wasn't aware I was hiding," Harriet replied lightly, though her pulse fluttered. "I prefer... choosing my position."

A pause. A slight adjustment in their turn.

"Not everybody," Tom said softly, deliberately, "would be brave enough to decline a boon from the Dark Lord."

There it was.

The letters flickered through her mind in an instant - ink and intent, how she wished she could go back and never reply, or maybe write more.

She kept her expression serene, her steps flawless. "I didn't feel the need for one," she said simply.

His hand tightened - just barely, not quite a threat, more of a test.

"No ambition?" he asked. "No desire for protection, advancement, favour?"

She met his gaze fully now, emerald green to burning burgundy, and did not look away.

"I have ambition," Harriet said quietly. "But I don't believe everything valuable must be taken from another's hand. Some things should be earned. Or built."

Silence fell between them - not empty, but weighing.

"I see. What game," he asked, "do you believe you are playing?"

Her stomach clenched. She kept her tone steady.

"I'm not playing one," she said. "I declined because I don't need a boon to stand where I am, to become who I want to become."

The music swelled, drawing them into another turn. He watched her closely - too closely - and she felt the scrutiny like fingers tracing the very edges of her composure.

Why me? she thought, unease sharpening. Why look at me at all?

She did not ask it aloud.

She danced.

///

He had not intended to dance with her.