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“What are you doing.”
As per usual, it’s more demand than question.
Thankfully, in the months since Harry first started spending more time with Voldemort where neither of them are actively trying to kill each other, he’s grown used to the way the man has little to no regard for trivial things such as manners or common decency. On a normal day, Harry might play along, letting the man have this semblance of control over him.
But not today.
Today, he’s been working on his charms essay for what feels like hours now, and before this it was transfiguration, so he’s really not in the mood for any distractions. Especially when this charms essay is due tomorrow, and the biggest reason he hasn’t yet finished it is the Dark Lord standing in the doorway.
“Hello, Voldemort,” he says with false cheer, not looking up from his parchment, “How was your day, Voldemort?”
“Harry.”
The unique ability to turn his name into a threat is also normal.
Taking his time, Harry finishes writing his latest sentence with a flourish, only looking up when he’s done.
“What’s up?” he asks, finding some satisfaction in the way the man’s thin lips curl in distaste at the example of what he often derides as youthful slang.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” Voldemort demands. Again.
Harry, who distinctly remembers pulling one of Voldemort’s outer robes on over his trousers and a faded T-shirt this morning, just stares. When the man doesn’t elaborate, Harry looks pointedly down at his body, which is indeed covered by clothing, and then looks back up, one sardonic eyebrow raised.
“Why aren’t you dressed for dinner?” Voldemort asks with forced patience.
“Umm…”
At Harry’s genuine confusion, Voldemort stalks forward and snatches what is clearly a dinner invitation off the edge of the desk where it was partially hidden by an open book. He holds it up for Harry to inspect. Apparently, the two of them are due to leave for France in just under fifteen minutes.
“I had one of the elves deliver this to you two hours ago,” the man says flatly, looking unimpressed.
“Yes, well.” Harry gestures to the cluttered desk. “I’ve been busy.”
“That’s no excuse,” Voldemort tells him, “And I refuse to be late because of you. Go change. Now.”
If it wasn’t for the desk in the way, Voldemort would be doing an excellent job of looming over him. But because there is a desk in the way, a rather large one in fact, Harry can’t find it within himself to be intimidated.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Harry says as he turns back to his essay, “I’m not going.”
There’s a moment of silence. Harry nibbles at the end of his quill.
“You’re not going?” Voldemort echoes him, his voice dangerously soft as he leans forward, pressing his palms to the desk. Now he really is looming. “It took me months to have this meeting arranged.”
But Harry still refuses to be intimidated.
He gestures to the spread of books and parchment around him.
“I have homework.”
Voldemort stills, then, and his red eyes narrow into angry slits. When he speaks, it sounds as if it takes great effort not to start shouting.
“I’ve just offered to take you along to a private dinner with eleven of the most influential witches and wizards in all of Europe, and you refuse to go. Because you have homework?”
Harry feels as if he may have made a mistake.
“That is correct,” he says.
He thinks Voldemort might try to strangle him, but instead, the man starts to laugh. It’s not a very nice sound.
“What’s so funny?” Harry demands.
“Nothing,” the man says airily, “I’ve just come to the realization that I’m having this conversation with a fucking teenager.”
“Oh, really?” Harry shoves his chair back and stands to better look Voldemort in the eye, getting in his face as best he can. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
But Voldemort doesn't appear to care what Harry thinks of his revelation.
“I mean, here I am,” he says, ignoring the way Harry is glaring hard enough to set a lesser wizard aflame, “on the verge of bringing about the greatest change the Wizarding World has seen in centuries, and all you care about is some essay that, if you were even remotely responsible, you’d have finished days ago.”
Harry thinks he might just be mad enough to do some strangling himself.
“Well, maybe,” he says with a sneer, “if you didn’t insist on me being there for that dumb meeting yesterday-”
“That dumb meeting was the largest initiation ceremony-” Before he can even truly get started on his self-aggrandizing tangent, Harry cuts him off.
“-I would have finished it sooner.” He rolls his eyes when Voldemort snarls at being interrupted. “And anyway, if this dinner is so fucking important, why am I only hearing about it today?”
Voldemort scoffs.
“Oh, please,” he says, “do excuse me for failing to mould my schedule to that of a child. You see, I was under the impression that my plans for literally rebuilding the world as we know it might take precedence over your apparent failure to be a proactive student.”
Harry can’t decide what to be offended by the most, but he has to start somewhere.
“So I’m a child, now?” he asks.
“You’re certainly acting like one,” Voldemort tells him.
If he keeps that sneer up much longer, Harry thinks, his face might get stuck that way.
He’d deserve it.
“If I’m such a child, what exactly does that make you? I mean, you’re what? Seventy?” He shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Not a very good look, Vee.”
Voldemort lashes out, then, and Harry only just manages to form shield in time to save both himself and his homework.
“I don’t have time,” Voldemort says through gritted teeth, because clearly an apology is beneath him, “to cater to the petty needs of some idiot teenager.”
“Well, then,” Harry says as he forces a nauseatingly sweet smile across his face, “maybe you shouldn’t be fucking one.”
Before Voldemort can reply, the invite he still has clutched in his hand begins to glow. Ten minutes until departure.
For all that Harry would love to keep going, as he’s well and truly invested in dragging Voldemort down to his level, now, he also doesn’t want to get in the way of the man’s grand plan. Not when it’s taken so long to get him to finally back down from the whole mass murder thing. So, with a heavy, melodramatic sigh, he drops back into his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, doing his best to smother the part of him that wants to force Voldemort to his knees and draw blood.
For now, at least.
Voldemort, recognizing the offered truce, finally steps back, and a facade of stony calm takes over his face. For a moment, they simply look at each other, the memory of their words hanging in the air. Harry wonders if Voldemort, too, is wondering how everything got out of hand so quickly.
Finally, Voldemort turns to leave the room, calling over his shoulder as he goes, “This discussion isn’t over.”
As the door swings shut behind him, Harry sighs again, and some of the tension finally begins to drain away.
“Obviously,” he says to the empty room.
With Voldemort, it never is.