Chapter Text
The 1996 New Year's Eve party at Malfoy Manor was in full swing by the time Bellatrix Lestrange returned from an impromptu search with a large black sphere in her hands. At first glance, it actually reminded Lord Voldemort of a billiards ball. "I FOUND IT!" the witch shouted over the noise of the other partygoers. "A MAGIC 8-BALL!"
"Lucius," Voldemort blinked, peering down from the sofa on the elevated platform he had crafted earlier -- the better to watch the drunken chaos unfold -- "what exactly is this 'magic' 8-ball Bella is referring to?" He downed another mouthful of brandy, thinking back to years spent in Muggle pool halls in seedier parts of London. There had been 8-balls there, but not of this size or significance; and Bellatrix had been absent more than an hour in her search for the thing, so it must have some ability justifying its 'magic' title.
The blond took another sip of his wine, which at his current state of intoxication was more of a slurp. "I believe it became popular during my sheventh year in Hogwartsh, my lord," he slurred. (Voldemort wondered if the man was trying to do a bit. If so, he wasn't pulling it off.) "The 8-ball givesh truthful anshers about anyone in th'room, but only on New Yearsh Eve. A - *hic* - party game, my lord..."
Merlin, Lucius was such a lightweight. Voldemort rolled his eyes, summoning the man a sobering draught. "You can go join in, Lucius. I will be quite comfortable here."
A crowd began to gather around the 8-ball, once they realized it was active. Bellatrix had set it up on a pedestal, the better for the audience to gather and gawk; from Voldemort's observations, it seemed that one would lift the sphere in their hands, speak their question aloud, and shake it, and soon their answer would appear written on the white part of the ball's surface, where the '8' would normally be written. As every question-based party game did, the 8-ball session started off tame, with silly questions -- "Walden Macnair is the lightest lightweight in the room? Did Lucius step out into the hall?" -- and leaned more toward salacious gossip as the participants grew more amused and inebriated.
Eventually, even Voldemort himself joined in the fun, cutting in line (as if anyone would stop him) to seize the ball and ask, loudly, "Which of the wizards in this party have not worn any undergarments?" As his eyes scanned down the list, the Death Eaters were privy to a rare sight: the Dark Lord, struggling not to laugh. His serpentine skin did not flush the same way as theirs, they reasoned; for he had to be as drunk as any of them, by now.
An hour later (with all the wizards hit by Levicorpus restored to their mostly-clothed states), the novelty of the 8-ball had begun to wear off, and Bellatrix gathered around Voldemort's sofa with her clique to monopolize the artifact for a while. Through her rambling explanation -- Bellatrix was a talkative drunk -- Voldemort gathered that she had gone in search of the item specifically for him. "With careful wording, my lord, it can say quite a lot, so long as the question is phrased around someone in the room!"
She demonstrated: "Which member of the Order of the Phoenix is most likely to face Bellatrix Lestrange in battle next?" The answer -- Molly Weasley -- was an impressive demonstration of the 8-ball's ability, actually, as Molly Weasley nee Prewett had not been identified as an active member of Dumbledore's Order in the war so far. ("Keep an eye out, Bellalove," sighed Rodolphus, drinking Firewhiskey from the bottle.)
Of course, not all of Bella's ideas were well-executed. The more she drank, the more distracted she became.
"Who in the whoooole world~ knows the Dark Lord best?" she asked, swaying where she stood. As the 8-ball's surface faded, she turned a leery grin on Voldemort. "Surely me, of course," the witch proclaimed, batting her eyelashes as she shook it -- but then she peered into the white space and gasped, dropping it back on its cushioned pedestal. Over her shoulder, Voldemort read:
Harry Potter.
Seeing the way Bella's face had crumpled, Voldemort gave a derisive snort. "A fluke, Bella dear. Of course he does; the old goat is surely telling him all manner of useless details about my Hogwarts years. Quantity over quality, you see?" He shook his head, patting her on the shoulder (which perhaps distracted Bellatrix more than his words had), and took the 8-ball, questioning, "Who likes Lord Voldemort the best?" Its surface clouded, and he shook it to clear it once again.
"...Hm." Voldemort held up the ball to his eye level, conveniently out of Bella's view, and asked a new question. "And who likes Bellatrix Lestrange the best?"
Rodolphus Lestrange.
"There, there, Bella, you see? Spend the night with Rodolphus; allow me to refill your glass." A careful spell added 180-proof alcohol to the cup in her hand; she took a sip, blinked, then laughed the warm, genuine laugh that only escaped her lips when she was wasted -- and dragged Rodolphus off by the arm.
Voldemort silently wished the man well.
Without Bella's mediating presence, her clique dissolved from around his sofa, leaving the 8-ball conveniently behind; Voldemort barely held it together long enough to be certain he was alone, before he put up privacy wards around his personal space, and put his face in his hands, uncomfortably aware of the way those hands trembled.
He steadied his breathing, leaned back on the sofa, and finally reached for the 8-ball.
"Who... who does Lord Voldemort like best?"
The 1996 New Year's Eve party in the Room of Requirement was in full swing by the time Ginny returned from an impromptu search of the Room's long rows of shelves with a black sphere in her hands. At first glance, it actually reminded Harry of a billiards ball. "I FOUND IT!" the fifth-year shouted over the noise of the other partygoers. "A MAGIC 8-BALL!"
"Ron," blinked Harry from his pile of cushions by the window, where he had been watching the drunken chaos unfold from afar, "what exactly is the 'magic' 8-ball Ginny's got?" He downed another mouthful of spiked butterbeer, puzzling it over; he'd only seen people playing pool in movies, but it almost seemed familiar. Anyway, if Ginny had spent more than an hour looking for the thing, it had to be somehow interesting, besides being the approximate size (and weight) of a bowling ball.
The redhead took another long chug of his spiked butterbeer, which at his current state of intoxication was spilling it down his chin and onto his shirt. "Mum n' Dad ushed t'talk about it," he slurred. (Harry wondered if his housemate was trying to do a bit. If so, he wasn't pulling it off.) "Tellsh truthful anshers 'bout anyone in th'room, but only on New Yearsh Eve. Isha party game, Har'."
Godric, Ron was such a lightweight. Harry rolled his eyes, casting about for a sobering draught. "You can go join in, Ron, I'm too comfortable to get up."
A crowd of DA members (and their friends) gathered around the 8-ball, once Ginny explained what it did. She had set it up on a pedestal, the better for the audience to gather and gawk; from Harry's observations, it seemed you had to be the one picking it up to use it, and had to ask your question out loud. It would go all blurry on the white side where the '8' was normally written, and once you shook it a bunch, it would show the answer to the question. As every question-based party game did, the 8-ball session started off tame, with silly questions -- "Seamus Finnigan is the lightest lightweight in the room? Did Ron step out into the hall?" -- and got more inappropriate as the participants drank more of Seamus' conjured rum and the Firewhiskey someone had smuggled in from Hogsmeade. (No one was going to admit to being responsible, and no one was going to ask for an admission.)
Eventually, even Harry had to join in; he'd gotten in line, but they'd all pushed him to the front, laughing that he'd 'earned' it by now. Thinking quickly -- his plan had been to decide on a question while he was in line -- Harry blurted out, "what blokes in this party are wearing the silliest underpants?" As his eyes scanned down the list, the others were privy to a rare sight this year: the Boy-Who-Lived-to-Be-Mopey, struggling not to laugh. It must be the lighting, they reasoned, that made it seem like he wasn't flushed with intoxication as he read the list aloud; for he had to be as drunk as any of them, by now.
An hour later (with all the boys hit by Levicorpus restored to their upright states), the novelty of the 8-ball had begun to wear off, and Ginny gathered around Harry's pile of cushions with Ron, Hermione, and a few others in their year to monopolize the artifact for a while. Through her rambling explanation -- Ginny was a talkative drunk -- Harry gathered that she had gone in search of the item specifically for him. "If we phrase it right, Harry, it can show a lot! It just has to be phrased around someone in the room!"
She demonstrated: "Who in Ginny's family is most likely to fight in the next battle?" The answer -- George Weasley -- was an impressive demonstration of the 8-ball's ability, actually, as George hadn't gone out and done anything when the Christmas season at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had been so busy. (Later on, when they heard about the attacks in Diagon Alley in the spring, Ginny's eyes would go wide, remembering its message.)
Of course, not all of Ginny's ideas were well-executed. The more she drank (and who had given Ginny a bottle of straight Firewhiskey, anyway?) the more distracted she became.
"Who in the whoooole world~ does Harry most want to see this coming year?" she asked, swaying where she stood. As the 8-ball's surface faded, she turned a leery grin on Harry. "Me, I bet," she winked, shaking it -- but then she peered into the white space and gasped, dropping it back on its cushioned pedestal. Over her shoulder, Harry read:
Lord Voldemort.
Seeing the way Ginny's face had gone pale in shock, Harry gave a derisive snort. "Not like that, Gin. Of course I do; I want to fight him, can't do that from a distance. All about the wording." He shook his head, patting her on the shoulder (which perhaps distracted Ginny more than his words had, given how weak the rebuttal had sounded even to his own ears), and took the 8-ball, questioning, "Who does Harry Potter like best?" Its surface clouded, and he shook it to clear it once again.
"...Hm." Harry nodded, holding up the ball to his eye level, conveniently so close to his nose that Ginny couldn't read, and asked a new question. "And who likes Ginny the best?"
Dean Thomas.
"There, see Gin? Spend the night with Dean, I'll refill your bottle." A careful Refilling Spell added more Firewhiskey to the bottle in Ginny's hand; she took a sip, blinked back the eye-watering burn of the Firewhiskey down her throat, then gave the small, flirtatious giggle that only escaped her lips when she was close to wasted -- and staggered off with Dean on her arm.
Harry silently wished the boy well.
Without Ginny's presence, everyone began to walk off to do their own thing, several of them (such as Ron and Hermione) pairing off for the evening -- leaving the 8-ball conveniently behind. Harry barely held it together long enough to be certain he was alone, before he put up a Muffliato and a Notice-Me-Not around his personal space, and put his face in his hands, uncomfortably aware of the way those hands trembled.
Why hadn't Sirius been the person he wanted to see most? But then, the man was dead... Harry felt his throat constrict, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. No, he was not going to be mopey at this party.
"Guess the 8-ball doesn't extend to hopes and dreams," he muttered, feeling the weight of postponed grief on his shoulders like a Dementor's presence. Harry reached for his wand and let muscle memory take him through the gestures for a Patronus -- but all his happy thoughts were tainted, now, by the shadow of Sirius' absence and the circumstances of his death. He gave a shuddering sigh, and reached for the bottle of Firewhiskey that the Room had brought over from the long table on the opposite wall.
Some time later, Harry reached for the 8-ball again, and whispered against its surface, "Who is thinking of Harry Potter the most tonight?"
Lord Voldemort.
Harry set it down, ran his hand over his face, and thought about that. New Year's Eve was Voldemort's birthday, wasn't it? Maybe he was happy. His disjointed train of thought led him to wonder if anyone knew when Voldemort's birthday was.
He glanced about the room, at the other partygoers trying to dance to songs on a gramophone someone had found earlier, and murmured again, with purpose, "Expecto Patronum."