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The hotel door closed behind Harry with a click. As he strode toward the elevators, he checked his fake mustache one last time. The khakis he wore had been starched to the point of discomfort, and the shirt was clearly two sizes too large. A gallant look indeed.
Ginny’s arrival had thrown a wrench into the trios plans, of course. But not one that particularly bothered the chosen one.
It turned out that hunting down Horcruxes was frustrating work. It was nice to have an outlet through which he could relieve some of that – erm – frustration.
Upon Ginny’s arrival, Hermione had immediately gone down to the lobby and secured a second room for their group. Though Ron was at first aghast that it would be Harry – not Hermione – sharing a room with his little sister (“terribly heteronormative of you, Ronald”), he had quickly overcome his shock when Hermione had shown him the new lingerie she’d gotten at the boutique down the street.
It was to this boutique that Harry now went. Ginny had suggested that he had control issues – whatever that meant – and had sent him out on an errand for handcuffs and an assortment of other items that would send Ron howling with laughter. (When the laughter stopped, of course, he would immediately dispose of Harry for shagging his sister.)
The elevator arrived at long last, and Harry got on. The Muggle hotel was large enough that a) the three wizards (Ron being particularly bad at blending in) did not stand out terribly and b) should Harry run into any hotel staff, they wouldn’t notice the fact that the dark-haired young man in a security outfit didn’t actually work there.
The elevator stopped at the 11th floor, and a tall, pale, security guard got on alongside Harry. He didn’t spare Harry a glance, but Harry’s trepidation at being at such close proximity with someone who might see through his Muggle disguise swiftly turned to horror as Harry noticed the red eyes, the nigh invisible nose, and the bald head of his arch-nemesis.
He was sharing an elevator with the Dark Lord.
Voldemort was having a very bad day.
No, no, it was a bad week. He had been veritably kicked out of his own headquarters by the cuckold Radolphus Lestrange.
“He grows whiny, my Lord,” Bella had said, shortly after offering to kill her own husband. “He says it’s shameful, humiliating him in front of his in-laws. He requires discretion.” She had said the final word with a hiss of disgust. For his part, Voldemort was less bothered than she. At least at first. He had not taken her up on the offer to off Radolphus, for loyal and competent followers were hard to come by. Lucius and Pettigrew proved as much daily.
But now.
Now they were in a Muggle hotel. Bella said it got her off. Something about their weakness, how easy they were to kill.
Voldemort didn’t fully grasp it. He preferred a challenge. Muggles could be killed off in droves. Like ants. Not much fun to be had.
He now became aware of the short Muggle sharing the elevator with him. Another security guard, like himself. Perhaps he’d see through the disguise. Never mind. Voldemort patted his side. Yes, the wand was there. The man could be disposed of, if needed.
He was a curiously fidgety fellow. The Dark Lord could sense that much without looking directly at him – which he refused to do. On principle, Voldemort did not look at Muggles. They gave him the heeby-jeebies. So weak. And somehow…oddly moist. It was pathetic.
The elevator doors dinged open (such an unnecessary noise. As though no one would notice the stopped car or the doors sliding open), and the Dark Lord stepped into the lobby.
No one noticed.
Of course not. He was dressed in this terribly unfashionable khaki ensemble. It had been the first Muggle outfit Bella got her hands on, and she wouldn’t be bothered to find him another. Muggles must hate their security personnel a great deal. Everything about their attire suggested it was a lowly occupation.
Still, even in these clothes, Voldemort strode forth with grace. Power. Gravitas. There was no denying that he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was the most powerful-
No one was looking.
He sighed.
Muggles.
It was a quick walk to the “adult store,” as the concierge had called it. Such a foolish euphemism. Were not all stores adult stores? Children hardly waltzed into the grocer unaccompanied. Unless their parents hated them and wanted them loaded into the back of some mustachioed creeps van.
Perhaps the Muggle from the elevator had a van. There was no missing the black caterpillar on his face.
Voldemort shook his head. He needed to focus. He had one task, a humiliating task, but an important task nonetheless. Bella had taken to psychologically tormenting the maids who cleaned the hotel. She found it endlessly hysterical that, without house elves, Muggles simply forced other Muggles to clean house for them.
This was all well and good, until it had given Bella an idea.
Voldemort should go out and buy a new outfit.
Specifically, a maid’s outfit.
Not for Bella.
No.
The maid outfit was to be for the Dark Lord.
He was tired of the khakis, after all, was he not? She had purred at him, that wild hair framing her hooded eyes. He couldn’t tell her no.
So here he was, walking into a Muggle “adult store,” pretending to buy a maid’s outfit for a woman who happened to be his height.
He moved through the store with his head down (unusual), making eye contact with no one (usual). Voldemort had just begun rummaging through the assortment of scandalous Muggle outfits when the jingle of a bell signaled the opening of the front door.
On instinct, the Dark Lord glanced up, always watching for a threat. There was the Muggle security guard from the elevator.
Harry’s stomach dropped in that brief instant in which Voldemort’s eyes met his. He froze in the entryway of the store, cursing himself for not returning to his room to fetch his wand. But how could he anticipate the Dark Lord visiting Frisky Business?
The red-eyed gaze of You-Know-Who dropped back to whatever lingerie he was eyeing. Harry’s shoulders relaxed. Whether it was Voldemort’s disdain for Muggles or his embarrassment over his present location, he had not looked at Harry long enough to recognize him.
Harry self-consciously patted his fake mustache again. He should have let Hermione enchant his features before he left, but he had been in such a hurry.
A hurry that resulted in his current defenseless, wandless state.
Bloody women.
It was all Ginny’s fault. Obviously. Showing up, distracting him. He couldn’t think straight with her around, lounging in his bed without any clothes on. What was a boy to do? Go to Frisky Business, apparently, and do it without his wand. Hormones made him impossibly forgetful, it seemed.
He turned his back to Voldemort, further hiding his face. As casually as possible, Harry pretended to peruse the wall of dildos as he made his way toward the back of the store. Merlin’s beard but some of them were large. Was he meant to be that large? He certainly was not.
Did Ginny care?
She had dated more people than him…
No. No. Harry had seen Dean’s you-know-what. His competition was average.
At least he’d thought that was average…
Harry shook his head and looked at the floor, swiftly making his way back toward the handcuffs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Voldemort grab an outfit off of a rack and make toward the exit.
Thank the wizarding gods.
Harry watched in fascination as the Dark Lord skipped right past the cash register and made for the front door. His hands were fumbling, the outfit – was that a maid’s uniform? – wadded up behind his back rather conspicuously. With no robes to hide his stolen merchandise, Voldemort was fumbling badly.
But then, murder was more his specialty.
Fully amused now, and needing to know how this played out, Harry neglected his task and watched the store clerk attempt to hail the frazzled-looking hotel security guard stealing a maid’s costume.
Voldemort paid her no mind, pushing the door open and stepping outside. At once, the store employee followed him, stepping out into the street and yelling “Thief!”
The response was oddly instantaneous.
Harry watched in amazement as a copper dove for Lord Voldemort. Voldemort tried to draw his wand, but seemed to again be hindered by his Muggle attire.
One cop tackled the Dark Lord to the ground. Voldemort fought him off, a stream of profanities and slurs that the cop couldn’t possibly understand spewed from the dark wizard’s lips. The second cop pulled out his pepper spray.
The Dark Lord howled in pain as his eyes were assaulted with a stream of burning liquid pepper.
Harry gaped as the coppers stripped Voldemort of his wand and threw him in handcuffs. Then Harry turned his attention to the task at hand and bought some handcuffs of his own.