!DISCONTINUED! Guardian of Death [A Harry Potter Fanfiction]

12. Unpleasant Encounters

Henry stood before the old man with a frozen smile. The temperature had promptly dropped in the room, leaving the rest of its inhabitants suppressing shivers. Every one of his instincts screamed at him to draw his wand and blast the damned coot into next year, but his rational side held him back from doing anything foolish. "Not now", it whispered, "not yet, and not here."

He inhaled deeply and obeyed it, despite his reluctance.

"So wonderful to finally meet you, my boy. I've heard much about you" Dumbledore extended his hand with a jovial smile. Henry bit his tongue when grasping the bastard's wrinkled hand in his gloved one. "All good, I hope." He squeezed his hand a bit tighter than he was supposed to, pretending not to notice the tiny flinch of the other wizard."Headmaster Dumbledore, please refrain from referring to me with such familiar names, we are not familiar with each other. Such names should not be used for mere acquaintances, don't you agree?"

Still so, the message clearly expressed within Henry's words seemed to fly right over the goat's head. "Nonsense, every person you meet is just a future friend waiting to become one!" He replied, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses. Henry let go of his hand, and brought it back to his side, stiffening. Oh Hecate, what he wouldn't give to be able to punch those glasses off right at that moment!

"My boy-" "Lord Peverell" The wizard had to once more correct, his smile getting progressively more forced, as his teeth clenched together. Beneath his calm exterior, the man was cursing up a storm about these blasted wizarding gatherings he had to attend. 

 Ever since his prestige had grown the invitations kept on coming, each bringing even more undesirable possible encounters than the last. Only the heavens knew that if it had not been for him having to carefully nurture and care for his reputation in order for his plan to succeed he would have scooped all of those fancy envelopes with their snobbish letters and thrown them in the fireplace.

So far, he had attended six such parties, most of them filled with the top creme of wizarding society, as in the fakest bastards one could stuff in a room, and, although he had his fair share of unpleasant encounters in the previous ones, this one had turned out to be perhaps the most irritating. First, he had to listen to the one and only Minister of Magic, trying, and failing, to appear intelligent in front of the Thai ambassador and a plethora of politicians eager to get into his good graces. Then he had been ambushed on his way out by a  condescending Barty Crouch, who had brought his back into the center of attention with his poor and failed attempt at making Henry look like a fool - something the wizard had quite smugly turned around, making an utter spectacle of the poor arrogant Auror. And just as things had begun to once again calm down he had been approached by the very old coot he had been hoping to avoid.

Henry may have used these opportunities to elevate his reputation and spark the interest of several influential people, but his nerves had to pay the price, and consequently, he was balancing on the blade of a dagger, getting closer and closer to slipping and ending someone's career...permanently.

Nevertheless, he stood his ground, taking in a deep breath and focusing on the glittery crimson liquid swaying in his glass. Dumbledore's words had grown into something of a vague buzz by now, against the wizard's better judgment, until he was suddenly snapped by one phrase of the old man's speech, that just irked him the wrong way.

"-my boy"

"I'm not your boy!", he practically spat, interrupting him, "I am aware that upon having the privilege of reaching such an age you have, that the boundaries of current society may seem... more difficult to process, and perhaps your delicate state is of influence to your memory, but I have explicitly requested that you refer to me in a proper manner. I once more request, in case your hearing had suffered from the respectable age you have succeeded in reaching, that when you speak you refer to me as 'Lord Peverell'." 

Henry hadn't raised his tone and his voice had suffered from very few if meaningful inflections. Nevertheless, he was sure that every guest had momentarily paused their chattering, only to resume it after he had done talking, with a few snickers and pointed comments directed at the Hogwarts Head, master, who appeared to suffer a sudden stroke, as his face turned an ugly red, before paling into a prune-ish shade of blue. 'The old coot isn't used to people telling him what to do', the wizard thought to himself smugly, while still dawning his perfectly innocent polite smile.

Dumbledore's gaze swept over the crowds of already gossiping guests before he suddenly froze. With a quick muttered apology and farewell, he melted into the background faster than Henry had ever thought was humanly possible. The wizard turned to the spot the Headmaster had been frozen staring at previous to his sudden departure and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips for a fleeting moment.

 Just a little ways away from him, among the gossiping masses, with her trusty feather already scribbling down everything it caught and her jeweled spectacles studded with rhinestones, was, in all her glory, the blonde reporter than had turned Harry's teenage years into an utter hell in his previous life. The spark of greed in her sharp eyes was clear even from a distance, and the man theorized she was actively refraining from licking her lips at the outlandish rumors about Dumbledore's health and sanity, all the way to his losing his manners due to his high standing in society. Seeker was going to tear into the man so badly by tomorrow, and he was going to enjoy every last bit.

After checking that no one was paying attention to him, the dark-robbed wizard also slipped into the shadows, returning to his home and falling into a deep slumber, too exhausted mentally to deal with any paperwork anymore.