Harry Potter One Shots

Black Death

All rights belong to the author, Tiro

Voldemort smiled as he stroke the soft, black hair. Unlike what he had thought, the unruly nest to hair belonging to one certain teenager was actually rather soft. One Harry Potter looked up at the Dark Lord and quirked an eyebrow, perfect Slytherin-style. The man had learned the raven-haired teen asked a question when he did so.

"Nothing," Voldemort said, continuing to stroking the hair. He was seated in an armchair and Harry sitting on the floor, his head resting on one thigh belonging to the Dark Lord. "We've done it."

"Done and over with. When's the celebration?" Harry asked.

"No celebration for you," the man said sternly and the teen pouted. "Come on, you're supposed to be dead! And since when is a funeral a celebration?"

"They will really think I'm dead then."

"And pray tell, how are you supposed to go there and not be hauled as the Boy-Who-Rose-From-The-Dead?" Voldemort asked.

"The wonders of glamours," Harry replied, rolling his eyes at the 'Boy'-nickname. It was enough he had been called the Boy-Who-Lived.

Voldemort huffed, but didn't say anything against it. He traced the lightning-scar with one of his long fingers and sighed softly. How could he have been tricked so easily? He of all people should be able to spot a false Prophecy:

Voldemort stared at the pitiful pieces of the Prophecy that Lucius had brought back. The blonde man was still lying on the floor, twitching, unable to properly move thanks to the Crucio Voldemort had subjected him to. Bellatrix was still kneeling, though shaking and her eyes moved constantly between the floor and her master. Voldemort might have gotten a normal body again, raven hair framing his rather young face and his lean body swept in a black robe, but it did not make him any less terrifying. Or weaker for that matter.

"Take him out of here," the Dark Lord said softly to her. "Give him something for the pain."

"Yes my lord," she said and hurriedly dragged her sister's husband up before getting out of the room, Lucius staggering at her side.

Voldemort looked at the now broken Prophecy and could not believe his eyes. It was a fake. The design was perfect, the message clear but... it was still fake. A good fake. And he had fallen for it, hook, line and sink.

He sighed wearily and put his head in his hands. He had destroyed a child's life, along with his own. Harry Potter was a pawn in Dumbledore's game and the poor boy did not seem aware of it. Voldemort had to get him, and explain who the real Dumbledore was.

"Tom? Hello, wake up."

Voldemort woke up from his thoughts and stared into deep emerald eyes. Harry's face softened just a bit and the teen continued seeing the man's confused look:

"You didn't answer me when I called."

"Oh," Voldemort said. "Sorry; lost in thoughts."

"Yeah, I could hear you thinking."

"Ungrateful brat."

"Old man."

"Prissy Gryffindor."

"Smelly Slytherin."

"Will you two stop that?"

Voldemort and Harry whipped their heads towards the door. Draco sighed, put his hands on his hips and said:

"You argue like kids."

"With far better insults," Harry cut in.

"Doesn't matter!" the blonde almost shouted. "Man, you two really are a handful!"