Chapter Text
Harry dropped onto the bench beside Draco Malfoy.
Draco looked up from his dinner.
"What do you want, Potter?"
Harry sighed. "Nobody will let me kill anyone."
Draco continued chewing.
For a moment, he was convinced he'd misheard.
"What?"
Harry picked up a bread roll and stared at it.
"Nobody will let me kill anyone."
The bread roll split cleanly in half beneath his fingers.
Draco lowered his fork. "I feel like that's a sentence I shouldn't have heard."
Harry ignored him.
"Dumbledore said no."
"Good."
"McGonagall said no."
"Excellent."
"Snape threatened to poison me."
"Reasonable."
Harry looked genuinely aggrieved.
"I don't understand why everyone's being so difficult."
Draco stared.
Across the table, Blaise Zabini had stopped eating entirely.
"Harry," Draco said carefully, "have you considered that murder is illegal?"
"Yes."
"And?"
Harry frowned. "And what?"
Draco rubbed his temples. For years he had been convinced Harry Potter was an arrogant idiot. Now he was discovering a far more alarming possibility. Potter was completely insane.
Harry suddenly turned towards him. His expression brightened. "Actually."
Draco immediately disliked that word.
"Actually what?"
Harry tilted his head. "Would you let me?"
The question hung in the air.
Blaise choked.
Somewhere down the table, Pansy dropped her goblet.
Draco blinked.
"Would I let you what?"
"Kill someone."
Draco stared.
Harry stared back. Waiting patiently. As though he had just asked to borrow lecture notes.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because normal people don't permit murders."
Harry looked disappointed. "You don't even know who it is."
"I don't care who it is."
"I haven't told you the reasons."
"I don't want to hear the reasons."
Harry considered this. Then nodded. "Fair."
Draco relaxed slightly. Then Harry added, "It was you, by the way." Draco froze.
The Great Hall suddenly seemed very quiet.
"What?"
"You were the leading candidate for a while."
"A while?"
"Three months."
Draco set down his fork with extreme care.
Harry frowned at him. "You're taking this surprisingly personally."
"Surprisingly personally?"
"Well, you're not on the list anymore."
Draco wasn't sure whether that made him feel better or significantly worse.
"Why was I on the list?"
Harry shrugged. "You talk a lot."
For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy found himself unable to think of a single response.
Harry sighed. "See? This is the problem."
"What is?"
"Nobody's supportive."
And somehow, despite everything, he sounded genuinely offended.
Draco continued staring at him. Harry stared back.
Around them, the Slytherin table had become suspiciously quiet.
Harry frowned. "But I still don't understand why everyone keeps objecting in principle."
Draco opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Because murder is wrong, Potter."
Harry looked unconvinced. "Is it?"
"Yes."
"Always?"
"Generally."
Harry leaned back against the bench. "That's a bit hypocritical."
Draco stared. "How exactly am I being hypocritical?"
Harry gestured vaguely at him. "You're a Malfoy."
Draco's eyes narrowed. "And?"
"Don't you Death Eaters do that sort of thing all the time?"
The silence that followed could have frozen lava.
Across the table, Blaise suddenly became fascinated by his potatoes.
Pansy stared into the distance.
Draco looked genuinely offended.
"For your information," he said coldly, "I am not a Death Eater."
"Not yet."
"Not ever, if I can help it." Harry paused.
That wasn't the answer he'd expected. "Oh."
Draco folded his arms.
"And even if I were, there's a difference between murder and..." He hesitated. "Well. Whatever this is."
Harry looked down at the crumpled parchment still in his hand. "What do you mean?"
"You made a list."
"Yes."
"You ranked people."
"Obviously.
"You spent three months deciding whether I was irritating enough to die."
Harry frowned. "I guess when you put it like that, it sounds strange."
"It is strange." For several seconds neither spoke.
Then Harry nodded thoughtfully. "That's fair."
Draco nearly fell off the bench.
"You agree?"
"No."
Draco looked deeply unsettled.
Most arguments with Potter involved shouting or insults or hexes. This was somehow worse.
Harry was examining his own murderous impulses as though he were reviewing a Quidditch strategy.
"Maybe I'm approaching this incorrectly," Harry mused.
"Maybe?"
"Perhaps I should have a stricter selection process."
Draco buried his face in his hands. "Please stop improving the murder list."
"I'm trying to be reasonable."
"You are failing." Harry looked genuinely puzzled.
For a moment, Draco wondered if Potter even understood why killing people was considered wrong.
The thought was disturbing enough that he almost didn't ask his next question.
Almost.
"Potter."
"What?"
"Do you actually want to kill people?"
Harry was silent. Not evasive. Not defensive. Simply thinking. Finally he shrugged.
"I think so."
That got Draco's attention.
Harry looked down at the parchment.
"I just spend a lot of time wishing certain people would stop existing."
His voice was calm.
Matter-of-fact.
As though discussing the weather.
"And then I start wondering how difficult it would be to make that happen."
For the first time since Harry had sat down, Draco felt a flicker of genuine concern.
Not for himself. For everyone else. Because Potter hadn't said it like a joke. He hadn't said it like a threat. He'd said it like a problem he was trying to solve.
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Potter."
"What?"
"Promise me something."
Harry looked suspicious. "Depends."
"Don't make a second list."
"I wasn't planning to."
Draco released a breath of relief.
"I was planning to improve the first one."
The relief vanished.
"Of course you were."
Harry folded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket.
For a few moments he sat quietly. Thinking. Draco had the distinct impression that this was never a good sign.
Eventually Harry sighed. "Fine."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Fine?"
"If you won't let me."
"Won't let you what?"
Harry gave him a look.
Draco regretted asking.
"If you won't let me kill anyone."
"Glad we've established that."
"Then maybe I should ask someone else."
Draco shrugged. "Be my guest."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "That's probably sensible."
"Very."
"He'd likely be more understanding."
Something about the way Harry said it made Draco pause.
"'He'?"
Harry hummed. "Someone with experience."
Draco frowned. "What kind of experience?"
Harry looked confused. "With murder."
The Slytherin table collectively stopped breathing.
Draco stared.
"Why do you know people with murder experience?"
Harry's expression suggested this was an incredibly stupid question.
"We're in a war."
Unfortunately, that was a fair point.
"Who exactly are you planning to ask?"
Harry glanced towards the enchanted ceiling.
As though considering.
Then he smiled slightly. A strange smile. Not excited. Not happy. Interested.
"Someone who'd appreciate the effort."
Draco felt a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread.
"Potter."
"Hm?"
"Who?"
Harry shrugged. "I don't know."
That wasn't reassuring.
"I've never actually spoken to him."
Draco blinked. "Him?"
"Not properly."
"Potter."
"But I feel like we'd get along."
The dread intensified.
"Why?"
Harry considered the question.
"Similar interests."
Draco was beginning to hate every word that came out of Potter's mouth.
"What interests?"
Harry looked at him. Genuinely puzzled.
"As discussed."
Draco closed his eyes.
Slowly.
Carefully.
When he opened them again, Harry was still there. Still completely serious. A horrifying thought occurred to him.
"No."
Harry tilted his head.
"No?"
"No."
"No what?"
"You cannot be talking about You-Know-Who."
Harry blinked. For the first time all evening, he looked impressed.
"Oh."
Draco's stomach dropped.
"You figured it out."
"THAT WASN'T A RIDDLE!" Several nearby Slytherins jumped.
Harry looked thoughtful. "Do you think he'd say yes?"
Draco made a strangled noise. "To what?"
"The murder."
"STOP CALLING IT THE MURDER."
Harry frowned.
"I don't see why you're being difficult."
Draco stared at him.
Across the hall, Professor Snape suddenly looked up from the staff table. His eyes narrowed.
Harry followed his gaze. Then he stood.
"Where are you going?" Draco demanded.
Harry slung his bag over one shoulder.
"Library."
Draco relaxed slightly. "Good."
"I'm going to see if there are any books about summoning Dark Lords."
Draco's relief immediately died.
"You cannot be serious."
Harry paused. Then, with complete sincerity, asked: "Do you think I should write a letter instead?"
And somehow that question was far more terrifying than the first one.
The door to the Slytherin common room slammed open.
Conversation died instantly.
Harry Potter stood in the doorway. There was blood on his shirt. A lot of blood.
For one suspended moment, nobody moved. The fire crackled softly in the grate. Somewhere at the back of the room, a quill rolled off a table and hit the floor.
Harry looked around.
"Has anyone seen Draco?"
Pansy Parkinson slowly lowered her book.
Blaise Zabini appeared to be having some sort of religious experience.
A first-year made a faint squeaking noise.
Harry frowned.
"That's not a no."
The first-year pointed with a trembling finger towards the fireplace.
Harry followed the gesture.
"There you are."
Draco Malfoy looked up from the armchair he had claimed as his own sometime in fourth year.
His eyes landed on Harry. Then the blood. Then Harry again. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them, Potter was still there.
"Why?" Draco asked.
Harry blinked. "What?"
"Why are you here?"
"Oh."
Harry crossed the room and dropped onto the sofa opposite him.
The blood immediately smeared across the pale upholstery.
Several Slytherins visibly flinched.
"I got bored."
Draco stared. Harry stared back.
"I feel like there should be several steps between those two events."
"What two events?"
"Boredom and whatever happened to your shirt."
Harry glanced down. As if noticing the blood for the first time. "Huh."
A long pause.
"That answers absolutely nothing," Draco said.
Harry shrugged. "I was in the Forest."
"Why?"
"I was bored."
"And?"
Harry thought about it. "An Acromantula got upset."
Draco looked heavenward.
"Thank Merlin."
Harry frowned. "What?"
"I thought you'd murdered somebody."
"Oh."
Harry considered this. "Not today."
Silence.
Across the room, somebody choked. Draco slowly lowered his head back into his hands.
"Potter."
"Hm?"
"You cannot keep saying things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because normal people find them alarming."
Harry looked around the room.
Every Slytherin within earshot immediately found something else to stare at. One of them was pretending to read a book upside down.
Harry turned back to Draco.
"They're a sensitive bunch."
Draco made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
"So," Harry continued.
Draco already hated that word.
"So?"
Harry reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of parchment.
Draco froze. The parchment was familiar. Far too familiar.
"No."
"You haven't even looked at it."
"I don't need to."
"It's not a murder list."
Draco narrowed his eyes.
Harry looked offended by the accusation. For almost three seconds. Then he smiled. Which was somehow worse.
"What is it?" Draco asked.
Harry slid the parchment across the table.
"A boredom list."
Draco felt genuine dread settle in his stomach.
Slow. Heavy. Unavoidable.
"What," he asked carefully, "is the difference?"
Harry considered the question.
"About six names."
Theo Nott finally looked up from where he'd been pretending not to listen.
"Actually," he said, closing his book. "I have a more important question."
Harry glanced over.
Theo pointed at him. "How did you get in here?"
Harry blinked. "The entrance."
"The Slytherin entrance."
"Yes."
Theo waited.
Harry waited.
Draco groaned.
"Potter."
"What?"
"How did you get through the door?"
"Oh." Harry looked mildly surprised. "I asked."
The common room fell silent.
"You asked," Theo repeated.
"Yes."
"You asked the entrance to the Slytherin common room to let you in."
Harry nodded.
"And it did."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "In Parseltongue?"
"Obviously."
Several people looked alarmed. Harry looked confused by their confusion.
"The door has snakes on it."
"That doesn't mean it speaks Parseltongue," Pansy said.
Harry paused. "It doesn't?"
"No!"
"Oh."
Harry considered that.
"Well, it does now."
Nobody was entirely sure what that meant.
Theo pointed at him. "Walk me through this."
Harry sighed dramatically. "As I said, I got bored."
"That explains nothing."
"I came down to the dungeons."
"Why?"
"Looking for Draco."
Draco immediately regretted existing.
Harry continued. "The entrance asked what I wanted."
Theo frowned. "It talks?"
"It has snakes."
"That isn't an answer."
"It asked what I wanted," Harry repeated. "I said I wanted to enter."
"And then?"
"It said I wasn't a Slytherin."
The room nodded. Finally. Something sensible.
"So I told it that was a very narrow-minded attitude."
Theo choked.
"You argued with the door?"
"Yes."
"You argued with a wall."
"It started it."
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Then what happened?"
Harry leaned back in his chair.
"It asked why I wanted to enter."
The common room was completely invested now.
"And?"
"I told it Draco was in here."
Draco felt a sudden sense of foreboding. "And then?"
Harry smiled. "A direct quote?"
"No."
"Probably for the best." Harry ignored him.
"I explained that if it didn't let me in, I'd have to wait outside."
The room remained silent.
"And?"
"And then I'd become more bored."
Nobody liked where this was going. Harry's smile widened. "And I pointed out that if I became sufficiently bored, I might decide to entertain myself."
Theo stared. "You threatened the entrance."
"I informed it of the consequences."
"Potter."
"It let me in immediately."
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Blaise looked towards the hidden entrance.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "I think the door made the right decision."
Several people nodded.
Harry looked pleased. "Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"It felt like one."
Across the room, the entrance gave a faint creak.
Everyone froze. Harry glanced over his shoulder.
"Oh."
"What?" Draco asked.
"The door says hello."
The common room collectively decided not to ask any further questions.
The library was quiet.
Not silent.
Nothing at Hogwarts was ever silent.
Quills scratched across parchment. Books rustled. Somewhere between the History and Arithmancy sections, Madam Pince was stalking a pair of second years with predatory intent.
Draco was halfway through an essay on defensive ward theory when Theo suddenly looked up.
His expression darkened.
"Oh no."
Blaise followed his gaze.
Immediately, he closed his book.
"Oh no."
Pansy didn't even bother looking. "Potter?"
"Potter."
Draco felt a sinking sensation in his stomach.
Slowly, he raised his head.
Harry Potter was weaving through the library shelves towards them.
Purposefully. Which was never a good sign.
Aimless Potter could usually be avoided. Purposeful Potter arrived with plans. And plans were dangerous.
Harry stopped beside their table.
"Hello."
Nobody answered. Harry frowned. "I don't know why I bother being polite."
"What do you want?" Draco asked.
Harry sat down. Draco hadn't invited him to sit down. This did not appear to concern him.
"I need a favour."
"No."
"You don't know what it is."
"I don't need to."
Harry seemed to consider this. "Fair."
The table blinked.
Harry almost never accepted rejection that quickly.
Then he reached into his bag.
The table immediately tensed. Draco's eyes narrowed.
"What is that?"
"A letter."
Theo looked alarmed.
"To who?"
Harry slid the folded parchment across the table.
Draco unfolded it.
His eyes scanned the first line. Then stopped.
Then went back and read it again. Slowly. Very slowly.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake."
Theo leaned over. His face went blank.
Blaise stole the letter.
Pansy stole it from Blaise.
Each reaction was somehow worse than the last.
Finally Pansy lowered the parchment. "Harry."
"Yes?"
"Why are you writing to the Dark Lord?"
Harry looked puzzled.
"To contact him." The silence stretched. "That's generally how letters work."
Draco dropped his forehead onto the table. The wood was cool. Comforting.
Unfortunately, Harry was still talking. "I need somebody to proofread it."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it starts with 'Dear Dark Lord'."
Harry frowned.
"I thought it was polite."
Theo made a choking noise.
Blaise looked seconds away from leaving the country.
Draco held out a hand.
"Give me that." Pansy surrendered the parchment.
With the grim resignation of a man reading his own death warrant, Draco began reading aloud.
"'Dear Dark Lord.'"
Harry nodded approvingly.
"'I hope this letter finds you well.'"
Theo covered his face.
"'I was wondering whether you are currently planning any murders, assassinations, kidnappings, or other related activities.'"
Several nearby students looked up.
Draco lowered his voice.
"'If so, I would be interested in observing the process for educational purposes.'"
A book fell off a shelf somewhere. Nobody acknowledged it.
"'Alternatively, should observation prove inconvenient, I would be grateful for practical instruction.'"
Draco stopped. Slowly lowered the parchment. And stared at Harry.
"Educational purposes?"
Harry shrugged. "That sounded professional."
"Professional?"
"More mature than saying it looked interesting."
Theo's forehead hit the table. Hard. Harry watched him.
"Is he alright?"
"No," four voices answered at once.
Harry looked mildly concerned. Then his attention returned to Draco.
"So."
Draco already hated that word.
"So?"
"Any notes?"
Draco stared. "You want notes."
"That's why people proofread things."
Draco looked down at the parchment.
Then back at Harry.
Then back at the parchment.
There was a postscript. His heart sank. "Potter."
"Yes?"
"What is this?"
Harry leaned forward. "Oh, that's important."
Draco read it aloud. "'P.S. If you are not currently planning any murders, would you be interested in discussing the subject hypothetically over tea?'"
The entire table fell silent.
Even Harry seemed pleased with that one. "I thought it made me sound approachable."
For the first time in years, Draco Malfoy genuinely understood why the Dark Lord kept trying to kill Harry Potter.
Not because of the prophecy. Not because of politics. Because after five minutes of conversation, it started to feel like the only reasonable response.
The meeting was not going well.
Three Death Eaters were kneeling on the floor.
One was crying.
Lord Voldemort regarded them with growing disappointment. Failure was becoming alarmingly common.
"Explain it to me again," he said softly.
The man in the centre visibly trembled.
"My Lord, we believed—"
A sharp crack echoed through the room.
The man screamed.
Voldemort lowered his wand.
"I did not ask what you believed."
Silence followed. Heavy. Absolute.
No one was foolish enough to fill it.
Then an owl flew through the window.
Everyone froze. The owl did not.
It soared neatly between two chandeliers, ignored several Death Eaters entirely, and landed directly in front of Voldemort.
A letter was tied to its leg.
For a moment, nobody moved.
The owl pecked the table.
Once.
Twice.
Demanding attention. Voldemort stared at it. The owl stared back.
Slowly, he untied the parchment.
The bird immediately took off again, apparently satisfied that its work was complete. An intelligent creature.
Voldemort unfolded the letter.
His eyes moved across the page. Then stopped. A faint frown appeared.
Across the table, Bellatrix shifted eagerly. Lucius Malfoy looked worried.
Voldemort continued reading.
The frown deepened. That was unusual. Voldemort almost never frowned.
Eventually, he looked up.
"What," he said slowly, "is educational murder?"
Nobody answered. Mostly because nobody knew what educational murder was.
Voldemort looked back down at the letter.
Again. More carefully this time.
The handwriting was neat. The grammar was excellent. The tone was polite. Disturbingly polite.
His eyes reached the signature. They lingered there. For several seconds.
Then he read it again.
"Harry Potter."
The room went still.
Lucius blinked. Bellatrix blinked.
Even the kneeling Death Eaters looked confused.
Voldemort looked down at the parchment once more.
"'Dear Dark Lord. I hope this letter finds you well.'"
A pause.
"'I was wondering whether you are currently planning any murders, assassinations, kidnappings, or related activities in the near future.'"
Silence.
"'If so, I would be interested in observing the process for educational purposes.'"
Voldemort stopped.
The room remained frozen.
One of the chandeliers creaked overhead. Nobody breathed.
"'Alternatively, if observation is inconvenient, I would be grateful for practical instruction.'"
Bellatrix made a small noise. Voldemort glanced up. She looked delighted.
"My Lord," she whispered.
"No."
"But—"
"No."
She looked devastated.
Voldemort returned to the letter.
There was more. Of course there was more.
Potter apparently viewed correspondence with Dark Lords as an activity best approached thoroughly.
"'I am available most evenings except Tuesdays.'"
A muscle twitched in Lucius's jaw.
Voldemort continued.
"'P.S. If you are not currently planning any murders, would you be interested in discussing the subject hypothetically over tea?'"
The room fell silent again.
Not because they were afraid. Not entirely. Because nobody knew what to say.
Finally, Lucius cleared his throat. "My Lord."
Voldemort did not look up. "Yes?"
"Is it a trick?"
A reasonable question. The sort of question Lucius normally excelled at.
Voldemort considered it. Then considered the letter. Then considered Harry Potter.
"No."
The answer came immediately. Certain.
Lucius looked surprised. "My Lord?"
"A trap requires planning."
His red eyes drifted back to the parchment.
"This letter was written by someone who genuinely wishes to discuss murder over tea."
Nobody argued. The evidence was compelling.
Voldemort leaned back in his chair. The letter crackled softly in his fingers.
Curious.
This? This was new.
His gaze settled on the signature once more.
Harry Potter. His enemy. His opposite.
The child who had defied him again and again. And apparently wanted career advice.
Slowly, Voldemort smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
Several Death Eaters visibly flinched.
Bellatrix looked thrilled.
Lucius looked ill.
"I think," Voldemort said softly, folding the letter with surprising care, "that Mr Potter and I should have a conversation."
Around the table, a collective sense of dread settled over the room.
Because everyone present had the same thought.
If Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort actually got along, the rest of Britain was in serious trouble.
Draco looked exhausted. Harry noticed immediately.
Mostly because Draco usually put considerable effort into looking composed, superior, and mildly annoyed by everyone around him.
Today he looked dreadful.
There were dark circles beneath his eyes. His skin was pale.
And he had spent the last ten minutes staring blankly at his breakfast instead of insulting anyone.
Harry sat down opposite him.
Draco's eyes closed. Not dramatically.
Just the brief, defeated expression of a man whose day had somehow become worse.
"Morning."
"Go away."
Harry ignored him.
"You look tired."
Draco stabbed viciously at a piece of toast. "I'm aware."
"You didn't sleep."
"No." Harry nodded. That confirmed it.
"You've been planning a murder."
Draco choked.
The entire Slytherin table went silent.
Theo slowly lowered his goblet.
Pansy looked interested.
Blaise immediately stopped pretending not to listen.
Draco glared.
"No."
Harry frowned. "Really?"
"Really."
Harry studied him.
Draco hated being studied.
Potter approached observation the way predators approached wounded animals. With interest.
"You definitely look like you've been planning a murder."
"I haven't."
"You have."
"I haven't."
"You have."
"Potter."
"You have."
Draco rubbed his eyes.
Somewhere in the distance, a headache was forming.
"What exactly," he asked carefully, "does somebody who is planning a murder look like?"
Harry considered this.
"Tired."
Draco stared. "That's your entire criteria?"
"Mostly."
"Potter, every student in this castle is tired."
"Not like this."
Harry leaned forward slightly. Interested now. The dangerous kind of interested.
"You've got the specific look."
"There is not a specific look."
"There is."
Draco regretted asking. "What look?"
Harry gestured vaguely. "The one where you've spent several weeks trying to solve a problem and have gradually concluded that murder would be easier."
Theo laughed into his drink.
Draco wanted to hex him. "That is absurd."
Harry looked unconvinced.
Then his eyes narrowed. "Oh."
Draco immediately disliked that. "What?"
Harry sat back. Slowly. Realisation dawning across his face.
"You have."
"No."
"You have."
"I haven't."
Harry pointed at him. Accusingly. "You've been planning a murder."
Draco looked ready to throw himself into the Black Lake.
"And." Harry gasped. Actually gasped. "And you've been leaving me out."
Several Slytherins immediately abandoned any attempt at hiding their amusement.
Theo's shoulders were shaking.
Pansy had buried her face in her hands.
Draco looked horrified. "That is your concern?"
"Obviously."
"There is no murder."
"You didn't invite me."
"There is no invitation!"
Harry looked genuinely offended. "I invited you."
Draco blinked. "What?"
"To hypothetical murders."
"Those were not invitations."
"They absolutely were."
Draco stared at him. Harry stared back. Neither seemed willing to yield. Eventually Harry folded his arms.
"I thought we were friends."
The table went completely silent.
Draco nearly dropped his fork.
Theo stopped laughing. Pansy looked alarmed. Even Blaise glanced up.
Friends.
Nobody had prepared Draco for that word. Especially not from Potter.
Harry, apparently oblivious to the devastation he had caused, continued.
"Yet here you are."
Draco was afraid to ask. "Here I am what?"
"Planning murders without me."
A long pause followed.
Then Theo spoke. Very carefully. "Potter."
"Yes?"
"What if Draco was planning something else?"
Harry frowned. The possibility appeared to genuinely surprise him. "Oh."
The table collectively relaxed.
Then Harry added: "Like kidnapping?"
And all hope immediately died.
The second letter arrived three days later.
This time, nobody was being tortured.
Which, in hindsight, should have warned them something was wrong.
Lord Voldemort was reviewing reports when an owl landed directly on the table.
The bird looked familiar. Voldemort disliked that.
Slowly, the owl extended its leg.
A letter. Again.
Around the table, several Death Eaters visibly tensed.
Lucius Malfoy closed his eyes.
Bellatrix looked excited.
Voldemort took the parchment. The owl departed immediately.
The Dark Lord unfolded the letter.
His expression remained neutral for exactly three lines. Then it changed. Not much. Just enough.
"My Lord?" Bellatrix asked.
Voldemort continued reading. The letter was surprisingly long. That was unfortunate. Harry Potter appeared to enjoy correspondence.
Finally, Voldemort lowered the parchment.
The room waited. Nobody spoke. Nobody was stupid enough to speak.
After a long moment, Voldemort looked towards Lucius.
"How tired is your son?"
Lucius blinked. "My Lord?"
"Your son." Another pause. "How tired is he?"
Lucius felt an overwhelming sense of dread. "Moderately tired?"
Voldemort looked back down at the letter.
Then, to the horror of everyone present, began reading aloud.
"'Dear Dark Lord.'"
Bellatrix smiled. Lucius looked ill.
"'I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you for not replying to my previous letter. I have interpreted your silence as encouragement.'"
Voldemort stopped. The room remained silent.
"'I have recently become aware that Draco Malfoy is apparently planning a murder.'"
Lucius went pale. Very pale.
"'While I respect your decision to delegate, I feel compelled to point out that Draco looks exhausted.'"
Bellatrix made a choking sound. Voldemort continued.
"'He has dark circles under his eyes and seems increasingly irritated by my presence. More than usual.'"
Across the table, several Death Eaters appeared fascinated by the floor.
"'As such, I was wondering whether I might be permitted to take over.'"
A long silence followed.
Voldemort read the next line twice. Just to ensure it was real.
"'I asked very nicely first, so I confess I was disappointed to discover that the position had already been filled.'"
Bellatrix buried her face in her hands. Lucius looked seconds away from fainting. Voldemort continued because apparently he hated himself.
"'While Draco is competent, he also appears stressed. I am concerned he may be overworking himself.'"
The room was absolutely still.
"'Perhaps you should consider assigning him fewer murders.'"
A muscle twitched in Voldemort's jaw.
"'I remain available most evenings except Tuesdays.'"
Of course he did.
"'Yours sincerely, Harry Potter.'"
Silence. Then:
"'P.S. If Draco has already murdered someone, please disregard the above. I would still appreciate a progress report.'"
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Finally, Lucius found the courage to speak. "My Lord."
Voldemort looked up.
"Yes?"
Lucius swallowed. "What exactly does Potter think is happening?"
Voldemort considered this.
Then glanced back at the letter. Then back at Lucius.
"I believe," he said carefully, "that Harry Potter thinks I run a murder apprenticeship programme."
The room remained silent.
Bellatrix looked delighted. "Can we make one?"
"No."
"Oh."
Voldemort folded the letter. Slowly. Carefully. Much more carefully than was healthy.
The movement caught Lucius's attention.
"My Lord?"
Voldemort placed the parchment beside the first letter. Not in the fire. Not in the bin. Beside the first letter. A collection.
Lucius felt genuine fear. Not because of Potter. Not because of the letters but because the Dark Lord was smiling. Just slightly.
The expression of a man who had discovered something interesting. And Lord Voldemort had not been interested in anything for a very long time. "Lucius."
"Yes, my Lord?"
"Inform your son that Harry Potter is attempting to steal his assignment."
Lucius blinked. "My Lord?"
Voldemort's smile widened. Just a fraction. "I am curious to see how he reacts."
For the first time in his life, Lucius Malfoy felt sorry for both Draco and Harry.
Whatever happened next was going to be somebody's fault. Probably Potter's.
Harry was walking to Charms when a hand grabbed his arm and dragged him into an empty classroom.
The door slammed shut. Draco rounded on him. "You wrote to the Dark Lord."
Harry blinked. "Yes."
"You actually wrote to him."
"Twice."
Draco stared at him. "Twice."
"The second one was better."
"Potter!"
Harry frowned. "What?"
"Are you completely insane?"
Harry considered it. "Possibly."
Draco made a frustrated noise. "You can't just write letters to Voldemort."
"Why not?"
"Because he's Voldemort!"
Harry shrugged. "He's never told me not to."
For a moment Draco was speechless.
"That is not how this works."
"It feels like how it works."
Draco stepped closer. Looking genuinely serious now.
"Listen to me."
Harry blinked.
"If he writes back."
A pause.
"Or contacts you.
Another pause.
"Or asks to meet you."
Harry's face lit up. Draco closed his eyes.
"That reaction right there is exactly what I'm worried about."
Harry looked thoughtful. "So you think there's a chance?"
"No."
"You just said—"
"I was describing a catastrophe."
Harry nodded slowly. "I think we have different definitions of catastrophe."
Draco stared at him. Then pointed at the door. "Leave."
"You're very grumpy lately."
"Leave."
Harry reached the door. Then paused. "Oh."
Draco groaned. "What now?"
"Do you think I should send a follow-up letter?"
The classroom door narrowly missed Harry's head.